Read Online Florida Straits by SKLA - Free Book Online Page A

that bristled with balconies and
framed a big pool and a pair of tennis courts; the Atlantic Ocean
was across the street. Through Joey's tinted lenses, the water was
a milky green not much darker than the color of celery.
    "It's not too bad," Bert said. "They don't
have bocce, that's the only thing."
    "Well," said Joey, and he left it at that.
The old man turned up an ace, waved it in the air, and kissed it.
"Bert, I was thinking about what you said the other day."
    Bert cocked his head but said nothing. He
was at the age when things he'd said forty years before left a more
reliable track than things he said five minutes ago. Fortunately,
he'd developed the knack of looking sage while waiting to be
reminded what he'd been so wise about.
    "Ya know," Joey went on, "about how ya gotta
come up with, like, a Florida caper, something that makes sense for
where we're at."
    "Not where we're at. Where you're at." The
Shirt put a black seven on a red eight.
    "Whatever," Joey said. "Anyway, it makes a
lotta sense. Except. . . except. Except, Bert, I can't for the life
a me figure out what the angle oughta be. The last two nights, I
couldn't sleep. I got outta bed and went outside. It's like three
inna morning, and I'm sitting under a palm tree like a fucking
lunatic, telling myself, Think Florida, think Florida . But I
just come up with stupid fucking things. Suntan lotion. Baby
alligators. This kid I knew in like second grade—he had a pencil
sharpener that looked like an orange. Said Florida on it. So how
the fuck am I supposed to make a living off of baby alligators and
stupid-ass souvenirs? Bert, I'll be honest with ya. I'm balancing
neatly onna ballsa my ass down here. I ain't made a nickel. My
girlfriend's getting fed up and I can't say I blame 'er. I gotta
get something started or I'm in deep shit."
    Bert reached out and placed a cool hand on
top of the younger man's. "Joey," he said. "Joey. Listen to
yourself. You're saying, Think Florida , but listen how
nervous you sound, how wound up. That's not Florida. That's not
tropical. To be that worried, that's still New York."
    "O.K., Bert, I know it is. But what can I
say. I am that worried. I ain't slept. Coupla days ago I hadda pay
the February rent. I reach into the drawer to get the cash, I count
up what I got, and I say, Where the fuck is my money going? It's
not like I'm being a big shot. It just goes." He yanked off his
sunglasses and showed Bert his eyes. They were owlish to begin
with, because he left his shades on when he sat in the sun. But now
the pale circles had turned a nubbly yellow, and the bloodshot
whites made his deep blue irises look almost grapy.
    "Awright, Joey, you're under some strain. I
can see that. So let's go back to basics. Look over that way, past
the gates. Whaddya see?"
    Joey put his sunglasses on again, twisted
himself in his chair, and peered past the pool, the tennis courts,
the hibiscus hedge. "A road."
    "Then what?"
    "The beach."
    "Then what?"
    "Water," he said. "I see water."
    "Good, Joey. Now doesn't that make you feel
calm, all that nice cool green water? Doesn't it calm you
down?"
    "The truth, Bert? Fuck no. Not at all. I'm
like itchy all over. What would make me feel calm is if I knew what
the hell I was doing down here, if I thought I was heading for a
payday."
    "Kid," said Bert, with the sad patience of a
junior high school teacher. "You're not paying attention. This is
what I'm telling you. A payday would make you calm, maybe you
oughta look to the water for a payday. That's where the money comes
from down here. Always has. Always will."
    Joey stared off at the shallow green ocean,
but the ocean didn't talk to him. He pulled at his chin, he
squirmed in his seat. Bert kept playing solitaire.
    "Look what passes for old money down here,"
the retired gangster continued. "The Bergens. The Clevelands.
You've hearda those families, right? How you think they got rich?
They were pirates. Yeah. Legal pirates. There's a reef around five
miles out