Laurence Shames - Florida straits

The legit world-Joey Goldman thought as he turned onto A1A and wove through its wobbly traffic of bicycles and mopeds-it really had its advantages. Like the way it was so neatly set up to lubricate the making of money, like how easily guys with angles on the right side of the chalk line could operate. Still, the old neighborhood way had its advantages too. For instance, in the borrowing of funds. In the neighborhood way, you didn't fill out forms, you didn't mortgage your house, you didn't wait. You told someone what you needed, and either he peeled off the bills or he told you forget about it. But Bert wouldn't tell him forget about it. Of this Joey was sure. He was on a salesman's roll and no one was going to say no to him.

He drove through the gate of the Paradiso condominium like he owned a triplex there. He looked for his friend around the pool, he looked for him in the screened gazebo where the old men played gin. Only as an afterthought did it occur to Joey that maybe Bert was in his apartment. In Key West on a sunny afternoon, you just didn't expect to find anyone inside.

But sure enough the old mafioso was at home. He came to the door dressed in a subdued shirt of maroon silk, no piping, no monogram, and it took Joey a few seconds to realize it was

pajamas. "Hey, Bert, you O.K.?"

"Whaddya mean? I'm fine. Guy can't stay in his fucking apartment without it's, like, a problem? Dog ain't feelin' so great, is all. Come on in."

He led the way under a crystal chandelier and into a living room that had too much furniture and too little blank space. The place seemed like an old lady still lived there. There were clocks on pedestals, lamps like statues. The drapes had loops in them so you couldn't tell if they slid sideways or up and down.

Don Giovanni's dog bed was a kingly purple velvet, and it lay on the carpet next to Bert's well-rubbed recliner. Bert sat, motioning Joey onto a brocade sofa, and Joey wasted no time on chitchat.

"Ten grand," he said. "In a week, maybe less, I'll give ya back fifteen."

Bert did one of his better pauses, his eyes exploring the edges of the room, his soft mouth flubbering around between amusement and offense. When he finally spoke, it wasn't to Joey but to the dog. "You hear this, Giovanni? At my age, now he's makin' me a fucking shylock. Joey, what is this bullshit? I lend ya ten, ya gimme back ten."

"Bert, hey, this is business."

"For you maybe. Me, I ain't got no business, and I don't want any."

Joey tried a different tack, a tack that made him smile in spite of himself. "Bert, what the fuck, the money that comes back is gonna be Gino's money anyway."

The old man rubbed the arms of his chair and checked to see that his dog was still in place. "You wanna explain that?"

"Not now. I ain't got time."

Bert sighed. Then he spilled himself out of the recliner and walked toward the bedroom. Don Giovanni struggled up out of the velvet bed and followed. The dog was brittle, its knees were shot; it bounced along like a car with no shocks. Joey saw Bert walk around a neatly made bed covered with a fancy gold and white spread. He came back with a bundle of hundreds thick as a steak and handed it to Joey. "Here ya go, kid," he said. "Give it back when ya can."

Joey took the money and flushed. Bert's trust excited him and he could barely squeeze out a thank-you.

The old man stood over him and waved away the attempt. "The money, kid, fuck the money, it's nothin', it's shit. I ain't worried about the money. But I gotta tell ya, Joey, I'm a little worried about you. Ya sure ya know what you're doin' heah?"

Joey was sitting on the very edge of the brocade sofa, his shins against a marble coffee table. He was leaning forward, and he was pumped with a heat that the Paradiso's central air-conditioning couldn't quite siphon off. He didn't want to hear about Bert's concern, just like he hadn't wanted to hear about Sal's. They meant well, sure, but what good did it do? "Bert, listen," he said, "I appreciate-"

"Ya know what worries me?" Bert interrupted. "It's like in a checkers game, a guy gets so fuckin' happy he sees a chance to double-jump that he don't notice he's gonna get triple-jumped right back. Ya hear what I'm sayin', Joey? You're a little too happy as far as I'm concerned."

Joey's head suddenly felt very heavy, and for a couple of seconds he let it dangle buzzardlike between his shoulders. "Bert, what can I tell ya? I've thought this through the best I can."

The old man went back to his recliner, but didn't settle in, just perched on the front of it. The dog went back to its velvet bed and collapsed, exhausted from its jaunt to the bedroom. "Okay, Joey, okay. But listen, there's somethin' you oughta know. Maybe it means somethin', maybe it don't. I went by the Flagler House last night for sunset. No Lincolns."

Joey pursed his lips and tried to figure out if he was surprised to hear this. Usually when something went wrong, he more or less expected it. "You sure?"

Bert stroked the soft placket of his pajama top. "I watched for half, three quarters of an hour. They're gone, Joey."

Joey said nothing, and Bert went on as if thinking aloud. "They gotta know by now that Gino got away. It's been, what, four days, five?"

Joey propped his elbows on his knees and looked around for an empty place where he could rest his eyes and think. But everywhere he looked, there was a candy dish, a figurine, a souvenir ashtray. "Maybe this means, like, they're backin' off."

"Could be," said Bert. The comment wasn't meant to be convincing.

Joey looked down at the marble coffee table. The grain running through it reminded him of bloodshot eyes. "I mean," he said, "they probably went up to Miami, ya know, to sit down and decide their next move."

Bert folded his hands.

"Or maybe they flew to New York. I mean, they'd figure that's where Gino was."

Bert shrugged.

"You know what, Bert?" Joey said, "I just can't fucking worry about it." His nerves rather than his muscles propelled him to his feet, and he stood with his shins against the marble table. "I mean, I'm so goddamn close to having this bullshit solved. I gotta do like I'm doin', and after that, what happens, happens. Am I right?"

Bert the Shirt reached down and petted his exhausted dog. "You're right, Joey, you're right. What happens, happens. Who can argue?"

"Hi, Steve," Joey said. "Whatcha reading?"

After leaving Bert, he'd driven back to the Parrot Beach office. He'd picked up Zack, who was duly titillated when he saw the illicit-looking stack of hundreds. Together, they'd returned to the Treasure Museum to sign papers. Smiling like a senator, Clem Sanders accepted the cash and the nautical chart. He was on the phone to the media before his two young partners had made it through the door.

It had been blisteringly hot downtown, asphalt softening and harsh light glinting painfully off tin roofs. Doing business in this weather was a sweaty affair and stank of nerves; driving around in the mufflerless Eldorado entailed a lot of grit, noise, and the reek of half-combusted gasoline. After the errands, the compound had never seemed more of a haven. It was quiet. It smelled good. The greenery ate up the worst of the heat. Steve the naked landlord stood waist-deep in the cool water, a monument to ease. He was on his fourth beer, his ashtray was full, his second pack of cigarettes lay crumpled on the wet blue tiles. He glanced up at Joey, then turned his paperback over to remind himself what he'd been reading. The cover showed a big black car and some guys with guns giving off red flashes for bullets. "Mafia," said Steve. "Rubouts." Then he smiled.

Joey smiled back.

Then Steve added, "Oh, your friends from Miami are here. I let 'em in." He waited a beat and smiled again.