Salty Sky (24 page)

To succeed, he needed more fully developed men—more forests than trees. He would invest his energy in developing his men to have complete skill sets, not just in enforcement or distribution or procurement. He would make his strongest men work in each of these areas and in different parts of the world. He would teach them the skills he himself possessed to keep them from making mistakes that, more than merely costing him money, could cost the men their lives and could cost him good manpower and large amounts of energy.

Finally, he needed to put his fortune meaningfully into the world’s legitimate economy. This might prove the hardest and the
most rewarding step. It was certainly the one he knew the least about. He had no knowledge of the stock and debt markets. He had never purchased operating businesses, but saw the value in owning them. Buying a chain of hotels like the one he now stayed in made sense to him—perhaps hotels with casinos attached. There was always profit in vice. He had never used a bank to borrow money but understood that when buying legitimate businesses, banks were willing to give the purchasers eighty percent of the money required to purchase the business. So if he put two hundred million into a business, a bank would give him eight hundred million more to use? There had to be an opportunity to simply pocket the eight hundred million or to split it with the owner of the business he would be buying. Would a banker have the courage to pursue him when the money disappeared? Yes, learning how to use legal money to grow his own was perhaps the biggest and scariest conquest Francisco saw for himself.

Francisco was ready to be done with this trip’s myth-building and to turn to the task of capturing kings. It would take a year, perhaps even two or three. He tried not to let the long work period tire him out before it began. Could he stay focused for that long? He needed to transform himself again. He had transformed himself once twenty years before, going from enforcer and confidant to boss. He would succeed in transforming himself again.

18

HE FELT MORE
old goat than old fool, and that was good. How many septuagenarians drove through a hurricane and accused a beast of throwing a sucker punch? Not too many. He liked the Ashley daydream he’d tried to deny he was having too.

She had no idea the power she had. Her dancing—moving slightly, confidently, matching the beat’s rhythm. That flower tucked behind her ear yesterday. Her big smile. Most importantly, the smile. The smile that was always just below the surface. It was a gift opening when you caught her eyes. This stuff made men write poetry, fight wars. He should give it a shot. Not a war or poetry, but advancing the front with Ashley. Still, he didn’t know the best approach, what drove her.

Pajama Hefner in his silk wardrobe knew what drove a class of women. Were the rest much different? Were men different? A middle-class widow he knew, pushing seventy, was hot and heavy with a thirty-year-old man. How did that fit with what the psychologists called a “hierarchy of needs?”

As he played with the daydream and pondered it more, he suddenly fell back into reality. He dove into the math. There was a fifty-year age difference, give or take. That meant he’d lived 200 percent longer than she had. No, this was not a relationship likely to happen. But as
that daydream died its sweet, sad death, he realized that he needed to thank Ashley. She rekindled the fire in his belly. There was a lot of life to live beyond being a grandfather and a reluctant boater. Life held a full range of emotions, and there was no reason for him to neglect half of them for the final twenty years of his life.

As he eased down the road, an AM station played Chuck Berry, complete with 1950s static from the weather. A roadside bar’s neon lights blinked
Open
. The parking lot was busy. A hurricane party was in full swing. A lifetime ago, he’d caught a hurricane party on DeVaule Street. The bridge had been closed. A bar in town was as safe as the waterfront drive-in motel, so they had stopped in at Captain Tony’s. An hour into the afternoon, his wife had won a Hula-Hooping contest. Joe had won the arm wrestling contest. He’d heard their tattered Polaroid was still on the wall by the bar.

Why not stop for a quick one? A chain looped through wooden posts split the gravel into parking aisles. Joe backed the small truck between an F350 and a Suburban. He flipped up the rain slicker’s hood and stepped into the elements. A non-native palm beside the walkway was bent forty-five degrees by the wind. An empty plastic bag blew past. He splashed through puddles, making his feet feel oily and sandy.

The wood steps of the bar sagged between the stringers. The gray handrail was a pine two-by-six face-nailed onto four-by-four posts. Even in the rain, Joe could see the sun’s work on the board’s grain. They probably changed the boards every spring too. He avoided the splinters and took the steps without assistance. Stumble free—attaboy! One of the double doors was propped open, and he stepped inside.

The hurricane suspended the no smoking ordinance. Joe’s nose registered the smell of stale beer and fresh cigarettes. The ceiling fan light kits and neon beer signs contrasted sharply with the gray storm light outside. A chalkboard stated today’s special: One-dollar Miller High Lifes. All carpenters drink dollar beers on rainy afternoons,
at least before they become foremen. He thought to call Tony and remembered his phone was in the truck.

Two uniformed police officers entered the room, brushing past Joe. Their baseball caps and clear rain ponchos shed water as they walked to the bar. The bartender poured two mugs of coffee. Joe guessed that Krispy Kreme was closed for the storm. Nobody at the bar appeared to have any intention of leaving. The officers faded into the background, checking their phones and talking to each other.

Joe acknowledged a group of dockhands he’d seen at the marina—young guys delaying school, families, and careers, and middle-aged guys who’d tied lines and rinsed boats for twenty years. Most of the young guys would return to the mainstream. The old guys would tie and rinse until alcoholism consumed their meager skills and they had to be chased from the docks before they scared the clients.

The dockhand life looked romantic until it was closely inspected. The cash from tips would be enough for a decent rental house and a nightly bar visit. There was a steady stream of new girls, at least in the early years. It was an easy profession to pick up the gift of gab in, learn a few salty one-liners to impress the weekenders. Eventually, the booze damage accumulated. It kept your mouth from conveying thoughts, or maybe kept your mind from having coherent thoughts, and your mouth accurately relayed the jumble. You’d always have a good suntan until the dark spots and worse took over. Not a bad way to pass a year—if you could stop after a year.

A through-the-wall air conditioner unit blasted Joe. It was cool outside, but the A/C ran to minimize the stickiness inside. But it was hard to stay ahead of 100 percent humidity; the shine on the customers’ faces wasn’t entirely attributable to alcohol. There were a hundred-plus guys in the bar. There were three women sitting in a group at the bar. They were in their late forties and all some shade of bleached blonde. One wore a wedding ring and had short hair, a sure sign of having given up, in Joe’s book, like she was more concerned
with other ladies’ opinions than her husband’s desires. She’d brush off his complaints. “It’s so much easier to take care of.” Joe didn’t buy it. He figured she didn’t want to appear to compete with younger or fitter women for her husband’s or any man’s attention. The logic went
if you don’t think you can win, play a different game
. The other two appeared to be single. They fought the good fight: Their hair was below their shoulders, their clothing tailored to their strengths. He moved to an open barstool beside them.

One turned and caught his eye. He leaned toward her and said in a fake whisper, “You three must be absolutely terrified. Let’s work out a code for when you need help.” He leaned back out and winked.

She laughed and responded, “Are you kidding? At our age, this is our dream come true. You know what cow patties and blondes have in common, don’t you?”

Joe’s eyebrows responded:
No
.

“The older they get, the easier they are to pick up.”

They flirted unabashedly. Joe ordered a second “Champagne of Beers” and bought a round of mixed drinks for the ladies. In a rough, aged manner, he was good-looking in any market. Excluding the aged part, he always had been. In these Southern states—Florida excluded—being an Italian from Brooklyn gave off an extra whiff of the exotic.

He bounced between anecdotes, compliments, and questions. Guys sidled beside the group to buy drinks, but the riptide pulled them out. Joe was on a roll, and it created a strange force, an aura, a power. It soaked up those willing to ride and kicked out those who weren’t. But the force was fleeting and vulnerable to the tide’s inevitable turn.

A young man, with a flushed face and curly hair half under a trucker hat, stumbled three steps to the right and bumped into the funniest blonde. Her drink spilled, mostly on the young man himself. He dropped his full longneck and scooped it up with surprising
agility. His beer started foaming out the neck and down his hand and arm. The blonde apologized. The curly headed young man just shook the beer off his hand, and it sprayed Joe and the ladies. No apology for the bump or the foam bath as he started to walk on.

Joe involuntarily grabbed his wrist. “Friend, don’t you think you should be the one apologizing to this woman?”

The boy mumbled. Joe focused on the eyes. He sighed. No use. The kid was too vacant, all booze. Let this one be on his way; wrong time to teach manners. He let go of the boy’s wrist and shooed him on with a double flick of the wrist.

Joe returned his attention to the ladies. The spill created a small wet T-shirt event for the blonde. Joe chivalrously helped dry off the important parts with a handful of napkins.

The boy rubbed his wrist, and his head pivoted around. The two friends standing nearby gave him confidence, which slowly morphed into rage. He yelled a witty “Hey, you!”

Joe turned, and the boy swung the bottle. Joe moved like an oak. That is, he didn’t move at all, but the swing still missed by a foot. The force twisted the boy’s arm across his body. Joe’s brain made his feet step forward, and he punched the kid’s exposed chin. Connected enough. The boy fell over, from the buzz as much as the punch, which connected like a push. The friends rushed over. The aisle between the bar stools and the tables was narrow, so they were forced to come single file.

Were the young man’s friends coming as blue helmets or jihadists? Joe chose self-preservation and punched the first one cleanly before his intent was known. The second got in close and grabbed Joe. They wrestled standing up. Joe got him in a headlock. He pawed at the man’s head with his free hand, tried to find a spot that wouldn’t hurt his knuckles to punch.

The officers took a shortcut over the far counter, through the bar pit, and over the near counter. A baton to the throat pulled Joe’s body
up and back. The choking got his attention on a primal level. He threw the man in his arms down and grabbed at the baton. Holding it away from his throat, he whipped his hips and bent forward quickly. The officer flipped over his back and landed on the floor. They now both held the baton with outstretched arms. Realizing he was an officer, Joe let go and stepped back.

The second officer switched his focus from Joe’s opponents in time to see his partner on the ground. He reached for his sidearm, but he couldn’t get beneath his poncho. Before he hiked it up, his partner regained his footing and stood between him and Joe. The room was quiet except for Kenny Chesney singing about having fun somewhere sunny.

The ladies started to tell the story to the officers, and things calmed down. Then, following protocol, they frisked Joe.

19

ASHLEY’S FRIENDS WERE
suffering from the aftereffects of the previous night’s festivities. They closed the curtain on their cabin’s small window, curled up under the sheets, and wrestled demons in their semisleep, listening to the wind and rain. Ashley was tired, but she hadn’t engaged in the volume of drink or conscience-vexing behavior that her roommates had. Her body wasn’t accustomed to the luxury of wasting a rainy day in bed, and despite her best efforts to enjoy not having anything to do, she found herself needing to move around.