'Come on,' he coaxed, 'you got no reason to keep her like that.'
'Fuck you, jerk-off,' Tony said. 'We don't need a reason.'
He said it mildly, offhandedly, balancing his gun on his thigh. But now, suddenly, it was Bruno who seemed short-fused, exasperated. Maybe it was the strain of having to speak in front of strangers that had gotten him wound up. He stood over Joey and grabbed his hair. Then he yanked as if pulling up a weed.
'Kid,' he said through clenched teeth, 'I am really sicka hearin' your mouth. Ya talk too fucking much. In theah'-he pointed vaguely across the compound-'in heah, all ya do, ya talk, talk, talk. Like ya got somethin' to say, somethin' to bargain. But ya know what, kid? You ain't got shit to say, and you ain't got shit to bargain. No leverage. Zero. You're fucked. Understand that. Tony, where's that goddamn tape? I'm gonna shut this motherfucker's mouth so's I can have some peace and quiet heah.'
Tony gave a little shrug; it was all the same to him. He reached into his jacket pocket and threw Bruno the roll of duct tape. The big thug tore a length of it off the roll; it came away with a sound like a ripping parachute. He slapped it on hard enough to make Joey's teeth hurt, and Joey, though his hands were free, didn't dare to reach up toward his face. The adhesive had a vile taste, it was like eating a fistful of stamps.
Bruno stepped back like a painter admiring his work. The silver slash where Joey's mouth used to be gave him satisfaction. But he wasn't quite ready to calm down yet. 'Talk, talk, talk,' he muttered. 'With this fucking jerk, everything is talk, talk, talk.'
Tony smiled at his colleague's little tantrum, and the smile tortured his dented lip. The gun was across his thigh, and he leaned a shade closer to Sandra, who glowed like a firefly in the nasty light.
'Now who could that be?' said Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia to his dog.
It was twenty minutes before ten, not a time when visitors often called. The old man zapped the volume on the television, slowly got up out of his recliner. His chihuahua struggled out of its velvet bed and rattled along behind. 'Who is it?'
'It's Peter and Claude. From Joey's compound.'
Bert felt a quick clutch of dread, a feeling he remembered too well from his working years. It grabbed at his windpipe and made his rib cage squeeze down on his heart. He opened the door.
The bartenders stood close together in the bright light of the hallway. It was Leather Night at Cheeks, and they were wearing matched calfskin vests fastened in front with links of chain. 'Hi, fellas,' said Bert the Shirt. 'Come on in.'
'Just for a sec,' said Claude. 'What beautiful pajamas.' They were plum-colored satin, piped with sky blue, and the buttons were made of shell.
'My wife bought 'em. Used to pick out all my clothes. Except shirts. Shirts, I had made. So what is this, guys, a social call?'
Peter and Claude stood there in the dim foyer and looked down at their feet. They'd argued a little about whether they should stop by at all. They had a certain tendency, they knew, to blow things out of proportion, to take a scrap of gossip and raise it to the level of tragedy. That happened in Key West, where life could be so placid, so restful, that people imagined upheavals, disasters, just to exercise their nerves.
'Bert,' said Claude, 'did you know Joey has friends down from Miami?'
Bert bent down and picked up Don Giovanni. 'Why would I know that?' he said, and the bartenders had to start over.
'He came to use our phone before,' said Peter. 'Said his was on the blink. He had this guy with him-'
'Wha'd he look like?' asked the Shirt.
'Big, with 1950s hair,' said Claude.
That described most of the people Bert knew. 'He have a name, this guy?'
'Bruno,' Peter said.
' Marrone,' said Bert the Shirt.
'So Bruno used the phone,' said Claude, 'and Joey, well, from some things Joey was saying, we sort of got the feeling, we could be wrong, it might just be our imagination-'
'Spit it out,' said Bert.
'We thought maybe he's in trouble and he wanted us to let you know,' said Peter.
Bert absently stroked Don Giovanni and the dog put its cool nose between the buttons of his pajamas. 'Well, ya did right comin' to tell me. I appreciate it.'
The bartenders had expected more of a response. 'Is there something we should do?' Claude asked. 'Should we call the police?'
'No.'
Bert volunteered nothing further, and now Peter and Claude couldn't help feeling gypped. It seemed only fair to them that they should be given some information in exchange for theirs.
'Maybe we shouldn't ask this,' Claude said at last, 'but Bert, is this, like, Mafia?'
The Shirt launched into a mellifluous pause. He glanced from Claude to Peter, up at the crystal chandelier, down at the rug. He petted his dog, started to smile, erased the smile and put on a look that used to carry menace but had now become an expression of gentle warning. 'You're right,' he said softly. 'Ya shouldn't ask.'
It was midnight. Tony and Bruno had taken out huge black cigars and the Florida room was wreathed in smoke. Joey and Sandra faced each other across the width of the sisal rug and struggled not to gag on the stink of tobacco and the taste of tape. Outside, the air was heavy, moist, the palm fronds barely scratched against each other. Good conditions, if they held, for Clem Sanders to make his dawn departure. If they didn't hold? Joey chased the thought from his head. He was out of chances. Either the emeralds appeared tomorrow or everything was over.
Tony yawned. It was a profound yawn that twisted his scarred lip until it was almost folded double.
A moment passed, then Bruno caught the contagion. He stretched like a grizzly bear and gave off a sound like some large thing mating in the jungle. 'Fuck I'm tired.'
'Take a nap,' said Tony. He was showing off, like he had better stamina. But then he yawned again.
'What about duh lovebirds heah?' Bruno gestured vaguely toward Joey and Sandra, and in the gesture it was terrifyingly clear that the captives had stopped being human in his eyes. They were freight, furniture, mute parcels that needed guarding and were keeping him awake.
'Duh lovebirds,' Tony echoed. He was getting slaphappy with fatigue, and the word tickled him. 'Duh lovebirds, fuck 'em, whyn't we just tie 'em up together inna sack. Good and tight. Pack 'em away, forget about it, you and me can take turns sleeping.'
Bruno took a puff of his cigar, then nodded agreement. He went to untie Sandra just long enough to move her into the bedroom and truss her up again. He got down on one knee like a grotesque troubadour and fiddled with the knots at her ankles. Then he muttered a curse, pulled a knife out of his sock, and cut the ropes. He did the same with the loops around her midriff, and the sight of his meaty hand against her body made Joey feel faint with rage.
For a moment Sandra sat as rigid as she'd been before she was unbound. Tony leaned over her and looked at her hard, the way a referee looks at a beaten fighter to see if there are any brain connections left, any sanity. 'Listen, lady,' he said, 'you want I should untape your mouth?'
Sandra was afraid to nod. She felt that anything she did would be the wrong thing, would lead to some horrendous and perverse response. She just sat.
Tony wagged a warning finger in her face. 'Any noise, any trouble, you're in deep shit, lady. You got that?'
He grabbed a corner of the duct tape and ripped it away. The skin around Sandra's mouth seemed to draw into itself like the foot of a probed clam. She licked her lips and felt a rough white residue of glue. 'I have to pee,' she said.
Tony followed her to the bathroom and guarded the door.
'And you, peckerhead,' Bruno said to Joey. 'You gonna be quiet, or do I gotta cut your fucking tongue out?'
Joey stayed still. It had worked for Sandra. Bruno grabbed the tape and yanked like he was starting a lawn mower. Joey's lips felt gone, his teeth felt suddenly as naked as those of a skeleton. Bruno stared at him with his
