Sunburn (14 page)

"Take care, Pop," Gino said as he backed away. "I'll see ya in New Yawk."

Vincente could think of nothing to say that would not ring false, and so he only nodded.

Debbi reached out her hand, and the old man surprised them both by taking her in his arms. Perhaps he did it mainly to erase the empty feel of Gino. The hug put a catch in Debbi's throat. It had nothing to do with feelings toward Vincente, only with his uneasy gift of drawing out the truth from others.

Debbi asked him please to say goodbye to Sandra and to thank Bert for the flowers.

Gino floored the rented T-Bird in reverse, the tires spit gravel onto his bastard brother's lawn, and he headed for Miami.

On the long hot drive up U.S. 1, they saw pelicans skimming green water with their wing tips, ospreys perched on lampposts with fish still wriggling in their talons. Gino hardly spoke. Debbi figured he was being surly; it was all the same to her. But in fact he wasn't being surly. He was happy, excited, and he was hoarding his excitement, savoring it, trying with the clenched pleasure of a man withholding semen to prolong it. He was on his way to pick up thirty thousand dollars. More than that, he was on his way to claim a prize, clinch a victory that would in turn confirm him as a leader.

They passed Key Largo, made the un-momentous crossing to the mainland. On the MacArthur Causeway to South Miami Beach, Gino said to Debbi, "So I'll leave ya at a cafe, you'll have a drink. I'll see dis guy I gotta see, I'll come back for ya in an hour, hour and a half, we'll go straight ta de airport."

"Fine, Gino," Debbi said. She was looking out her own side window at the cruise ship docks. The mention of a drink made her realize to her slight bewilderment that she didn't feel like having one.

On Ocean Drive she got out of the car in front of a place called Bar Toscano. Gino's tires squealed and he was gone before she'd rounded the rail that stretched along the sidewalk.

Alone, he allowed himself to vent a little glee. He squeezed the steering wheel, indulged in a brief carnivorous grin, came forth with a short percussive laugh.

But by the time he drove into the parking lot at Martinelli's he was composed again.

It was with a certain gravity that he gave his name to the maitre d' at the podium, with a kind of pomp that he followed the broken-nosed bouncer past the lobster tanks and through the dining room to the kitchen. His dignity was undiminished as he let himself be patted down by the thugs in the outer chamber of Charlie Pontes office, and when the inner door was opened he stood still a moment, reviewing his posture, straightening the placket of his shirt. Charlie Ponte, in his silver jacket, was sitting at his desk. His small hands were folded, and he gave Gino a little smile.

But when Gino moved through the doorway, something went terribly wrong. There was a sudden agony in the small of his back, a splintered fiery pain arced up under his ribs. The pain made him go rigid, and when the blow came at the base of his skull he didn't roll with it, he caught it the way a house absorbs a wrecking ball, and it knocked him full length to the floor. He fell so fast he couldn't get his hands out under him; he landed on his chin and split it open. Maybe he was knocked out briefly or maybe he was just confused. The next thing he noticed was that the sole of a boot was on his neck, and Charlie Ponte, looking a great deal taller than he really was, was standing over him with his arms crossed against his stomach.

A small pool of blood was spreading away from Gino's chin, he couldn't move his head to get away from the iron smell of it. Fisheyed and nauseous, he looked up at Charlie Ponte. "Ya crossed me, ya little cocksucker. Ya set me up."

Ponte only smiled. "I didn't cross ya, Gino. I'm givin' ya a chance to keep your word."

The boot came off of Gino's neck; he crawled and rolled and managed to sit up on the floor. He saw four muscle guys—Ponte's bodyguards and two others. One of the new guys was holding the lead pipe with which he'd bashed him in the kidney; the other still palmed the sap he'd used to pummel in his brains.

Ponte went on calmly. "Gino, you distinctly said the Fabrettis were your headache, you settle New York problems." He gestured toward the new guys. "So here's your problem, Gino. Settle it."

———

Close to shore, inside the protective barrier of Key Biscayne, the waters of the Intra-coastal were flat and viscous, the surface had an oily gleam like that of cooling soup. Back to the west, the sky was red and acid yellow with the last heat of sunset; ahead, over the deep enveloping Atlantic, it was already night. Charlie Ponte's cigarette boat, piloted by one of the Miami boss's bodyguards and moving at a speed that would not attract attention, plied the clement waters, carrying Gino toward the darkness.

The doomed man sat on a wraparound settee at the stem. He was flanked by the two Fabretti thugs, who were smoking cigars and looking at the scenery: the mangrove islets, the diving birds. Gino's chin still bled slightly: a line of crimson flowed slowly down his neck; now and then a drop broke free and splattered on his chest. His hands were cuffed behind him. From the middle of the cuffs a chain hung down; at the end of the chain was a clip. In front of Gino, a two-hundred-pound mushroom anchor took up much of the cigarette's small cockpit. The anchor was designed to bury itself in the muck of the ocean bottom and stay buried for eternity. It had a metal stem with an eye to which the clip at the end of the handcuffs would be attached.

Terror made Gino feel lonely. He wanted to chat. "Where we goin'?" he asked his executioners.

The thug at his left puffed on his cigar. He was very handsome for a thug, with dark eyes, chiseled nostrils that were almost feminine, and the thick and wavy hair of a fifties crooner. His name was Pretty Boy and he ate amphetamines like candy. "You're goin' ta hell," he said.

"Out to de edge a duh Gulf Stream," put in the other thug. He was ugly but not nasty; he liked geography and had a philosophical turn of mind. A long curved scar paralleled his jawbone. His name was Bo. "Water gets nice and deep out theah," he added. "Mile deep. Maybe more. Dark blue onna map."

There was a pause, the boat's twin engines popped and purred, water lapped against the hull. Gino moved a notch closer to the impossible knowledge that he was about to die. "That fuckin' Ponte," he said. "That midget cocksucker."

Bo tried to produce a smoke ring, but the breeze tore it instantly to shreds. "Now Gino," he said, "don't be bitter. Ya gotta think about the psychology of it. You gave Ponte the chance ta make an enemy and the chance ta make a friend. He figured the Fabrettis are comin' up, the Puglieses are goin' down—"

"The Puglieses are fucked," Pretty Boy put in. "They're history." He spat out a tobacco fleck.

"Ponte made a choice," said Bo. "That's nothin' ta get mad at."

The boat slipped under the Rickenbacker Causeway, past the golf-course end of Key Biscayne. Gino caught a whiff of lawn, of soil, he tasted dry land at the back of his throat, and the flavor carried with it the unspeakable poignance of childhood memories. He again tried on the thought of death and was instantly filled with a great and all-forgiving tenderness toward himself. Things should not have turned out this way for him; it wasn't fair. He'd been gypped somehow, given a bum steer somewhere along the line. The bunglings and the lies that had brought him here—he divorced himself from them, they were not his fault.

Beyond the marker at Northwest Point, the sea grew featureless and infinite. The earth smells vanished, overwhelmed by the tang of iodine and salt and kelp and fish. The first stars were coming out. Pontes thug goosed the engine and brought the sleek hull up on plane; the mushroom anchor clattered as the boat bounced from crest to crest, and Gino scavenged through his aching brain for a way to save himself.

After a time, he shouted above the motor noise. "What if I tol' ya that Ponte's choice, us or the Fabrettis, it don't make a fuckin' bit a difference, the whole goddam thing is comin' down?"

"I'd tell ya ta shut the fuck up," said Pretty Boy.

Bo thought a bit more deeply about the comment. "Gino," he said, "just 'cause you're havin' a bad day, it don't mean—"

"What if I tol' ya," the captive cut in, "that while we're sittin' heah inna middle a the fuckin' ocean, the biggest ratout in history is gettin' ready ta be sprung?"

"Calm down, fuckface," Pretty Boy told him. "You're bleedin' all over ya'self."

The powerboat slammed on. The water now was indigo, it rose and fell with the heavy evenness of open ocean waves. Perhaps two miles up ahead, the fuller surge of the restless Gulf Stream could be glimpsed beneath the brightening stars.

Gino flexed his cuffed arms and prattled desperately on. "Your boss," he screamed. "If someone was gonna blow his world right open, ya don't think he'd wanna know? Ya don't think he'd be grateful to the guys that brought de information?"

Pretty Boy and Bo still clutched their cigars, but it was too windy to smoke them now; the ash had blown away and the tips glowed a hellish red. The two thugs leaned forward in front of Gino and held a silent conference by the light of the smoldering tobacco. Gino held his breath. Then Pretty Boy said, "Fuck 'im, he's jerkin' us around."

Bo didn't disagree. They leaned back again. Gino took a deep breath of salty air and hoped he wouldn't start bawling.

The cigarette reached the heavier chop; spray hissed up along its sides. Ponte's thug cut the engines and the mighty boat became a raft, a cork, a passive thing being cradled by the ocean. In the sudden silence the stars seemed nearer, the teasing slap of water on the hull was terrifying in its mildness.

"Stan' up, Gino," said Pretty Boy.

Shakily, he did so. His handcuffs chattered with his fear; the chain hung over his buttocks and down his legs like an obscene mechanical tail. Almost gently, Bo took him by the shoulders and turned him around. He grabbed the chain and fitted the clip to the eye of the anchor. It locked shut with a dry and bell-like ping.

Ponte's thug looked on, his feet spread wide for balance, his arms crossed on his chest. In the tone of an expert adviser, a connoisseur, he said, "Trow him in first, den de anchor. Udder way, ya yank his arms off, the body's still layin' there."

The boat bobbed and slowly spun, the astonishing power of the current could be felt right through the fiberglass. Bo puffed on his cigar. "So Gino, ya wanna jump or ya want we should t'row ya?"

The captive looked down at the water. It was black. He couldn't see into it one inch. He wet his pants; the piss ran down his leg like tears. His ribs compressed around his burning lungs and he might as well have been already drowning. Past the locked sinews of his throat he managed to squeeze a weak whisper. "Someone's writin' a book."

Pretty Boy did not wait for an answer. He leaned in on Gino's flank, started bulling him toward the gunwale. "Come on," he said. "We're wastin' time. Let's drown the piece a shit and get some dinner."

The mushroom anchor dragged around the cockpit. Gino strained for balance, his locked knees screamed and his cramped spine arched like a palm tree in a gale. "You're makin' a big mistake," he croaked.

Pretty Boy bore down on him, spun him so that his wet thighs squished against the gunwale. "And you're gonna make a big splash."

"Who's writin' a book?" said Bo.

Gino smelled piss and ocean and flailed within himself for one more ounce of moxie. "I ain't talkin' heah. I'll talk on land. I'll talk to Messina."

Bo considered.

Pretty Boy yelled out, "Fuckin' shit, let's do the fuckin' job." He slammed the captive in the kidney, hacked him across the back of the neck to bend him double, was reaching now for the manacled hands that would serve as a lever to heave him overboard.

Bo grabbed his colleague by the elbows, wrestled him away. "Nah," he said. "Ya don't drown information."

Pretty Boy, panting and manic, wriggled free and glared at him. Bo paused, then tried to cheer him up. "New Yawk," he said, "same water as Miami. Whatsa difference we drown 'im tomorra or today?"

Gino didn't move, didn't breathe. The boat rocked and slowly twirled, the stars seemed to leave faint tracks as they wheeled. Finally, Ponte's guy shrugged and turned the key in the ignition. The engines thundered into life, the boat spun toward the feint and hazy lights of land, and Gino Delgatto, still chained by his metal tail, stumbled back to the stern settee and began to wonder what he'd say and how he'd say it when he stood before his enemies and ratted out his father.

Three

24

The waiter at Bar Toscano had not minded when the single redhead took a first-row sidewalk table and ordered nothing but a Pellegrino water. It was early, five-thirtyish, the fashionable crowd was not yet swarming in, and the place was mostly empty. Besides, the redhead was pretty in a hokey, brassy, touristy kind of way, and it never hurt to have large-breasted females on the rail.

But something over an hour later, with the sun down and with the neon and the streetlights giving the dusk a restless dappled gleam, the South Beach regulars began appearing in their skintight leggings, their big shirts with the top buttons cinched shut around elegant necks. People were jostling for places, and now the single redhead had become a liability. The waiter wanted her to be gone.

"Anything more?" he asked her. The tone was as welcoming as a faceful of bleach.

Debbi glanced at her watch. Gino was not yet late but he was pushing it, as he often did. A tentative exasperation set in and she asked for a Campari.

She sipped it slowly, and before it was three-quarters gone, the waiter, moving sideways between the close-together tables of the now packed cafe, was back to ask if she would have another. She sighed, said yes, and the waiter flashed a sour little smile, as if politely telling her to choke on it.