Free Tropical Depression by Laurence Shames Page B

But it's not about money, Tommy. Thank God, money I don't need. I need a project. The truth? I'm bored outa my mind down here, I'm going off my gourd."
    Tommy said, "I've noticed."
    Murray started snapping his fingers. "I'm used to action. Deals. Phones ringing. Guys saying it's life or death, they have to talk to me."
    "So that's what you want," said Tommy, "have a vacation then go back up north."
    Murray pictured snow shovels, his second wife. "Did I say that's what I want? I said that's what I'm used to. I'm not going back."
    Frigate birds wheeled overhead, a cruise ship bellowed as it entered the harbor.
    Murray sat back down, resumed. "Listen, I have an idea. Whaddya say I ask some questions, look into getting you recognized? It seems too involved, we drop it. It seems doable, you let me help."
    "Who you gonna ask?" said Tommy.
    The question took Murray by surprise. He was winging it, hadn't got that far in his manic scheming. He said the first thing that occurred to him. "LaRue, I guess."
    "LaRue? He's the last person—"
    "Who else do I know in politics?" said the Bra King. "Look, it's just a few questions. Rules. Procedures."
    "I fucking hate LaRue."
    "I've picked up on that," said Murray. "You don't have to talk to him. I will. I won't even say it's about you."
    The Indian frowned down at stale water dotted with beer cans and slicks of rotting weed. "I got a bad feeling about this," he said.
    "I got a terrific feeling about it," said the Bra King. "Look, lemme talk to him, that'll be my project. You're worried about me horning in? Don't worry, here's the deal: I try to get you recognized. It happens, that's it, I back off, my part's over, you do what you want. Deal?"
    The Indian crossed his arms, looked out across the harbor that was swollen with currents, seamed with wakes. A flight of ibis flapped by, he watched their gawky progress. When he turned toward Murray his face was settled, composed, and deeply solemn. "No deal," he said. "I get recognized, we're partners. All the way."
    "I'm not asking for—"
    "Shut up just one second, Murray. Partners. Yes or no?"

12
    "This is in reference to a Native American?" said Barney LaRue.
    It was four p.m. They were talking in the old cypress house on Eaton Street where the senator kept an office. Golden light slanted in through French doors that backed onto the garden, it gave a sacramental aspect to the table on which LaRue lay naked save for a small towel draped across his oiled buttocks. Pascal was giving him a massage.
    "An Indian, right," said Murray. "Native American, whatever." He sat on the edge of a vinyl chair, hands dangling between his knees. He was a little nervous. He didn't know from politics and he was unaccustomed to negotiating with naked men.
    "This Indian," said the senator. "What's his name?"
    Murray cleared his throat. "I'd rather not say for now."
    The politician just slightly raised his head of lavish silver hair. The sheen on his skin revealed to Murray a pale thin scar between his jawbone and his ears, the place where flesh had been snipped, pulled taut, and sutured back together. "Why the hell not?"
    Murray fidgeted. He couldn't very well say Because he hates your fucking guts . Instead, he said, "He's private, shy. And if nothing comes of this, he'd rather have it be like nothing ever happened."
    "Nothing comes of what?" said LaRue impatiently. "What's the story on this bashful Indian?"
    Pascal pummeled the senator's back, a hollow oomphing sound squeezed forth from his chest.
    "He's the last surviving member of his tribe," the Bra King said.
    The senator winced as the masseur's thumb all but disappeared between his glistening shoulder blades. "Not quite so deep there, Pascal." Turning his attention back to Murray, he said, "You know, about as many people claim to be the last member of their tribe as claim to be descended from the Romanovs. It's this odd prestige in having all your relatives be dead."
    "I think this guy's for real," said