die, ya know, it affects the mind sometimes. And I'll tell ya something weird. The only parta my brain that was affected? I can't carry a tune no more. I can't even sing Happy fucking Birthday. And I useta love to sing.
'So I did some thinking. I decided I wanted out. Yeah, outta the family. I mean, enough was enough. My nerves were shot. So when I got home, I went right to the top, right to Scalera. Joey, that man was a prince. He invited me to his house. I took a copy of my EKG with me.
'So he gives me a glass of anisette, and he says, 'Shirt, what's on your mind?'
'So I unroll the paper on his dining room table and I say, 'Frankie, you know what this is?'
'He looks at it, it's like a graph, ya know, and he says, 'Looks like the fuckin' stock market.'
'I say, 'No, Frank, it's my life. And you see this flat part over here? This is where I died.'
'And he says, 'Jeez, Bert, I'm sorry.'
'So I says, 'Don't be sorry, I'm O.K. now. But Frank, the way I look at it, I've given my life for this thing of ours. I was solid and loyal to the end.'
' 'I knew you would be, Bert,' he says. 'But what are you getting at?'
' 'Frank,' I say, 'I feel like I deserve something for dying.'
'Now, this makes Scalera a little nervous because, as fine a human being as he was, he didn't like to part with money. He was a little, ya know, cheap, let's face it. So he says, 'Whaddya want, Bert?' but his voice isn't quite as friendly as before.
' 'All I want is to be allowed to walk away,' I tell him. 'I want your blessing to retire.'
'So now he's relieved that I'm not asking for cash. But he's still nervous because what if it gets around that it's O.K. to quit, and good earners start walking away? 'Jeez, Bert,' he says, 'I'd like to say yes, but it'd be, like, a precedent. I mean, O.K., you're a special case, you died. But what if the next guy says to me, Hey, I got shot, or, Hey, I got my knees smashed in. I mean, where would I draw the line?'
'Well,' Bert continued, 'to me it's pretty obvious where he should draw the line: death. When a guy dies, he can quit. How much clearer could it be? But hey, he's the Boss. I'm not gonna argue. I just wait.'
'So he asks me, 'Where you wanna retire to?'
' 'The Florida Keys,' I tell him right away. I mean, I been thinkin' about it the whole time I was inna hospital.'
' 'Hm,' he says, 'that sounds nice,' and it was almost like the Godfather was envious of me. You know why, Joey? 'Cause I was ready to walk away, ready to leave everything behind. That's the only thing people really envy. Remember that, kid. 'Well, Bert, I'll tell you what,' he says. 'We can't call it retirement. But you go to Florida with my blessing, and we'll say you're my eyes and ears down there. We need information, contacts, we'll call on you. How's that?'
' 'Frankie,' I say, 'that's great. God bless you.' So here it is eight years later, Joey, and here I am.' Bert lifted his hands and his eyes toward the ceiling, but whether he was thanking heaven for his resurrection or simply locating himself in space it was impossible to tell. 'Six years ago I had a triple bypass, and today I feel as good as an old fart can expect to feel.'
Joey took a sip of his tequila. 'Unbefuckinglievable, Bert. Afuckingmazing. So have they called on you?'
The old mafioso leaned closer and Joey caught a whiff of his bay rum after-shave above the booze-and- washrag smell of the bar. 'Joey,' he whispered, 'this is why I wanted to talk to you. This is what I'm trying to tell you. There's been nothing for them to call on me about. In the early years, yeah, every three, four months they'd ask me to check up on something, but it was usually something in Miami. These New York guys, ya know, they got no sense of geography. I'd say to them, 'How the fuck should I know what goes on in Miami? Miami is as far from here as Brooklyn is from Baltimore.'
' 'Oh yeah?' they'd say. 'Where's Baltimore?'
'But Joey, since Scalera got whacked, I hardly get called at all. Once in a great while maybe. But our friends are just not active down here, Joey. This is what I'm telling you. And why aren't they? 'Cause there's a whole different mix of people down here- Cubans, military, treasure hunters, smugglers-and a whole different set of scams. Your father knows that, Joey. Your brother Gino should know it.'
'I'm not working for my father,' Joey said. 'And I'm not working for Gino. I'm here on my own.'
Bert sucked down the last of his whiskey sour and considered. 'On your own? This I didn't realize.' He cocked his head, pursed his loose lips, then blew some air between them. 'On your own. O.K., Joey, you got balls, you got ambition, I respect that. But Joey, what you're trying to do-you don't just show up someplace and act like you're a goddamn franchise, like you're opening a branch office of the Mob. Whaddya think, it's like fucking McDonald's? Maybe you can sell the same hamburger on every street corner in America. With scams it's different. You wanna operate here, you gotta come up with something local. Ya know, a scam that fits the climate.'
Now, three or four times in a person's life, probably not more, something is said that really makes a difference. The moment, the source, and the need to hear that thing all line up perfectly, and the comment ends up seeming not only like the listener's own thought but his destiny. Joey drained his glass and ran a hand through his hair. 'You're right, Bert,' he said. 'I know you're right. But what should the angle be?'
The old man looked down at his watch. 'Holy shit,' he said. 'I gotta go. I got some guys coming over to play gin rummy.'
He reached down under his barstool as if retrieving a hat, and came up with a dog. It was a chihuahua with a wet black nose, bulging glassy eyes, and quivering whiskers, and it fit in the palm of Bert's fleshy hand.
'That dog was there the whole time?' Joey asked.
'Yeah,' said Bert, and he stared at the animal's glassy eyes. 'I hate this fucking dog.' Then he addressed the dog directly. 'I hate ya.' He turned his glance back to Joey. 'I gotta take him with me everywhere, or he shits onna floor. For spite. It's not even my dog. It's my wife's dog.'
'So why doesn't your wife take care of him?'
'She's dead.'
'Ah jeez, Bert, I'm sorry.'
'Old news. She's been dead five years. And it was like her deathbed wish. Bert, promise me you'll take care of Don Giovanni.'
'Don Giovanni?' Joey said, looking dubiously at the quaking little creature.
'Yeah. Ya know, like the opera. My wife loved the opera. A very cultured woman, my wife.' Then he said to the chihuahua, 'Our Carla, our dear sweet pain inna neck, Carla, wasn't she cultured?' And to Joey: 'But the fucking dog, I hate the fucking dog. Cliff, put this on my tab.' And he got up slowly.
'But Bert, hey,' said Joey, 'you're leavin' me, like, hangin' heah.'
'You wanna talk,' said Bert the Shirt, 'come by the condo. Anytime. The Paradiso. We'll talk by the pool.'
— 8 -
Joey pushed open the door to the compound and breathed deeply of the jasmine and the lime. He was feeling optimistic and benign. One of the ladies was poaching in the hot tub, only her dark coarse hair visible above the roiling water. 'How's it feel in there, Marsha?' Joey asked.
'Feels great. But I'm Wendy.'
Inside their cottage, Sandra was standing in the kitchen, watching fish fillets defrost. She was just out of the shower and had a towel, turban style, on her head. She wore a short pink robe, and rivulets of water still gleamed on her pale legs.
'Hello, baby,' Joey said. 'You look sexy.'
'Hi, Joey.' Sandra made it a point not to echo his buoyant tone. 'You sound happy. Been drinking?'
'Come on, I had two drinks. But that's not why I'm happy. I met a guy, a guy from New York. Knows my old man. Isn't that a pisser? We had a nice talk. It was like neighborhood.'
'Good,' said Sandra. 'I'm glad you had a pleasant afternoon.' She looked at the fish, laid out on a warped wooden cutting board. Frozen, the fillets had been silvery and smooth. As they melted, they turned bluish and flakes bent back like small barbs.
'Sandra, hey, you like it better when I'm in a lousy mood and just mope around?'
