floor, at the
ancient oily dust that stuck to the base of the refrigerator and
hung down like a filthy beard. "So live with it and stop
bitching."
Sandra undid her turban and draped the towel
over the back of a chair. "Joey, that's what I'm saying. I'm not
sure I can live with it down here. Down here I can't make excuses
for you. I can't say you were born into it, I can't say it's what
all your buddies do. Down here you got a choice, Joey, don'tcha see
that? And as far as I can tell, you're choosing the exact same
stuff you were doing in Queens."
"Oh yeah?" said Joey. He put his hands on
his hips and tried to muster a tone of righteous indignation. "And
just how sure are you about that?"
Sandra picked up the cutting board and
spilled off some gray water that had come out of the fish. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "How should I be sure? You don't
talk to me. And I'd love to be wrong, believe me. But Joey, how
does it look? Does it look like you're joining the Florida work
force? No, it looks like you're hanging around waiting to win the
lottery. And now you tell me you meet a guy from New York. He knows
your father.
We know what that means. It's just like the
old neighborhood—"
"But Sandra," Joey cut in, "you're missing
the whole point, which you woulda got if you let me talk insteada
jumping down my throat before I'm even inside the goddamn door. The
guy's from New York, yeah. And if you must know, he's family,
that's true. But the point is that even he says you can't run a New
York-style business down here, ya gotta go with the local style.
Now, coming from him, I believe it. I mean, the man is a
professional. So that's why I'm happy, Sandra. It's like a new
idea, like a light bulb lighting up. And I have this feeling that
this guy Bert and I are gonna do some things together."
"Legal things, Joey?"
Joey widened his dark blue eyes. "Now it's
gotta be legal? A minute ago it just had to be different from New
York. For Chrissake, Sandra, quit while you're ahead."
She looked at the fillets on the cutting
board. They were still oozing gray water and had taken on the
glazed translucence of someone's eyeballs when they have a cold.
"That fish looks lousy."
"Yeah, it does," said Joey. He approached it
as though it might be carrying a grave disease and gave it a
clinical poke with his index finger. "Feels all mushy." He sniffed
at his hand. "Doesn't smell terrific either. Could be like
spoiled."
He went to the sink and started washing up
with dish soap. He was fastidious about his hands, Joey was, aside
from being finicky about his food.
Sandra sighed and ran her fingers through
her short blond hair. "What's gonna be with you, Joey? Well, come
on, let's go out. I get paid tomorrow.
— 9 —
Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia did not look
terrific in his Bermuda shorts. Loose skin gathered around his
knobby knees as at the neck of a Chinese dog, and on his right
thigh, clearly visible through the sparse white hair, was the
scooped-out pink scar of an old gunshot wound. His dark nylon socks
ended three inches above his ankles, and the brown mesh shoes made
his feet look bigger than they really were. But the old mobster was
saved from dowdiness by the splendor of his blue silk shirt. It had
horn buttons and the shimmer of the tall sky just after sunset.
There was navy piping around the collar and a monogram on the chest
pocket.
"Boo," said Joey Goldman.
Bert looked up in no great hurry. He was
sitting at a poolside table at the Paradiso condominium, playing
solitaire under a steel umbrella. "Was a time," he said, "you
couldn'ta got the jump on me like that. Now? What the fuck. I'm
just an old guy playing cards."
"You got a watchdog," Joey said. Don
Giovanni, his wet nose twitching, cowered beneath the old man's
chair.
"Fucking dog isn't worth shit. But siddown,
Joey. I'm glad you came by."
The younger man pulled up a white
wrought-iron chair and eased himself into it. "Nice place." The
Paradiso had three pink towers
ancient oily dust that stuck to the base of the refrigerator and
hung down like a filthy beard. "So live with it and stop
bitching."
Sandra undid her turban and draped the towel
over the back of a chair. "Joey, that's what I'm saying. I'm not
sure I can live with it down here. Down here I can't make excuses
for you. I can't say you were born into it, I can't say it's what
all your buddies do. Down here you got a choice, Joey, don'tcha see
that? And as far as I can tell, you're choosing the exact same
stuff you were doing in Queens."
"Oh yeah?" said Joey. He put his hands on
his hips and tried to muster a tone of righteous indignation. "And
just how sure are you about that?"
Sandra picked up the cutting board and
spilled off some gray water that had come out of the fish. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "How should I be sure? You don't
talk to me. And I'd love to be wrong, believe me. But Joey, how
does it look? Does it look like you're joining the Florida work
force? No, it looks like you're hanging around waiting to win the
lottery. And now you tell me you meet a guy from New York. He knows
your father.
We know what that means. It's just like the
old neighborhood—"
"But Sandra," Joey cut in, "you're missing
the whole point, which you woulda got if you let me talk insteada
jumping down my throat before I'm even inside the goddamn door. The
guy's from New York, yeah. And if you must know, he's family,
that's true. But the point is that even he says you can't run a New
York-style business down here, ya gotta go with the local style.
Now, coming from him, I believe it. I mean, the man is a
professional. So that's why I'm happy, Sandra. It's like a new
idea, like a light bulb lighting up. And I have this feeling that
this guy Bert and I are gonna do some things together."
"Legal things, Joey?"
Joey widened his dark blue eyes. "Now it's
gotta be legal? A minute ago it just had to be different from New
York. For Chrissake, Sandra, quit while you're ahead."
She looked at the fillets on the cutting
board. They were still oozing gray water and had taken on the
glazed translucence of someone's eyeballs when they have a cold.
"That fish looks lousy."
"Yeah, it does," said Joey. He approached it
as though it might be carrying a grave disease and gave it a
clinical poke with his index finger. "Feels all mushy." He sniffed
at his hand. "Doesn't smell terrific either. Could be like
spoiled."
He went to the sink and started washing up
with dish soap. He was fastidious about his hands, Joey was, aside
from being finicky about his food.
Sandra sighed and ran her fingers through
her short blond hair. "What's gonna be with you, Joey? Well, come
on, let's go out. I get paid tomorrow.
— 9 —
Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia did not look
terrific in his Bermuda shorts. Loose skin gathered around his
knobby knees as at the neck of a Chinese dog, and on his right
thigh, clearly visible through the sparse white hair, was the
scooped-out pink scar of an old gunshot wound. His dark nylon socks
ended three inches above his ankles, and the brown mesh shoes made
his feet look bigger than they really were. But the old mobster was
saved from dowdiness by the splendor of his blue silk shirt. It had
horn buttons and the shimmer of the tall sky just after sunset.
There was navy piping around the collar and a monogram on the chest
pocket.
"Boo," said Joey Goldman.
Bert looked up in no great hurry. He was
sitting at a poolside table at the Paradiso condominium, playing
solitaire under a steel umbrella. "Was a time," he said, "you
couldn'ta got the jump on me like that. Now? What the fuck. I'm
just an old guy playing cards."
"You got a watchdog," Joey said. Don
Giovanni, his wet nose twitching, cowered beneath the old man's
chair.
"Fucking dog isn't worth shit. But siddown,
Joey. I'm glad you came by."
The younger man pulled up a white
wrought-iron chair and eased himself into it. "Nice place." The
Paradiso had three pink towers
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