seem familiar. Was this fat drunk guy in the bathrobe a relative of his, someone he was supposed to care about? This woman under the sheet-who the hell was she? 'So Gino,' he said very slowly, 'where — are-the emeralds?'
Gino opened his mouth, then abruptly stopped himself, like a card player who realizes he is on the brink of throwing in what could yet be a winning hand. 'Joey, I ain't sure I oughta tell ya.'
Joey sucked his teeth, crossed his arms, and leaned back against the dresser. 'Gino, asshole, you're a walking dead man because of those fucking emeralds. You don't see that?'
'What kinda split you looking for, Joey?'
'Split? Split? You think this is about a split? Jesus Christ, Gino, you really are a putz.' Joey looked at his watch on its arrogantly inexpensive plastic band. 'Look, it's late. I don't need this shit. Either you tell me what I need to know in the next thirty seconds, or I'm outta here and you're on your own.'
Gino stared at the carpet but found no answers there. Vicki's foot moved under the sheet and kicked him in the kidney. 'Awright, awright. Supposedly the stones are stashed at this place called Sand Key Marina. It's about ten, twelve miles up, and that's all I know about it. Drove me bullshit tryin' to find it. There's no signs, no streetlights, you like go down these tiny roads that turn into gravel and then dead-end at these swamps. Over and over again, fucking swamps. Mosquitoes. Fire-flies. Things croaking. Anyway, there's an old wreck of a fishing boat at this marina. Just, like, tied up there, ya know, it can't be used no more. It's called the Osprey. So Vinnie and Frank, they scoped it out, and they put the stones in this wreck, under a plank inside with like a little X marked on it. And that's as much as I know, I swear to God.'
Joey nibbled a thumbnail and glanced at the dirty dinner dishes. 'You got cash?'
Gino nodded.
'Gimme a thousand.'
'Wha' for?'
'I don't know yet,' Joey said. 'I gotta think.'
Gino leaned over, put die Jack Daniel's on a night table, took a wad of bills out of a drawer, and gave his kid brother some money.
'Tomorrow at midnight,' Joey said, 'go down to the basement, up the service ramp, around the pool, and out to the dock. No luggage, no nothing.'
'What about my stuff?' said Vicki.
'Shut up,' said Gino.
And Joey left. He saw no one in the elevator or in the basement kitchen, and when he encountered a security guard on the private beach, he just walked past him like he owned the joint and went out to his boat.
— 31 -
There is a kind of preoccupation that makes people muddled, absentminded, out of rhythm, but there is also a kind that hones them, makes them as taut yet supple as a child gymnast. The next day Joey was riding the crest of this second kind of preoccupation. He had a golden day at work. No one could say no to him. He patrolled his corner of Duval Street with the loose-limbed confidence of a great outfielder, and with similarly uncanny anticipation. He just knew what people needed to hear. One couple he won over with a winged spiel about award- winning resort design. Another couple-how could he tell they were starving? — signed on at the promise of a meal voucher for an oyster brunch. Then there was the older gent with the gold chains, the silver belt buckle, and the pebbled ring. This was a man who liked shiny things, an easy mark for the free passes to the Treasure Museum. By noon Joey had made half as much money as he had the entire week before.
Yet never for a moment was the Gino situation off his mind. It kept nagging at him like a bad but catchy tune replayed in a dozen different versions, and every time Joey ushered customers into the Parrot Beach office, he took the opportunity to pick Zack Davidson's brain.
'Hey, Zack,' he asked at around nine-thirty, 'they got this thing, right, like a mappa the water?'
Zack looked up from some papers on his desk. 'Yeah, Joey, it's called a chart.'
'Like, whadda they put on it?'
Zack shrugged. 'Depths, buoys, lighthouses, landmarks-'
'Marinas?'
'Not usually. Not unless there's a big tower or water tank or something. Why?' Zack laughed at himself for asking this. He seemed to know by now that Joey wasn't going to tell him why.
'Just curious,' said Joey. He put his sunglasses back on, let the earpieces slide through his hair with a feeling smooth as sex, and returned to his post on the sidewalk.
At around ten-fifteen he shepherded in another couple, deposited them in the waiting room, and was ready to resume the conversation exactly where he'd left off. Time was running on two tracks for Joey. There was the thick, slow time of his salesman's skill, then there was the urgent yet strangely serene count-down toward his midnight date with Gino. At moments the two times ran parallel, but then one would stop, freeze, wait for the other to have its say. 'So, like, if you're looking for a marina and it ain't onna map-'
'Chart,' corrected Zack.
'Whatever. How d'ya find it?'
Zack ran a hand through his sandy hair. 'Well, there's gotta be a channel to get to the marina. So if you know roughly where it is-'
'Ah,' said Joey, and hit the street again.
At midday he jogged to the Habaneras Marine Supply store and bought a nautical chart of the lower Keys. He brought it back to the office, unfurled it on top of the Plexiglas case of the Parrot Beach scale model, examined it with frank befuddlement, and experienced an emotion he couldn't quite place. It was humility. Bafflement, helplessness, littleness, shame — all of those he'd felt before. But this was different, rounder. Humility required a certain amount of confidence, a little bit of knowledge and pride, to give it a place to nest, and these parts of the mix were new. ' Marrone,' he said, 'what is all this shit?'
Zack Davidson leaned over the chart and pointed with a pencil. 'Latitude. Longitude. Loran lines. Compass rose. Shoaling. Harbor ranges…'
Joey scanned the paper for an easy place where his eyes could rest. 'And what's this blank part over here?'
Zack was momentarily thrown by the question and shook his wrist to rearrange his watch. 'That? That's the land.'
For some reason this struck Joey funny: a map where all the important stuff was in the water and the nothing part was the land. This he'd never heard of in Queens. The idea pried open his imagination, turned everything superbly upside down. He scratched his head, dashed outside, and within an hour had chalked up two more commissions.
'Reefs?' he said when he came back into the office. 'They put reefs onna chart?'
'Sure,' said Zack. 'This parta the world, that's like the most important thing on there.'
'Right,' said Joey. 'And onna land part, they show where the bridges are, right?'
'Yeah,' said Zack. 'With the clearances.'
'Right.'
He returned to his post and realized for the first time that it was an extremely hot afternoon. The breeze had stalled and the palms, so lazily efficient at husbanding their strength, let their fronds hang as limp and seemingly weightless as flags. The yogurt eaters bent their necks to lick drippings from their cones, and young women in undershirts had beads of sweat at their hairlines. Joey sold one last tour with a heartfelt pitch about the gorgeous pool at Parrot Beach.
'Hey Zack,' he said, ' 'zere an airport between here and Miami?'
'Yeah,' he said, 'at Marathon. Fifty miles up.'
'Great. And what's a rowboat cost?'
Zack Davidson folded his hands on top of his blotter, unfolded them, tugged an ear, and yawned. The heat and his younger colleague were making him tired. 'Joey, you're awful hyper today.'
