like a rumble underground. 'Every time we could get away, ya know, to someplace peaceful. Every time I held her in my arms. But Joey, I couldn't do it. I couldn't.'
'I know you couldn't, Pop,' said Joey Goldman. He reached out and put a hand on his father's. From inside the bungalow, he faintly heard the whoosh and plunk of Sandra getting out of the bathtub. She was so neat, Sandra was, so precise. By now she'd have a towel tucked under her arms, she'd be wiping the steam off the mirror to brush her hair. 'I'm glad you thought of it at least, Pop, I really am. I'm glad you were, like, romantic.'
— Epilogue -
Charlie Ponte's emeralds were appraised at three million two hundred and ten thousand dollars. But Joey was mistaken in imagining that his one-third share, discreetly registered under the name Zack Davidson, would break out at seven figures. In his newfound enthusiasm for all things legitimate, he'd overlooked the one great disincentive to doing things the lawful way: taxes. The disbursed funds were just under eight hundred thousand per partner.
Charlie Ponte took this graciously. He could afford to. The Colombians seemed mainly amused that he'd gotten his stones heisted; they seemed, as well, reassured at the disorganized state of the Italian-American mafia. They added three million dollars' worth of free cocaine to Ponte's next shipment and told him not to lose it.
Zack himself, ever the gentleman, insisted on giving up a proportionate fraction of the quarter-million Joey had promised him.
Joey brought home something shy of six hundred thousand, and tried without success to give part of it away. Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia would not accept a penny beyond Gino's repayment of his ten-thousand dollar loan. 'But Bert,' Joey had argued, 'nunna this coulda happened without you. It was you that started me thinkin' about a scam that fits the climate. You helped with-'
The old man had stopped him with a wave of his elegant, long-fingered hand. 'Joey, I got what I need.' Then he paused. 'You wanna do something for me?'
'Yeah, Bert. This is what I'm saying.'
'Here's what you can do.' He held Don Giovanni in his palm and lifted the tiny animal toward Joey's face. 'The fucking dog, if I die again, I mean for good this time, promise me you'll take care a the dog. It's like a curse from my wife, I'm passing it along.'
Vincente Delgatto gave an admiring chortle when Joey confessed to him how he'd finagled a third of the treasure, but he also declined to share in his younger son's windfall. 'No, Joey,' he'd said, his profound voice thinned out by the wires of the pay phone a discreet distance from his social club. 'From Gino I'd take because to Gino I've given. But from you, no, I'd be ashamed.'
The Don, however, did accept a first-class round trip ticket to Key West to attend Joey and Sandra's wedding. He was accompanied by best man Sal Giordano, to whom Joey had also sent the finest pair of sunglasses he could find. Gino Delgatto was invited but did not attend. Perhaps he did not want to chance being spotted at the reception at the Flagler House, where he-or rather, Dr. Greenbaum-still owed a tab of nearly eleven thousand dollars.
Joey and Sandra were married in a civil ceremony on a blisteringly hot day in the middle of June. Outside the courthouse, the palm trees rustled dryly, sounding like a broom on a sidewalk; smells of jasmine and iodine wafted through the dusty air. The bride wore a cream-colored skirt and a matching blouse with shoulders built in. She'd tried to get tan for her wedding day, but had managed mostly to turn her short hair nearly white. She flushed a becoming pink during the ceremony; her green eyes moistened and shimmered like the calm and prosperous ocean.
Bride and groom held hands as the vows were pronounced, and Joey Goldman made no attempt to choke down the lump in his throat. He took in the grand words pronounced in a somewhat hurried monotone by the judge, and in his own mind he distilled them down to an essence from which he took enormous comfort: 'To make, ya know, a life together. Do stuff, look out for each other. It's, like, serious.'
Suddenly awash both in romance and funds, Joey had suggested a lavish honeymoon, perhaps in Rio, but Sandra, practical and steady, had argued for postponement. There was, for now, too much to be decided. Joey and Zack had agreed in principle to become partners in business; they had not, however, figured out what kind of business it should be. In the meantime they were keeping their jobs at Parrot Beach, conferring as often as time allowed while leaning on the Plexiglas that covered the pristine and silent model of the perfect life in Florida, the Saran Wrap swimming pool and the tiny people on lounges. Sandra was still working at the bank, but had cut back on her hours so she could begin to shop for a house. She wanted something small, unpretentious, easy to keep clean; Joey lobbied for something grander, hidden behind hedges and banks of bougainvillea, and of course with a pool.
They looked at many places, and after looking they would sit in the old Caddy with the smashed windshield and come up with all sorts of reasons not to buy. The truth was they were looking for excuses not to move just yet. They had come to feel an odd affection for the mismatched furnishings and thrown together people of the compound. It had been, after all, their first nest in their new life, and the more they thought about it, and the more they understood they would in fact be moving on, the more it seemed to them that they'd been very happy there.
