Free Tropical Freeze by James W. Hall Page B

red-headed man in a plaid shirt and navy pants moved cautiously to the edge of their conversation, Gaeton broke connection with Benny’s eyes, waved the man over.
    “Benny,” Gaeton said, “this is Charlie Boilini. Charlie, Benny Cousins of Florida Secure Systems. Charlie owns Boilini’s Liquors up in Tavernier.” No one offered to shake hands.
    “Oh, yes,” said Benny. “The man who wants the stoplight.”
    Mr. Boilini stood awkwardly at the edge of the table.
    “Well, the thing is, Mr. Cousins, it’s a real bad intersection, accidents, near misses. I’ve petitioned the county commission, Department of Transportation. And they tell me they’ve got to do a study of the area first, and they—”
    Benny said, “Hey, hey, hey, listen, Boilini, I’m no fucking politician. You don’t have to bullshit me with your humanitarian concerns. We clear on that?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “OK. So you want to put a stoplight out front, slow the tourists down. They’re stuck in traffic, they get thirsty, they pull off, you get rich. Is this the story you want to make happen?”
    Mr. Boilini shrugged like yeah, well, maybe.
    Benny said, “So you got a problem with red tape. Every day of the week you’re choking to death already on regulations, paper work. And then a simple thing like a stoplight, it’s like taking a case to the Supreme Court. Am I right, Charlie?”
    “Yes, sir. It’s a nightmare getting anything done anymore.”
    Benny said, “Now, it so happens I know a man at Department of Transportation. He’s a bureaucrat as bad as the next one. But he’s still a good ol’ boy and a friend of mine. And I think he could be persuaded to help here.”
    “Could you let me pay you something for your trouble?”
    Benny brought his eyes up and looked Mr. Boilini over.
    “Boilini, I’m no doctor, but to me, you look like you got lotsa years left.” Benny took a sip of his drink. He put it down and said, “Think of it, every three minutes your new stoplight blinks and another guy’s walking out with a fifth of Jim Beam. Add that up over a lifetime, you know, and that’s a chunk of change. So if you were to try to pay me what that stoplight’s worth to you, well, I don’t think you could get together that kind of cash, now could you?”
    “No, sir.”
    Benny said, “And anyway, Charlie, I’m one of the last of the red-hot altruists. I don’t want your money. I’m motivated by the higher virtues. Quid pro quo. Things of this nature.”
    Boilini nodded, cocking his head slightly for the punch line.
    Benny tugged on his earring again, staring down at his White Russian. He said, “Like, I understand you’re big in the Rotary Club down here, the Masons, these civic organizations.”
    “Yes, sir, I’m involved in a good many community activities.”
    Benny said nothing, waiting for Boilini to catch on. Looking at him, almost counting the seconds out loud.
    “Oh,” Boilini said finally. “I’d be happy to propose your membership in some local clubs. It’d be my pleasure, Mr. Cousins.”
    Mr. Boilini offered his hand, and Benny shook it without taking much of a grip. Bringing his face around finally to give Boilini a look at his bullshittiest smile.
    “How’m I doing?” Benny asked Gaeton when Boilini had left.
    “Well, you shouldn’t get them on their knees. Treat them so smug.” Gaeton took a sip of his beer. “Conchs are proud.”
    “What? That? On his knees?” He squinted at Gaeton. “Hey, Mr. Manners, when I get somebody on their knees, they don’t get up. They don’t walk away.” He leaned across the table toward him, getting a sizzle in his voice.
    Gaeton said, “These people, they’ve been dealing with Bubbas and payoffs for a hundred years. You want to have some impact down here, you’re going to have to be a little less of a smartass.”
    “Gaeton Richards’s charm school.”
    Gaeton said nothing.
    Benny drew out an envelope from his inside front pocket. He passed it over to Gaeton.