Laurence Shames - Florida straits

The treasure hunter shot a hard look at Joey before he answered. " 'Tis," he said.

The cop frowned down at his fingernails. The boats and the chopper rocked lightly together in the morning's weak breeze. "Then why the hell'd ya call us?"

For an instant Sanders looked almost sheepish. "Didn't know they'd be here," the salvor said. "Didn't recognize the craft."

"It's my fault," Joey offered. "I shoulda let 'im know. But it was like, ya know, a whim."

"A whim," the cop with the Ray-Bans repeated. The boatload of thugs did not strike him as a whimsical group, and he managed to look skeptical behind his opaque glasses. But no crime had been committed as far as he could tell. "So Clem, whaddya want us to do?"

Clem Sanders savored the moment. His boat was taller than the others, and he loomed on the deck like a preacher casting his blessing across the waters. He didn't need to look down to know that the desperadoes in the cigarette were going through a purgatory of helplessness: the ocean revealed guilt even as it offered absolution, and Sanders let the guilty squirm. He cleared his throat, scanned the sky. To the north, the low land of the Keys was just barely visible, a smudge on the horizon. To the south was the indigo ribbon of the Gulf Stream, winding its way to the ends of the earth.

"No need to trouble about these people," he said at last. "But if you'd be so kind as to cruise on in with us-"

Sandra suddenly got up from the stern settee. Her hair was mussed, her pale skin was splotched pink with sun and fear, but she managed to sound calm and self-contained, poised within her own crisp outline. "Mr. Sanders, would it be O.K. if Joey and I rode in with you?"

The little flotilla bobbed in the water, the guardsmen finally brought their rifles to their sides, and Clem Sanders smiled like a politician pinching babies. "Well, of course, little lady. If you like."

Sandra smiled as one of the marine cops reached a hand to help her over the gunwale. Joey followed. But if he felt relief, Charlie Ponte squelched it in a second.

"See ya later," the little mobster said. He tried to make it sound casual and friendly. It didn't. "We got a date."

Joey just nodded, then trailed Sandra as she climbed a rusty ladder that brought them to Clem Sanders's side. Lines were uncleated, fenders brought in. Above the noise of starting engines, the treasure hunter said to Joey, "Kid, what the hayle you doin' here? You said you wanted to stay outta the public part."

"Those guys," said Joey, by way of answer, "they like persuaded me to change my mind."

Very Key West. The scene at Mallory Dock was very Key West.

As the crew was tying up, Joey looked out from the deck of the salvage craft. Pier bums, their beards stiff with salt and old food, were milling around, sucking their gums. Aging hippies with gray feet swarmed toward the spectacle like pigeons to a tower. But mostly Joey saw cameras. Local cable crews, network gangs from Miami, tourists with video zooms-they were all there to document this old Key West tradition, this miracle of money coming out of the water.

A line of city cops had cordoned off the gangway. County sheriffs made a gauntlet to the armored car. Highway cops on Harleys sat in a chevron formation in front of the mayor's ancient but gleaming Imperial convertible. Meek visitors edged cautiously closer, not sure where they were allowed to stand, not sure if what they were gawking at was interesting. Key West-a town of people passing through, looking around, waiting, hoping for something special to happen, then not having a clue what was going on when it did.

Clem Sanders, his sun-crevassed lips spread into his best television smile, his gold doubloon flashing on its leather necklace, led the triumphant procession down the ramp. He waved, shook hands, tantalizingly dangled the burlap pouch full of Colombian emeralds. The treasure hunter's ego swelled to fill the moment the way bread rises to fill a pan. Joey felt himself squeezed to the edge of the occasion, the fringe of events, he felt himself disappearing, and he was glad for that. He was suddenly very tired. Emeralds, brothers, ropes, speedboats; gangsters, helicopters, blows to the head, threats against his life. It was extremely draining, disorienting almost to the point of madness. He suddenly felt like a loose wire, limp, frayed, power oozing away like blood. He put his hand in the small of Sandra's back. He badly needed to touch her, to ground himself, to remind himself how compact she was, how neat and taut the little humps of muscle on either side of her spine.

They followed in Clem Sanders's wake, down the gangway and across the concrete pier. Through the tumult, they only half heard the salvor's quick sly comments to reporters, only half noticed the clicking cameras, the helmeted police. Then a familiar voice broke free of the crowd's buzz from behind the sawhorse barricades.

"Joey, hey, Joey."

It was Zack Davidson. He was wearing his pink shirt, his khaki shorts. His collar was turned up perfectly but not too perfectly, his sandy hair fell as if by chance into an inevitable arc over his forehead. "We got it, huh, we got it!"

"Hm?" was the best Joey could manage.

"Joey," said Zack, reaching over the barricade to punch him lightly on the shoulder. "We just got a little bit rich. For a guy that just got rich, you don't look that happy."

Joey smiled, but his cheeks felt weary, bruised, and sunburned as they bunched up around the corners of his mouth. He toyed with his sunglasses, slid the earpieces through his hair. "I guess I'm getting ready to be happy, Zack," he said. "I'm not quite there yet, but I'm getting ready."

Numbly, his hand on Sandra's slender back, he followed the course of Clem Sanders's small parade. It was just after they'd passed the armored car and were standing in line for handshakes from the mayor that Joey saw the dark blue Lincoln waiting for him across the street. Sandra saw it too.

"Whyn't you go inna motorcade with Clem," Joey said to her.

Sandra said nothing and didn't budge from Joey's side. Together, they inched down the receiving line. Twenty yards away was a rank of cops, and beyond that was a wide world where there was no one to protect them from Charlie Ponte and from the long reach of the old neighborhood.

"Really, Sandra," Joey whispered. TV cameras were on them, local big shots were slapping backs. "These guys are killers. They're really pissed, their patience is used up. There's no reason for you-"

"There is a reason, Joey," Sandra interrupted. "You asked me to marry you, remember? You said I should hold you to it. So I am. I'm going with you. It's part of the deal."

"Sandra-" he began, and then he realized it was useless to protest. He took a deep breath, cast a foreigner's glance at the cameras and the gawking tourists, then steered his fiancee out of the receiving line. "Awright," he said, "we can't dodge no more. Let's go and get it over with."

They walked with neither haste nor hesitation through the line of cops and toward the waiting Lincoln. Tony shot them a malicious scar-lipped smile from behind the wheel, and Bruno held a back door open for them with the grim solicitousness of an usher at a funeral.

Steve the naked landlord was on his second beer and had just lit a fresh cigarette from a butt still smoldering in the ashtray. He watched Joey and Sandra approach along the white gravel walkway, Tony and Bruno trudging along behind them. Then he turned his paperback facedown on the damp tiles. "Joey," he said, motioning him over, "can I talk to you a sec?"

Joey crouched down on the pool's cool apron.

"Joey," Steve said. "All these houseguests, these parties. Is this gonna be like a regular thing?"

Joey waited the usual beat, but Steve's smile did not appear. Naked, working on his morning buzz, he was still the landlord. "I wouldn't call 'em parties," Joey said softly.