Free Tropical Depression by Laurence Shames Page A

Indian raised an eyebrow, undid the leather, cord that held his ponytail. "See below?" The tone was that of a dare.
    Murray just stepped onto the gangplank.
    They went through the pilothouse and down a companionway ladder to the slanted cabin. There was no horizon there, it was like walking in a funhouse. Dusty fractured light streamed in through glassless portholes, a hammock hung at an inexplicable angle between two posts. A propane fridge and cooking ring stood on a yellow table with two short legs and two long ones, a cracked mirror dangled cockeyed from a rotting beam. The rear section of the chamber was a floor-level aquarium. Saltwater lapped softly against a wedged-in plank. See-through minnows swam in and out.
    Murray pointed at the tiny fish swimming around in Tommy's living room. "This is, like, part of the ocean?"
    Tommy nodded. "Sometimes, something big enough swims in, I eat it for dinner."
    "Everything ya need," said Murray. "Beautiful."
    "Yeah," said Tommy. "Great." He produced a six-pack from the little fridge and they took it up on deck.
    They sat in the lawn chairs, whose incline made Murray feel like an astronaut. He looked across the harbor to the manmade islands, Christmas Tree and Tank. He looked a dock away, a mere few hundred yards, to Land's End Marina, where hired hands were cranked up stately masts in bosun's chairs, rigging halyards, changing spreader boots. "Some big boats over there," the Bra King said.
    "And some shitass deathtraps over here," said Tommy.
    Murray said nothing for a minute. He sipped his beer, looked sideways at his host, saw that he was scowling.
    "Tommy," he said at last, "maybe this is like some Indian thing. But where I come from, if you invite somebody to your home, it's because you're being friendly. It's not because you're trying to talk him out of being friends."
    The Indian looked at him, looked away, sipped beer.
    "And it just so happens," the Bra King said, "I like it here."
    Tommy shook his head. "I'll say one thing for you, Murray. You're not a snob."
    "Hey. Litvak trash that made a couple bucks. What I got to be a snob about?"
    Tommy looked at Murray's clothes, his wraparound sunglasses. "Not much, I guess."
    "Right," said Murray. He drank. The sun beat down on his head. He said, "So anyway, about our plans for the casino—"
    "There are no plans," said Tommy. "Give it a rest."
    Murray couldn't. He struggled up out of his chair, tried to pace on the sloping deck, hit a skid and ended up hugging the pilothouse. "Tommy, Tommy, you're killing me, you're breaking my heart. A chance like this—"
    The Indian stared at him. Old hopes, ideals long ruined and rancid, were souring his stomach and hardening his face and making his voice more steely and scornful than he meant for it to be. "Whose chance?" he hissed. "Whose chance is it, Murray?"
    Instantly the Bra King's shoulders slumped, he labored heavily back into his chair. "Hey," he said, "now you hurt my feelings. Whaddya think—you think I'm one more white scumbag looking to horn in?"
    Sunlight flashed off the water. The Indian's eyes were solemn, judging.
    Murray felt fat and flaccid now in his absurd green tank top. "I'm not a scumbag," he said. "I'll tell you what I am. I'm a yenta . Ya know what means a yenta ?"
    The Indian shook his head.
    "A meddling busybody pain innee ass. But a scumbag? No. To that I take exception."
    Tommy Tarpon stared off at the harbor, unaccustomed words were clogging up his mouth. At last he said, "I'm sorry. I wasn't calling you a scumbag. It's just that—"
    "Just what?" coaxed Murray.
    "Just that," the Indian tried again, "I'm not used to—"
    He stalled, he spluttered, and suddenly Murray understood.
    "Ah, I get it," the Bra King said. "You'd feel more comfortable if I was being a selfish prick. Right?"
    "I'd know more where I stood," admitted Tommy.
    Murray pulled himself out of his seat, did a bearlike little dance along the tilted deck. "Well, I am. Okay? I'm doing this for me.