Florida Straits (29 page)

"Sounds fine," he said. "But me, ya know, I
wanna be left out of the public part."

Sanders gave a worldly shrug. He'd seen it
all. Some people craved the spotlight, some had compelling reasons
for staying out of sight. "We can set it up any way you like.
Basically, it's a legal partnership. With shares. You pay in a
certain amount to underwrite the costs, then you get your split.
I'll retain a third, the rest is up to you."

"And the costs?" Zack Davidson asked.

Clem Sanders toyed with his doubloon and
picked an easy number. "If it's as quick and dirty as you say, call
it fifteen thousand. Five thou a share up front."

Joey had already decided. "Fine. I want it
one third in Zack's name and one third in my brother's. Gino
Delgatto."

The world's greatest treasure hunter smiled
past cracked lips. "I'll have the papers drawn up." His bleached
eyes had once again become glued to the tube of paper on Joey's
lap.

"How long does it take?" asked Joey.

"The papers?" said Sanders. "About a
week."

"No good," said Joey. Ponte's goons might be
dumb, but how much longer would they stake out a hotel that Gino
had already escaped from? "How 'bout you get the stones
tomorrow?"

Sanders let out a slow whistle. Young guys,
northerners especially, always seemed in such a hurry. Sanders
usually was not. Most of the stuff he went after had been lying on
the bottom of the ocean for two, three hundred years—what was the
rush? "We are hot to trot, ain't we?"

"Yeah, we are," said Joey. "By noon
tomorrow— yes or no?"

Sanders cocked his head, toyed with his
doubloon. "Well, the boats are ready, I can raise a crew. I s'pose
we could go out tomorrow, weather permitting. But you know, boys,
nothing happens till I get the ten thousand for two thirds of the
shares."

"No problem," said Joey, and Zack could not
help flashing him the kind of look that partners in a negotiation
should not flash each other while talks are under way. "Get the
papers drawn up, I'll be back with the cash in a coupla hours."

"Cash," said Sanders. The word brought forth
a most benevolent expression. "O.K. Dawn tomorrow, calm seas, we
hunt."

Joey and Zack got up to leave. Sanders
pointed to the rolled-up nautical chart in Joey's hand.

"May as well leave that here so's I can
study up," he said.

Joey sent back a smile every bit as
trustworthy as the treasure hunter's own. "Study it later, Clem.
After the papers are signed."

—
41 —

Hot April sunshine poured in through the
open top of the old Caddy, shafts of it splattering into rainbows
as they sliced through the facets of the spiderweb windshield. Joey
was buoyant as he drove away from Clem Sanders's office and out
toward the weird migrant sand of Smathers Beach. He gingerly
fondled is hot steering wheel, he tapped his left foot as he drove.
He felt like he finally had the different pieces of his life
perfectly lined up. The new part, the Florida part, that was right
where it should be: he was wheeling and dealing in a way that fit
the climate, he was about to pull his fortune, or at least the
start of it, out of the water. The old part, the neighborhood part,
well, he was on his way to dip one last time into its deep pockets
and to use the proceeds to put it behind him once and for all.

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?"

—
42 —

"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.

"Friends from Miami?" said Joey.

The words seemed to rise up like a puff of
steam. Then they solidified and took on a sickening weight, and
Joey ran out from under them as one would from a falling rock. He
skirted the pool, skidded on the tiles, and reached for the sliding
door of his cottage, knowing in that moment that everything was
over, everything was fucked, he'd come up short as usual, he'd
blown it, the old neighborhood was not about to let him get away,
and he'd been a loser and a fool ever to imagine for an instant
that it might be otherwise.

He yanked open the door. He saw no one,
heard nothing, only vaguely noticed that the bungalow was darker
than usual. It was darker because Charlie Ponte's thugs had closed
the louvered windows in the Florida room, and they had closed the
louvered windows because that's where they were keeping Sandra.

They had her tied up in a chair.

Her ankles were bound with a dirty gray
rope. Big loops of a different line ran around her midriff and her
arms and kept her pinned back in her seat. She was wearing her work
clothes, a neat cream-colored skirt and a plain beige blouse, and
across her mouth was a wide piece of shiny silver duct tape, frayed
where it had been torn from the roll. Her short blond hair, usually
faultless, was frazzled now, clumps of it hanging onto her
forehead. She looked up at Joey, and in her pale green eyes there
was terror but no blame, rather a kind of silent, desperate
wisecrack—
You spring this on me now? Just when things are going
right for me?—
and it raced through Joey's mind that what he and
Sandra really shared were their crazy gropings toward optimism and
their ability to meet disaster, if not with courage exactly, then
at least with a lack of complaint and a lack of surprise. Ponte's
thugs did not prevent Joey from going to Sandra and putting his arm
around her. The only thing she could move was her face. She turned
it into his stomach, and only then did she start to cry. The tears
went right through Joey's shirt.

"Hello, shitbird," said one of the thugs. It
was Tony, the short one with the scarred lip and the bad toupee,
the one who'd been squeamish about splattering a dog. But now he
was holding a gun on Sandra and seemed to feel no discomfort at
all. "We had a really shitty few weeks 'causa you, scumbag. We
ain't in a good mood."

Joey squeezed the knob of Sandra's shoulder
and reminded himself how slight she was inside her oversized
shirt.