Free Florida Straits by SKLA Page B

outta the water? If that's the way
people get rich down here—"
    Joey suddenly fell silent because the Shirt
had put a hand to his chin and started wagging his head as if in
deep sorrow or disbelief.
    "Wha", Bert?"
    The old mafioso looked down and spoke to his
chihuahua. "This kid, Giovanni. Is he very brave, very stupid, or
does he just not listen?"
    The younger man only crinkled his
forehead.
    "I mean," Bert said to him, "what have I
been telling you heah? Your father's crew is suspected of stealing
tree million dollars from our own people. Two guys have already
been clipped. A coupla very nasty paisans show up in Key
West. Joey, why d'ya think they came heah?"
    Joey just sat.
    The Shirt addressed his dog. "This kid,
Giovanni, he's a nice kid, but he's an asshole." Then he glared at
Joey. "Asshole, they were looking for you."
    "Me?"
    "Joey, use your fucking head. You just
happen to be about twelve hundred miles closer than anyone else to
where the emeralds were. And you just happened to move down here
right around the time this whole thing had to get planned. How does
it look?"
    Joey rubbed his stubbly chin and admitted to
himself that it did not look great. "But shit, Bert, I was always
the last to know what my father's crew was up to even when I was
living right there. Why d'ya think I ain't there no more?"
    "Why should Charlie Ponte believe that?
Joey, you know how these people think. Always look for the blood
ties first. You're still your father's son. Maybe you don't feel
like you are. Maybe you don't have his name. But everybody knows
it, just like everybody knows Charlie Ponte sells dope. So, Joey,
I'm telling you like a father, watch your ass. These guys will
probably come back, and they are very pissed. If I didn't stand up
for you, they woulda been here last night. Just to talk. Probably.
But it would not have been pleasant."
    "You stood up for me, Bert?" A sublime and
un-bounded gratitude made the hair lift on the back of Joey's
neck.
    Bert looked at the rug, at his quailing
dog.
    "What did you tell em?" Joey asked.
    "Never mind what I tol' 'em."
    "Hey," said Joey, "I wanna know." He
squeezed the arms of his chair and puffed up within himself,
opening the passageways like a young man does, the better to absorb
a compliment from a respected elder.
    "Forget about it," Bert advised.
    "Come on," Joey insisted. "I wanna
know."
    "Awright," said Bert. "I told 'em you were
too much of a loser to be involved in anything that big."
    "Thanks, Bert. Thanks a lot."
    "Sorry, kid. You asked. Besides, it was the
best thing to say at the time. On that you hafta trust me."
     

 
    — 11 —
    "Joey, will you think about it at
least?"
    Sandra held an enormous fish sandwich in
both hands and had a glass of beer in front of her. They were
sitting at the Eclipse Saloon, in a booth under a big stuffed
marlin and a faded photograph of a novelist who used to be
world-famous in that bar and regularly got stewed there. A loop of
fried onion was dangling from the underside of Sandra's roll and,
fish-like, she approached from below to snag it between her teeth.
"I mean," she said, "it's not like it's a regular job. All you do
is talk to people, schmooze 'em up. You work outside. It's straight
commission. You don't really have a boss."
    "That part's bullshit," said Joey. He
absently dredged a french fry through a puddle of ketchup. "There's
always a boss. I'd still be depending on some suit to hand me a
paycheck."
    "Joey, what can I say? Life is bosses.
That's how it works. Your pals from New York—don't they have
bosses? Your buddy Sal, he has a boss. Your brother Gino has a
boss."
    "At least their bosses aren't citizens,"
Joey said, but the argument sounded thin even to him. His
resistance was fading, diminishing in direct proportion to his
bankroll, and in proportion, as well, to his growing if still
unadmitted awareness that it was no easier to launch a criminal
career than any other kind, only more dangerous.
    Then, too, as jobs went,