Free Florida Straits by SKLA

blonds,
were having breakfast in their sarongs. So Joey straightened his
sunglasses and went to the gate.
    It was Bert the Shirt. He was wearing a
salmon- colored pullover of the finest Egyptian cotton, with a mesh
of subtly contrasting buff at the collar and sleeves, and he had
Don Giovanni cradled in the crook of his arm. "Joey, there's
something I gotta talk to you about. Got a minute?"
    "Bert," said Joey, surprised and grateful to
be visited, "I got nothing but time. Come on in." For a fleeting
moment he was embarrassed about receiving a guest in his bathrobe
and slippers, and about the naked body in the pool and the pretty
men in their pink and turquoise silks. But the feeling passed. This
was the Keys; this was home now. It was the land of
take-it-or-leave-it and no apologies. "Did I tell you I lived
here?"
    "Carlos did," said Bert, walking slowly
along the gravel path between the jasmine and the banana plants.
"The bolita guy. He had you followed. You didn't know
that?"
    Rather than admit it, Joey changed the
subject. "I didn't know you talked to Carlos."
    "Carlos talks to me," the older man
corrected. He stopped walking and gave Joey a soft little slap on
the cheek, a mix of affection, scolding, and warning. "Joey, I'm
telling you to relax down here, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't
pay attention, eh?"
    "Yeah, Bert. You're right. Bert, this is
Steve. Steve, this is Bert, an old family friend."
    "Morning," Steve said. Then he smiled.
Sunlight glinted off his moist freckled forehead and red
mustache.
    "Whatcha reading?" Bert asked.
    Steve turned the paperback over and looked
at the cover to remind himself. "Japs," he said. "Submarines." Then
he smiled.
    Joey led the way into the cottage and
motioned Bert onto a settee in the Florida room. Shafts of sunlight
sliced in through the louvered windows and threw stripes across the
sisal rug. "Coffee, Bert?"
    "No, Joey, no thanks. Siddown. This is kinda
serious. Joey, you been in touch with your old man since you
left?"
    Joey was halfway into his chair when he
became certain that Bert was about to tell him his father was dead.
Icicles scratched at the inside of his chest, and his forehead
started instantly to pound. Bert read his face.
    "Joey, no, it's nothing like that. He's
O.K., he's fine. But tell me, you been in touch with him?"
    Joey sprang back from his flash of guilt and
grief with a moment of bravado. "Shit, Bert, I left New York to get
away from him."
    "Come on, Joey. No bullshit now. Just yes or
no. You been in touch with him or not?"
    Joey was stung by the older man's sternness,
and there was a note almost of whining in his answer. "No, Bert, I
haven't. I swear. Fuck is this about?"
    Bert leaned forward, put his dog down on the
rug, and dropped his voice to a raspy whisper. "A coupla guys come
to see me last night," he said. "Guys based in Miami. They weren't
in a good mood. In fact, they were ready to whack somebody. Joey,
tree million bucks in Colombian emeralds has been lifted off of
Charlie Ponte's crew, and it was pretty definitely an inside job.
People get dead over that kinda thing."
    "Three million bucks," said Joey. His own
stash had dipped below four thousand, and the poorer he got, the
more big numbers impressed him. "Jesus. But wait a second, Bert. If
it was Charlie Ponte's crew, I don't see what it's gotta do with my
old man."
    Bert the Shirt sat back slowly and seemed
unwilling or unable to talk until his shoulder blades had made
secure contact with the cushion. "Probably not your father
directly. But maybe some of his boys. Joey, it's this same old
problem with drugs. Biggest fucking mistake our people ever made
was not making a clear policy and sticking to it. Either dominate
the business or don't fuck with it."
    Bert paused to lick his teeth. Outside,
palms rustled and water splashed. The air smelled of iodine and
limes.
    "But anyway," the old man continued,
"Charlie Ponte's crew, they're inna coke trade. They're not
supposed to be, it's