'Salud,' said Joey.
The old man took a sip of foam, then wiped his loose mouth on his cocktail napkin. 'Your brother came to see me this morning.'
'Really? What for?'
Bert rested his elbows on the thick padding at the edge of the bar and shrugged. 'I'm not really sure. It was a strange kinda visit. Like, formal. Not the kinda thing I expect from young guys anymore. He said he was coming to pay his respects and to bring regards from your father. And that's really all he said.'
'Hm,' said Joey. He sucked in an ice cube and let it melt on his tongue. 'Was Vicki with him?'
This made Bert lean back on his barstool. 'Why the fuck would Vicki be with him? Vicki the transvestite?'
'No,' said Joey. 'Vicki the bimbo. This broad he has with him.'
Bert looked relieved. 'No, he was alone. Very alone, if ya know what I mean. Like, the feeling I had, he's down here all by himself, there's more goin' on than he can handle, and he can't talk to anybody. He needs some answers but he can't ask the questions. Ya know what I mean?'
'Yeah, Bert, I know whatcha mean. He tell ya about last night?'
'No. What about last night?'
So Joey told him about the lobster dinner and the walk on the beach. Bert threw his head back in a horsey but silent laugh and slapped the edge of the bar.
'You hit 'im? You hit 'im, Joey?'
Joey couldn't help smiling. 'Yup. It was a sucker punch, but I caught him a good one.'
'Jesus.' Bert absently reached down and tickled Don Giovanni behind the ears. 'Guyones,' he said to the chihuahua. 'The kid ain't bright, but he's got guyones. ' And now he leaned close to Joey and dropped his voice. 'But hey, you know the rules about hitting a made guy, brother or otherwise. I mean, that shit can get dangerous.'
'I know. I know. But it's not like I had it planned. It just happened. A guy's gotta do what he's gotta do, am I right?'
Bert sipped his sour and his expression turned thoughtful. 'Yeah, Joey, you're right. Only problem, though, is that one guy does what he's gotta do, and it gets inna face of another guy doin' what he's gotta do. Ya hear what I'm sayin'? Like, especially with families. So O.K., Gino makes some stupid crack about your mother. Ya gotta slug 'im. Ya gotta. But look at it from his side. What about his mother? Ya can't just forget about her. She's left at home with the pots and pans and the babies and the stringsa garlic hanging from the ceiling. She goes to church while your father goes to hotels. She worries when he don't come home. If she bothers to think about it, she's gotta know there's another woman and the other woman is younger and prettier and has a better shape than her. I mean, it's no picnic for the wife.'
Joey had put his hands flat on the bar and was looking down at them as though in shame. He was starting to feel like he hadn't knocked the wind out of Gino but out of the little old Italian mama who was Gino's mother.
'Hey,' Bert resumed, 'I ain't sayin' this to make you feel bad. It's just that, ya know, it's complicated. Ya can't ask someone not to be a little crazy where his mother is concerned. But Joey, your mother, you should only be proud of her. She was a remarkable person, an artist. Yeah. That's why she went to work at the funeral parlor. You know that?'
Joey didn't know it. In fact, he knew very little about his mother's working life. If your job was beautifying corpses, you didn't come home and describe it in detail to your kid.
'It's true,' said Bert. 'She tol' me. Before she worked inna funeral home, she useta work inna beauty parlor. It drove her nuts, she said, to work so hard on these ladies, get 'em looking just right, then they'd walk out the door and immediately screw it up. She'd get their nails perfect, they'd put on lipstick that didn't match. She'd get their hair just so, they'd pull a slip on and knock it down. Or the wind would blow.
Or they'd wear an ugly dress. Or crappy jewelry. Ya know what she said to me one time, your mother? She said, 'Bert, it's like painting a picture and then watching the paint wash off inna rain.' Isn't that a sad thing? I remember it all these years. So that's why she switched over to corpses. Do the job once, the job stays done. Family, friends, they get their viewing, then, boom, the lid comes down and it's straight off to God. She was, like, a perfectionist, your mother. I got a lotta respect for that.'
Joey squeezed his glass and tried to smile. The bar had filled up, and he felt the nearness of bodies at his back. Cliff had sloughed off his grogginess and was rattling two cocktail shakers like a pair of maracas, taking another order at the same time, and giving off the animal contentment of the fully occupied man. Joey took a momentary vacation in the rattle of the ice and the mounting buzz of saloon noise, gave himself a respite from having either to talk or to listen. When he returned, he was able to put his hand on the old man's shoulder. 'Thanks, Bert. It's nice of you to tell me that.'
'Sure, kid,' said the Shirt. 'But now I gotta tell ya somethin' that ain't so nice.' He took the orange slice out of his drink, nibbled the flesh from the skin, and, from long habit, glanced over his shoulder to see who might be listening. But in Key West no one ever was.
'After your brother left this morning, I didn't have a good feeling about things. So I made some calls. Coupla days ago there was a sit-down. In Brooklyn. Charlie Ponte, your father, coupla other big guys. Ponte says he's running outta patience about this bullshit with the emeralds. He says it to your father. Your father says whaddya want from me? Ponte flat out accuses him of being involved. Your old man denies it and gets very hot. Ponte says, 'O.K., if you're onna level and wanna avoid a lotta headaches, you got no reason not to make a deal with me.' 'What's the deal?' your old man asks. 'The deal is this,' says Ponte. 'I find the guys who have my stones, I whack 'em. No questions asked, and no retaliation.' And your father agrees.'
'He agrees?' Joey repeated. It was all he could think of to say.
Bert raised a qualifying finger. 'The guy I got my information from, it's, like, secondhand. I don't know if he agreed 'cause he couldn't go back on what he'd already said. Or if he's got something up his sleeve. Or if he really believes his crew is clean. I don't know any of that. But yeah, he agreed. They kissed on it. It's settled.'
The noise of the bar seemed suddenly to rise up like a wave, and as if from underneath it Joey heard himself mumbling dully. 'So if it's Gino, he ain't even protected.'
'Nope.'
'And if he ends up gettin' clipped, the old man's gonna feel responsible.'
Bert just shrugged.
'Does Gino know about the sit-down?'
'I'm not sure,' said Bert the Shirt. 'But I sorta doubt it. I mean, the way he seems to be doing everything by himself, I think he's stayin' outta touch.'
'Maybe I oughta tell 'im.'
Bert reached down and rubbed Don Giovanni's chin. The gesture seemed to help him think. 'Well, I don't know. Maybe. But how could you tell 'im without openin' a whole canna worms? Like, how much else d'ya know? Like how come ya didn't let on before? And besides, Joey, once ya get involved, your ass is inna same sling his is.'
'But Jesus, Bert, if Ponte has a green light to clip 'im-'
The Shirt held a big, wrinkled hand in the younger man's face. 'Joey, lissena me. A lotta what we're talking here, it's guesswork. Ya know, we're assumin' Gino's involved. Maybe he ain't. Maybe he's a lot smarter than we give 'im credit for. Maybe everything'll be fine. But if it turns out he's in this kinda trouble, don't imagine for a second you can help 'im. You can't. So don't be a schmuck.'
'Bert, hey, he's my brother.'
'Joey, brothers die too, what can I tell ya? If your brother Gino has the stones, make your peace with it and write 'im off. I'm telling you like a father.'
— 21 -
'I mean, really, Sandra, how does it look? They're here, what, more than a week already, and we haven't had 'em over. It's not right.'
