'Mr. Ponte,' Joey blurted, 'wait a-'
By now Bruno had blustered into the bedroom. His boss had caught him napping and Bruno wanted to make amends by being extra ugly. 'Can it, mouth,' he said. He reached for Joey and held him by the throat while the other two finished unbinding him.
'But-' Joey squeezed out. Bruno backhanded him across the cheek.
The thugs yanked Sandra and Joey to their feet and pushed them out of the crowded bedroom. There was no air left in their bungalow, it was all dark suits that swallowed the light, black shoes that freighted the earth so it seemed to tip. 'Lemme take a piss at least,' Joey said as he was being bundled through the kitchen.
'Piss off duh backa duh boat,' one of the goons advised him.
'What boat?' Joey was looking down at the black and white linoleum squares, they swam at his feet and made him dizzy. He spotted his sunglasses on the kitchen table and just managed to grab them as he was being swept along.
'What boat?' mimicked Charlie Ponte. Joey's bafflement amused him and he spat out a derisive laugh. 'Asshole.'
The goons obediently cackled along with their boss as they herded their captives out through the sliding door and into the compound. The morning was dead still, a pillow of mist sat on the flat water of the hot tub. The sky was halfway bright but even through shades it had no color, and Joey, who had little experience with dawns, guessed that the sun had been up for maybe fifteen minutes, half an hour. He wished he could stop being so confused and wished he could walk closer to Sandra, could push aside the two thugs who loomed between them as they crunched along the gravel path.
Bruno and Tony's dark blue Lincoln was parked between some garbage cans around the corner. There was no other car.
One of the new goons opened a back door and stuffed Sandra and Joey through it. He climbed in after them, his colleague sandwiching the captives from the other side. Bruno got in the driver's seat, Tony squeezed in the middle, and Charlie Ponte rode shotgun.
'Where are you taking us?' Sandra asked.
Bruno pulled away from the curb.
Ponte didn't bother to turn around. He didn't see the point of talking to hostages. But he was in high spirits and he did like talking to his boys, liked to show them how smart he was. 'Broad wants to know where we're takin' 'er. Kid wants to know what boat.' He shook his head. 'Ya know what's wrong with this fuckin' country? People are stupid, they can't figure nothin' out. Fuck she think we're takin' 'er? To the emeralds, honey! Inna boat we come down from Miami in. Guy tells us the stones are inna water. Fuck's he think-we're gonna fetch 'em with a Lincoln?'
The goons laughed.
'But Mr. Ponte-'
'But Mr. Ponte,' mimicked the Miami Boss. 'Asshole's a broken record with this Mr. Ponte shit. Smack 'im for me, will ya.' One of the backseat thugs obliged, but be couldn't get much leverage in the packed car and the blow did nothing more than make Joey's sunglasses rattle on his nose. 'And tell 'im he ain't heah to talk, he's heah to bring us to the stones.' Ponte paused as the Lincoln slunk through the narrow empty streets. 'And if he don't bring us to the stones, he better not waste his fucking breath yammering, 'cause he's gonna have a long swim home.'
— 46 -
The cigarette boat was cobalt blue and shaped like a shark. It sat perfectly still in the celery-green water at the end of the Flagler House dock. Two guys had stayed on board. Divers. They had stubble beards, crinkled eyes, and wore wetsuit tops unzipped to the solar plexus. One of them reached up to help Sandra into the open cockpit. The other started the twin engines; they fired into life with a roar that shook the ocean. Joey was pushed into the boat, then he was pushed up against a gunwale as Ponte's goons piled in behind him. He just had time for one quick look at the sleeping hotel, early light throwing triangle shadows across its balconies. Then the cigarette spun seaward. In three seconds the hull was up on plane, shushing over the slashed water of the Florida Straits with a sound like a million skis on icy snow.
Charlie Ponte crab-walked across the tilted cockpit and screamed in Joey's face: 'So, asshole, where we goin'?'
White-knuckled, Joey squeezed the gunwale and willed his brain to think of something clever. Through the wildly vibrating air he glanced back at Sandra; she was pressed between two goons on a little wraparound settee at the stem, and her eyes did not look good, they looked forlorn as candles whose wicks had gotten buried in wax. Joey was still stalling even as he watched Charlie Ponte's small neat fist coming toward his chin, and the instant before the blow was one of stunning clarity in which Joey realized there was no lie that would save him and the truth probably wouldn't help much either.
Now, what the hell, he was ready to talk, but his mouth wasn't quite right after getting hit, and all that came out was a mumble.
'What, asshole?'
'Like twelve miles up,' he shouted. 'There's a piece a land shaped like a lamb chop bone. Then it's about five miles out from there. But listen-'
Charlie Ponte didn't want to listen. He had what he needed, and he turned his back on Joey. He shot a look at the guy at the wheel. The guy nodded. Then Ponte smiled. It was a big smile of genuine contentment. Finally he was winning, and winning was what he liked.
Joey leaned back against the gunwale and watched Key West whiz by. Smathers Beach and the open U of the Paradiso condo. The airport with its faceted weather bubble like the eye of a bug. Cow Key Channel, and beyond it, the gross pyramid of Mount Trashmore. Joey gave a bitter silent laugh. Gahbidge, he said to himself. Nice try at a life, kid, but it's all coming down to gahbidge.
He turned around and looked out at the blank green water of the Straits. Here and there it was blotched purple with coral heads or under the ragged shadows of the few small clouds. Joey scanned the horizon, wondering if he'd be able to spot Clem Sanders's salvage boat, wondering if Clem Sanders had even made it out there. He took big gulps of salt air, and each breath carried a different mix of fear and acceptance. He'd had his plan, his plan had been short-circuited, and now what happened would happen. Like Bert said, who could argue with that?
The boat roared on. Sometimes its noise was a featureless rumble; then at moments its engines would sync a certain way and there'd be piston beats like drumrolls. The sun was flame white by now and they slammed straight toward it. Tiny pellets of spray screamed past the boat and pebbled Joey's glasses. Up ahead, maybe half a mile landward, was the promontory that led into the channel for the Sand Key Marina. A low line of mangrove arced around like a rib. The boat driver pointed to it, Joey nodded, and the cigarette banked steeply and headed south.
Joey searched the horizon. But his shades were bouncing on his nose, his eyeballs were rattling in their sockets, and he couldn't see much of anything.
The driver abruptly cut back on the engines.
The deafening noise softened to a rhythmically popping clatter, the spray stopped slicing past. Then the water caved in like a disappointed dream and the blue boat came off of plane and settled down heavy and dead. The driver pointed past the bow. 'We got company out there, Mr. Ponte.'
Ponte moved his mouth but no sound came out.
The driver reached into a small compartment underneath the steering wheel and produced a pair of binoculars. ' 'Bout two miles off,' he said. 'Could be a shrimper, but I don't think so. Looks to be anchored.'
'Gimme the fucking glasses,' Charlie Ponte said. He pressed them to his eyes and Joey could see his hands were trembling. Unconsciously, his thugs moved closer around the Boss, as if they could somehow all see through the binoculars at once. With the boat stopped, the morning sun was brutal, and everybody started to sweat. 'What you know about this, kid?'
Joey took an instant to look at Sandra. His expression was wry, flat, and fatal, the same expression he'd worn
