Laurence Shames - Florida straits

The older brother looked at Joey from under the fat pads of his eyebrows. Gino didn't mind lying to Ponte, not at all, but he wanted to be in control of the story. His bastard kid brother was now asking him to drive blind, let go, bend over and leave it all to him. The idea rankled almost as much as it terrified. But Gino had no plan of his own and it seemed he had finally realized he had nothing more to lose. He nodded.

Vincente Delgatto moved forward an inch in his chair and folded his lean and papery hands.

"So O.K.," Joey resumed. "Frankie and Vinnie disappear. For Gino, this is good news, bad news. He's got nobody to split the money with. That's good. He's got no one to help him salvage the boat. That's bad. So the night your boys grabbed me and Bert and took us to the gahbidge-Gino set that up so he could run up the Keys to scope things out. Bert knows that too. Don'tcha, Bert?"

The Shirt petted his chihuahua, scratched it behind the ears. "He used us. As decoys. No hard feelings, Gino, but that wasn't right. Someone coulda gotten hurt. Sandra here, she coulda been with us."

Joey's fiancee gave a small nod of gratitude for Bert's concern. The nod stretched but did not violate her crisp outline.

Then a low rumble seemed to ripple the striped dimness of the Florida room. It was Joey and Gino's father starting to speak. The voice was very sad. "To your own brother you do this, Gino?"

"Pop, hey, it's history," said Joey. "Besides, Gino and me, we forgive each other, don't we, Gino? Life, ya can't get through it without ya forgive people, ya drown in bullshit otherwise. I mean, forgiveness, that's really what this meeting is about."

"Bullshit," put in Charlie Ponte. "This fucking meeting is about what happened to my fucking emeralds."

"Right, Mr. Ponte. You're right. But forgiveness, the stones, it all comes together. 'Cause here's what happens. Gino realizes there's no way he can salvage the wreck alone. So he goes to a pro-that's Clem Sanders, the salvage guy. He reaches him through me, 'cause, hey, this is my town now, I know who to go to. This much, Mr. Ponte, I'm involved"-he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender-"and this is why, me too, I'm asking your forgiveness.

"But this Sanders, he's a businessman, he's legit, he's got a certain way he does things. An expedition, he sells shares. He keeps a third, he keeps the right to sell a third, the third third he sells to the guy who proposes the search. So now Gino is back to being a one-third partner. You follow?"

Charlie Ponte propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his crisscrossed fingers. "So you're telling me that Gino owns a one-third share a my fucking emeralds?"

"This is exactly what I'm telling you, Mr. Ponte. It's in the public papers, you can check for-"

"Now wait a-" Gino interrupted.

His father cut him off in turn. "You done enough, Gino. Your brother's talkin' now."

Joey hesitated. He glanced at Bert, pulled in a chestful of air, and continued. "Now here's where the forgiveness comes in. The shares that Gino bought, they cost ten thousand dollars. Bert fronted the cash for 'em, didn't ya, Bert?"

The old mobster nodded, his chihuahua twitched.

"So Gino is gonna pay that money, outta pocket, that's gonna be, like, his cost for forgiveness, his penalty for fucking with you."

For an instant Gino froze like a skunk in headlights. Then he pitched thickly forward on the settee. "Joey, hey-"

His father raised a single gnarled finger. "Zippuh your fucking mouth shut, Gino. You'll pay the money."

"And of course," Joey resumed, "his third of the emeralds, that goes right to you."

He fell silent, as though his pitch was over. Outside, the pool pump switched on and hummed, the palm fronds rustled dryly. Don Giovanni stood up and did an impatient pirouette in his master's lap. Sandra smoothed her cream-colored skirt across her thighs. Joey glanced at her pink neck and wondered how many years in Florida it would take for her to get a tan.

Charlie Ponte's mouth was moving as he worked out some arithmetic, but the numbers didn't solve his problem. When he finally spoke, it was not to Joey but to Vincente Delgatto, and his tone was oddly calm. It was the tone of a general who'd endured the charade of diplomacy and could now move joyously into war.

"Vincent," he said, "outta respect for you I'm sittin' heah quiet, I'm listening, I'm giving these boysa yours every chance. Joey heah, what he says, a lot of it makes sense. I give 'im credit. But Vincent, his bottom line, it fucking stinks. I lost tree million dollars in emeralds. He's telling me he can get me back one million, and he's makin' it sound like a big fucking favor. Come on, Vincent, you know it as well as I do-the numbers don't add up. Whaddya want from me? I got no choice."

Vincente Delgatto sat still as a parked truck. But there was an admission in his posture.

Even Bert the Shirt could not deny the numbers. "Don't come out right," he muttered, like he was checking over a grocery receipt.

Sandra, who never fidgeted, started fretting with her fingertips.

"Wait a second, Mr. Ponte," Joey said. "Who said anything about one million dollars? I'm talking four million. This is what I was tryin' to tell ya all morning. Since last night I been tryin' to tell ya this."

Everybody sat. Everybody waited. There was a lull in the breeze and the air smelled like scorched sand.

"Mr. Ponte, lemme ask you something. The Colombians-you ever tell 'em about the missing stones?"

The Miami Boss could not help snorting. "Right," he said. "And look like a horse's ass? Like I can't control my own people?"

Joey raised a pacifying palm. "Who's gotta know it was your own people that heisted 'em? You never got 'em. End of story."

Ponte pursed his lips and considered.

"Now tell me if I'm wrong," Joey continued, "but these emeralds, they were, like, a goodwill gesture, like to make it up to you for some other business they screwed up, right?"

Ponte gave a grudging nod.

"Well, they screwed up again. I mean, hey, what kinda goodwill gesture is it if you never got the stones? The way I see it, they still owe you."

The Miami Boss threw a sideways look at Vincente Delgatto. The patriarch sat still, his expression blank as the ground.

"They're gonna believe me," Ponte said, "I tell 'em the stones never got to me?"

Joey leaned forward over his knees and put a conspiratorial rasp into his voice. "Mr. Ponte, this is the beauty part-they don't hafta believe you." He gestured past the louvered windows at the world. "They're probably watching it on television right now. It's gonna be in all the papers. Headlines. Pictures. Three million in mystery gems — this is a big deal down heah, you know that. Your stones ended up innee ocean, you have no idea how. This is what you tell the Colombians. Shit, what's three million to them? They wanna keep you happy, they'll give ya three million more. Three, plus the one ya got from Gino. That makes four, am I right?"

Ponte tugged an ear, looked down at the sisal rug striped with filtered sunlight. Then he shrugged. Then he almost smiled. Then he said to Joey's father, "Vincent, where you been hiding this boy?"

The patriarch moved his lips a fraction of an inch and his filmy eyes darkly gleamed with something like pride.

"So Mr. Ponte," Joey said, "we have an understanding here?"

"Enough with the Mr. Ponte shit," said the little mobster from Miami. "Call me Charlie, kid."

Cover

"Come on, Pop," Joey Goldman said. "This is Florida, we'll sit out by the pool."

It was mid-afternoon, the sun was fierce though the breeze was freshening, and Joey slid the outdoor table into a patch of shade. The compound had grown weirdly, blessedly quiet. Gino Delgatto, fat, oily, and ashen, had bolted immediately at the conclusion of the sit-down. Bert the Shirt, using his frail dog as an excuse, had gone home to take a nap. Charlie Ponte had kissed his older colleague from New York, given Joey an avuncular pat on the cheek, gathered up his sweaty minions, and headed for Miami. Sandra had excused herself to take a long hot bath, to try to soak the terror and the memory of captivity out of her sunburned skin. Only Steve the naked landlord was about, and he turned his bare backside on his newly troublesome tenant, this quiet guy who all of a sudden was always entertaining.