'Omens, Joey. You believe in 'em?'
'Nah,' he said. The sound came out from under the pillow like a bubble from underwater.
'Good,' Sandra said. ' 'Cause a coconut fell on the car and smashed the windshield.'
'Ah fuck.'
'Don't curse, Joey. Try at least.'
He rolled over onto his back, the pillow still covering his pulsing eyeballs. 'Sandra, I'm not even awake yet, and you tell me my goddamn car is trashed. Lemme curse.'
'It's only the passenger side. The glass didn't even fall out. It's just, ya know, smashed. Looks kinda like a spider-web. Sit up. I brought coffee.'
Joey groped for his sunglasses on the night table. He slid them on, then opened his eyes. The tinted lenses didn't blot out the fuzzy dots of mold where the ceiling met the walls.
Sandra had brought with her a copy of the Key West Citizen, already folded to the real estate ads.
'Expensive,' she said, bouncing the eraser end of her pencil off her lower lip.
'So what else is new?' said Joey. He had around nine thousand dollars cash with him, which was all the money he had in the world. No bank accounts, no social security, nothing written down. But, he told himself, capital was not the key to his business, vision was, and vision he had. He didn't have the details worked out, that much was true, and in fact his plans had gaps as yawning as those in Henry Flagler's railroad. Still, in his mind he could see the grand sweep, the structure. He'd lay the groundwork himself. It would be tough making the connections, mapping out the turf, but it had to be done. That would take a month or two. After that, his boys would handle things. Of course, he didn't know exactly who these boys would be. But they had to be out there, they always were. Street guys, soldiers, guys who maybe had a little gambling action, a string of girls, some pull with the restaurants, but who needed someone a little savvier, who thought a little bigger, to get things organized. That's what Joey would do: organize. And once things were set up, he'd live the genteel and quiet life of a Boss. Guys would come to him, say Hello, Joey-no, make that Hello, Mr. Goldman.
He'd gesture them into a chair, and they'd be flattered to be asked to sit. Then, discreetly but not without a certain ceremony, they'd hand over money. This part Joey could see quite clearly: Sometimes the money would be in neat white envelopes, other times in rumpled paper bags. The transactions would take place at a spotless glass table, under a palm tree, by a swimming pool.
'Sandra, these places have pools?'
'Yeah, Joey.' She narrowed her light green eyes and gave a sigh that was midway between exasperated and amused. 'For thirty-five hundred a month, you get a pool.'
'Marrone,' said Joey. 'These are houses?'
'Yeah. There's also condos, but they seem to rent by the week. About fifteen hundred.'
Joey hid his face in his Styrofoam coffee cup. 'Well, it'll be no problem once I get things going.'
'Right,' said Sandra, 'but it's a little bit of a problem right now. I'll call a broker.'
'Yeah, call a broker,' Joey said. He knew how these things worked. He wiggled the earpieces of his shades and spoke in a worldly tone. 'The prices they print, Sandra, they never expect to get 'em. We'll make 'em an offer.'
'Your offer's been refused,' the broker said, hanging up the phone. 'Sorry.' He had a gray crew cut, capped teeth, one small diamond earring, and an almost priestly air of truly wanting to help. He'd shown them four houses and three condos. They'd all been too expensive, and not one owner seemed willing to negotiate. Now Joey and Sandra were back at the real estate office, sitting on aluminum chairs while the broker riffled through his box of properties. 'You have to understand,' he said. 'It's season. The town is really full just now.'
Joey pulled on his lip. 'We seen seven empty places in an hour,' he said. 'How full can it be?'
The broker just smiled. 'If a pool is a priority for you, maybe you should consider a compound. There's a nice little two-bedroom cottage available on Packer Street. Eighteen hundred a month.'
'What's a compound?' Sandra asked, and in the question was a note of dread. She was trying to choke down panic, a fear that she'd made a terrible mistake in quitting Anchor Bank, a terrible mistake in coming to Florida, and could easily make the worst one yet in picking a place to live. Compound. The word sounded military, or southern. Would it be Quonset huts and navy brats, or tar paper shacks with door-less refrigerators and hound dogs in the yard?
'Oh,' said the broker, 'it's very Key West. A compound is a cluster of small houses, fenced off from the street, usually built around a pool and Jacuzzi and barbecue that everybody shares.'
'Doesn't sound very private,' Joey said. He didn't much like the idea of the neighbors standing around roasting wienies when the boys came to deliver cash. But of course this first place was just temporary. Once the enterprise got rolling, they'd move to one of the rambling, hedged-in establishments in the pricey corner of town.
'You give up some privacy,' the broker conceded. 'But less than you might think. How long you been in Key West?'
'One day,' Sandra said, a little sheepishly. She seemed to understand already that Key West was one of those places where people, for lack of much else to say, bragged about how long they'd been there. You couldn't get much lower on the social ladder than one day.
'Well, you know,' the broker said gently, 'one of the things you'll discover is that no one really cares what anybody else does down here. The island's too small and the weather's too hot to get bothered. Believe me, a more tolerant town you're never going to find.'
'Doesn't look like much from outside,' Joey said. He was standing under a scorching sun in a narrow gravel driveway, between a rank of plastic garbage cans and a row of rusty mailboxes with names scrawled on pieces of adhesive tape.
'That's the whole idea,' said the broker. 'Laid back. Unpretentious. Very Key West. But watch.'
He punched in a combination and pushed open a wooden door cut into the grape-stake fence. Instantly the temperature dropped five degrees and the baked, dusty smell of the street disappeared. The compound was a small private jungle of palms and ferns, jasmine bushes and banana trees, bougainvillea and hibiscus. Right in the middle, like the old village well, was a big sunken hot tub, and to the left of it was a free- form pool ringed with pale blue tile. A man was standing waist-deep in the water. He had his elbows propped on the edge and was reading a paperback. In front of him were three cans of Bud in foam rubber sleeves and an ashtray full of butts.
' 'Lo, Steve,' the broker said to him. 'Whatcha reading?'
Steve turned the book over, as if he had to look at the cover to remind himself. 'Nazis,' he said. 'Buzz bombs.'
'Ah,' said the broker. 'Well, this is Joey and Sandra. They'd like to see the place.'
'Help yourselves,' said Steve. Then he smiled. 'If you're interested, we'll talk. This is where I do most of my business.' Then he smiled. He never smiled while he was talking, only after. You could count the beat, waiting for the teeth to come out from under the wiry red mustache.
The house was small but bright and airy. Sisal rugs. Ceiling fans. A Florida room with louvered windows. Bad paintings of seashells and water birds.
'And it's got an outdoor shower,' said the broker.
'I usually shower inside,' said Joey. 'I'm funny that way. Whaddya think, Sandra?'
Her answer was without excitement but very definite. 'It's by far the best for the money. I think we should take it.'
'You think he'll come down on the rent?' Joey asked the broker.
The broker shrugged. 'Compounds cater to, well, it's a special market. Ask him.'
Outside, Steve had lit another cigarette and moved on to the next beer down the line. 'How d'ya like it?' he asked. Then he smiled.
'It's charming,' Sandra said.
'Yeah,' said Joey; 'lotta charm. Very Key West. But about the rent…' He paused, hoping Steve would take over. Steve just sipped some beer. 'I mean, it's a little small.'
'Cozy,' Steve said. 'But you've got the grounds and the pool. And we've got a nice group of folks here. Over there'-he turned and pointed to a trellised cottage half hidden by vines-'that's where Peter and Claude live. They're
