Dennis Lehane - Live by Night

They passed Joe speaking Spanish, the words coming fast and light, and the woman gave Joe the quickest of glances, so quick he might have imagined it, though he doubted it. The man pointed at something down the platform and said something in his rapid Spanish, and they both chuckled, and then they were past him.

He was turning to take another look for whoever was picking him up, when someone did just that—lifted him off the hot platform like he weighed no more than a sack of laundry. He looked down at the two beefy arms wrapped around his midsection and smelled a familiar reek of raw onions and Arabian Sheik cologne.

He was dropped back onto the platform and spun around and he faced his old friend for the first time since that awful day in Pittsfield.

“Dion,” he said.

Dion had traded chubbiness for corpulence. He wore a champagne-colored four-button suit, chalk-striped. His lavender shirt had a high white contrasting collar over a bloodred tie with black stripes. His black and white speculator shoes were laced up above the ankles. If you asked an old man gone poor of sight to identify the gangster on the platform from a hundred yards away, he’d point his shaking finger at Dion.

“Joseph,” he said with a starchy formality. Then his round face collapsed around a wide smile and he lifted Joe off the ground again, this time from the front and hugged him so tight Joe feared for his spine.

“Sorry about your father,” he whispered.

“Sorry about your brother.”

“Thank you,” Dion said with a strange brightness. “All for canned ham.” He let Joe down and smiled. “I would have bought him his own pigs.”

They walked down the platform in the heat.

Dion took one of Joe’s suitcases from him. “When Lefty Downer found me in Montreal and told me the Pescatores wanted me to come work for them, I thought it was a right bamboozle, I don’t mind telling you. But then they said you were jailing with the old man and I thought, ‘If anyone could charm the devil himself, it’s my old partner.’ ” He slapped a thick arm against Joe’s shoulders. “It’s just swell to have you back.”

Joe said, “Good to be out in free air.”

“Was Charlestown…?”

Joe nodded. “Maybe worse than they say. But I figured out a way to make it livable.”

“Bet you did.”

The heat was even whiter in the parking lot. It bounced up off the crushed shell lot and off the cars, and Joe placed a hand above his eyebrows but it didn’t help much.

“Christ,” he said to Dion, “and you’re wearing a three-piece.”

“Here’s the secret,” Dion said as they reached a Marmon 34 and he dropped Joe’s suitcase to the crushed shell pavement. “Next time you’re in a department store, clip every shirt in your size. I wear four in a day.”

Joe looked at his lavender shirt. “You found four in that color?”

“Found eight.” He opened the back door of the car and put Joe’s luggage inside. “We’re only going a few blocks, but in this heat…”

Joe reached for the passenger door but Dion beat him to it. Joe looked at him. “You’re having me on.”

“I work for you now,” Dion said. “Boss Joe Coughlin.”

“Quit it.” Joe shook his head at the absurdity of it and climbed inside.

As they pulled out of the station lot, Dion said, “Reach under your seat. You’ll find a friend.”

Joe did and came back with a Savage .32 automatic. Indian Head grips and a three-and-a-half-inch barrel. Joe slid it into the right pocket of his trousers and told Dion he’d need a holster for it, feeling a mild irritation that Dion hadn’t thought to bring one with him.

“You want mine?” Dion said.

“No,” Joe said. “I’m fine.”

“Because I can give you mine.”

“No,” Joe said, thinking that being the boss was going to take some getting used to. “I’ll just need one soon.”

“End of the day,” Dion said. “No later, I promise.”

Traffic moved as slow as everything else down here. Dion drove them into Ybor City. Here the sky lost its hard white and picked up a bronze smear from the factory smoke. Cigars, Dion explained, had built this neighborhood. He pointed at brick buildings and their tall smokestacks and the smaller buildings—some just shotgun shacks with front and back doors open—where workers sat hunched over tables rolling cigars.

He rattled off the names—El Reloj and Cuesta-Rey, Bustillo, Celestino Vega, El Paraiso, La Pila, La Trocha, El Naranjal, Perfecto Garcia. He told Joe the most esteemed position in any factory was that of the reader, a man who sat in a chair in the center of the work floor and read aloud from great novels as the workers toiled. He explained that a cigar maker was called a tabaquero, the small factories were chinchals or buckeyes, and the food he might be smelling through the smoke stench was probably bolos or empanadas.

“Listen to you.” Joe whistled. “Speaking the language like the king of Spain.”

“You have to around here,” Dion said. “Italian too. You better brush up.”

“You speak Italian, my brother did, but I never picked it up.”

“Well, I hope you’re still as quick a learner as you used to be. Reason we get to do our business here in Ybor is because the rest of the city just leaves us alone. Far as they’re concerned, we’re just dirty spics and dirty wops and as long as we don’t make too much noise or the cigar workers don’t go on strike again, make the owners call in the cops and the head breakers, then we’re left to do what we do.” He turned onto Seventh Avenue, apparently a main drag, people bustling along the clapboard sidewalks under two-story buildings with wide balconies and wrought iron trellises and brick or stucco facades that reminded Joe of the lost weekend he’d had in New Orleans a couple years ago. Tracks ran down the center of the avenue and Joe saw a trolley coming their way from several blocks off, its nose disappearing, then reappearing behind waves of heat.

“You’d think we’d all get along,” Dion said, “but it doesn’t always work out that way. The Italians and the Cubans keep to themselves. But the black Cubans hate the white Cubans, and the white Cubans look at the nigger Cubans like they’re niggers, and they both high-hat everyone else. All Cubans hate the Spaniards. Spaniards think the Cubans are uppity coons who forgot their place since the US of A freed them back in ’98. Then the Cubans and the Spanish look down on the Puerto Ricans, and everyone shits on the Dominicans. The Italians only respect you if you came off the boat from the Boot, and the Americanos actually think someone gives a shit what they think sometimes.”

“Did you actually call us Americanos ?”

“I’m Italian,” Dion said, turning left and running them down another wide avenue, although this one wasn’t paved. “And around here? Proud of it.”

Joe saw the blue of the Gulf and the ships in port and the high cranes. He could smell salt, oil slicks, low tide.

“Port of Tampa,” Dion said with a flourish of his hand as he drove them along redbrick streets where men crossed their path in forklifts that burped diesel smoke and the cranes swung two-ton pallets high over their heads, the shadows of the netting crisscrossing the windshield. A steam whistle blew.

Dion pulled over by a cargo pit and they got out, watched the men below take apart a bale of burlap sacks stamped ESCUINTIA, GUATEMALA. From the smell, Joe could tell some of the sacks held coffee and others chocolate. The half-dozen men off-loaded them in no time, and the crane swung the netting and the empty pallet back up, and the men in the hold disappeared through a doorway down there.