The announcement was met with polite nods but a nearly complete lack of enthusiasm. Fat Lou didn’t seem to mind. He went back to his cooling plate of food. The red sauce had soaked into the biscotti, giving them a spongy, squishy texture. He squeezed the juice out of them out with his tongue against the roof of his mouth then burped demurely into his fist.
“I can see from your blank expressions,” he went on, “that you tits don’t have enough imagination to see the full beauty of this idea. You think we’re gettin’ into the boat-ride business. Well, we’ll make some money on the boat ride, sure. And on the marks we bring to the casinos too. But that’s the least of it. Think about it, fellas. It’s mainly a huge smuggling operation. In both directions. In broad daylight. With a big beautiful boat full of suckers paying gas money. All we do, we pay off a few guys at either end, and we operate open as FedEx. What do we smuggle in? Anything! These people got nothin’. There’s black markets for everything. Meat, batteries, Kotex, you name it. Smuggling out? You’re thinkin’ cigars and rum, right? Nah, that’s old hat, nickel-dime. I’m talkin’ art, refugees, baseball players. You have any idea how much one stinkin’ shortstop goes for? We’ll make a freakin’ fortune.”
At that, unconsciously, the men around the table all picked up their napkins and wiped their watering mouths.
The boss gripped the edge of the table with his fat hands and continued. “There’s just one problem and it’s screwin’ everything up. We don’t have space for a terminal in Key West. The cruise lines, the Coast Guard, they got the rights to mosta the docks all sewn up. There’s a city dock that’s leased out for five, six more years. Ya know what’s gonna happen over the course of five, six years? Some legit operation’s gonna open up, and that’s the end of our opportunity. So we need that dock space sooner. A lot sooner. We got a local partner. Very successful guy, very powerful. Name’s Clifton. Ted Clifton. Owns the little tourist train they got down there. Southernmost Choo-Choo. Owns a buncha other things too. Well-connected. He thinks he can make it happen. But he needs help. Like, persuading kind of help. Could get messy. Could get nasty.”
He paused, burped, and panned his baggy-eyed gaze around the table. “S’okay, who wants to go?”
7
Armed with Pat’s oversized racquet and wearing a pair of shorts close enough to unisex to pass muster in Key West, Lenny walked the three shady blocks to Bayview Park, where Samantha Evans, though no one ever called her that, had been the pro for many years.
It was a City gig, and a pretty good one. Sam gave lessons, strung racquets and sold balls from her very compact pro shop that was basically a shed. In exchange for the concession, it was her responsibility to keep the peace on the five-court complex and to enforce the usual codes of behavior including bans on smoking, drinking, screaming, heckling, using foul language, wearing inappropriate attire, and playing more than one set when others were waiting.
These were basic commonsense rules but the notion of enforcing them in Key West was, of course, a joke. People smoked cigarettes and reefer in the bleachers and brought beers out onto the court in koozies. Large tourist women played in bikinis, breasts jiggling like underdone poached eggs. Local kibitzers set up lawn chairs just outside the fence and loudly predicted double-faults at key junctures. Strategies for court-hogging were almost an art.
Mostly, Sam just shrugged off the daily violations. This wasn’t Wimbledon, after all. People played shirtless, dropped f-bombs when they missed a shot, now and then chucked racquets. So what? On the rare occasions when things threatened to get really out of hand, Sam would walk over and restore order without ever raising her voice. She had that aura of quiet authority; she could simply ask people to be nice, play fair, and they almost always would. Partly, this authority seemed to come from her hat, a long-billed sun-protection job with a flap that hung down the back of her neck. There was something French Foreign Legion-ish about the hat, and it gave her the aspect of a long-enduring commander whose orders could not be questioned.
She was giving a lesson when Lenny walked up, so he stood just outside the court to watch. Sam waved, sang out a warm but brief hello, then turned her attention back to her paying customer.
The customer was tall, chesty, young, had too much make-up on, and looked like she had never before held a racquet in her life. Her sneakers looked brand new, the laces gleaming like tinsel in the sunshine. Her tennis dress still had the pucker from where that theft-proofing thingie had been cinched on. She didn’t know where to stand. She didn’t know the difference between a forehand and a backhand. Sam gently hit balls toward her and sometimes she whiffed altogether. Sometimes she hit grounders and sometimes she hit pop-ups. But what mostly struck Lenny about the woman was that she appeared undaunted and unembarrassed and seemed to be having a blast. She’d miss a shot and laugh. She’d arc one over the fence clear onto U.S. 1 and laugh again. Her laugh was distinctive and sparkling, starting with a faint pop that blossomed into something less staccato than a hoot, more delicate than a roar. It was impossible not to smile along.
When the lesson was over, the young woman took her brand new wristband off and said to Sam, “Oh my God, that was so much fun!”
Sam adjusted the bill of her Foreign Legion cap and said, “Yup, that’s what it’s supposed to be.”
Almost skipping in her delight, the woman walked toward a bench where she’d left a big pink purse with black patent leather straps. This brought her close to where Lenny was standing, and bubbling over with enthusiasm, she gave him a quick smile that welcomed him into her monologue as she went on. “Me taking tennis lessons. That’s a kick, right? But what took me so long? Actually, I know what took me so long. My mother. She tried to get me to do it. Years ago. Back in Queens. Try tennis, she’d say. You’ll meet a better classa people. That kinda rubbed me wrong. I’d say, better’n who? Better’n what? So of course I didn’t do it. Didn’t practice piano either. Who was I spiting? Myself. As usual.”
She hoisted the big pink purse onto her shoulder. Her eye make-up and dark lipstick were still in place after her workout and her long red fingernails seemed undamaged by their clench around the racquet. She said to Sam, “I just can’t wait to do this again. Can we do it again tomorrow?”
Sam said, “Well, I’ll have to check my book. How long are you in town for?”
At that, the young woman didn’t exactly get cagey but her joyous and blithe enthusiasm seemed to dim just a little bit. “Not really sure. Sort of depends on my boyfriend. We’re sort of playing things by ear right now.”
“Ah,” said Sam, who’d been in Key West long enough to know that a lot of people played a lot of things by ear and didn’t always show up for lessons they’d booked. “Well, come into the shop a minute, we’ll see what we can schedule.”
Considerately, the young woman said to Lenny, “Hope I’m not cutting into your lesson time.”
“Me? No, I’m just hanging out. Sam and me, we’re old friends.”
“You play together? You must be really good.”
“No, I’m really average.”
“Average would be a huge improvement. Well, gotta go. What’s your name?”
“Lenny.”
“I’m Carla. Hope to see you around the courts. That’s what tennis players say, right?”
She turned and followed Sam toward the little pro shop.
“Christ, Peps,” said Carmine, “why’dya have to volunteer us?”
They were sitting in a quiet bar on Broome Street, drinking Fernet-Branca, a miracle cure for indigestion and what they almost always drank after choking down a meal with Fat Lou.
“Why?” said Peppers. “How many reasons ya need? First of all, it’s fuckin’ winter here, in case you haven’t noticed. Second, how often do we get an opportunity like this, a chance to get in on somethin’ that might break big? Who knows, we get in good with this local guy, the Choo-Choo guy, maybe we got a future down in Florida.”
“I hate F
lorida,” Carmine groused.
“You hate Florida? You ever even been to Florida?”
“No I haven’t. Why would I go? I hate it. Always onna news it’s alligators, sinkholes, hurricanes, old Jews gettin’ the wrong leg cut off in hospitals. Who needs that shit?”
Peppers fired down some Fernet, ran a hand through his hair until he realized he was in danger of mussing up the part that hid his bald spot. “Okay, you never been there ‘cause you hate it. Very logical. Which brings me to the third reason I volunteered us to go down there. I volunteered us ‘cause I’m hoping that a change of scenery might get you off this royal rag you’re on and you’ll stop being so knee-jerk grouchy negative about everything.”
“Who’s negative? I just got shit on my mind.”
“Right. So what I’m sayin’ is give it a rest. Let’s go somewhere else, do something else, and maybe you’ll stop bein’ so goddamn grumpy.”
Carmine finished off his digestivo, which really wasn’t sitting that well on top of the scungilli, and gestured for another. “There’s only one thing that’s gonna make me stop bein’ grumpy,” he said, “and that’s gonna be when this little douchebag comedian gets outta rehab so I can track him down and kill him. Until then, well, tough titty, I guess I’m gonna be a little grumpy.”
“But how long?” said his buddy. “How long’s he gonna be away? You don’t know. You can’t control it. Why make yourself miserable inna meantime?”
“I’m not miserable,” the big man insisted. Neither of them believed it.
“Look, I’ll cut you a deal,” said Peppers. “We go to Florida. We get this ferry business done. You try at least to let go of this other bullshit. I’m guessing you will. In fact, I’m guessing you’ll thank me for helping you get over this broad and sparing you the trouble of icing the comedian. But if it doesn’t go that way, if you still feel like you need to whack the guy, I’ll help you.”
Rather sulkily, Carmine said, “Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay, it’s a deal.”
8
While his new girlfriend was off taking a tennis lesson, Ricky Reed paced around their waterfront hotel room at the Harbor Inn and pondered the pickle he was in. Shacked up with a woman he liked a lot but had barely yet had time to get to know, and who had a former boyfriend whose picture you would see if you looked up sore loser in the dictionary. Not that anyone liked to have their girlfriend dump them and make it clear that they preferred another guy. But Carla’s ex had taken his umbrage to maniacal extremes.
It had become clear early on that the failed Romeo was having her tailed. The surveillance soon discovered the midtown high-rise where Ricky lived. Then the stake-outs and the death threats had started. When a dead and stinking fish was dropped off with the doorman, Ricky decided this was no joke and that it would be best to get the hell out of town. He’d slipped out through a service alley, concocted the rehab story with the help of his agent, arranged for Carla to meet him at a car rental office in Weehawken, and headed south.
So here he was in Key West, pacing short laps between the bed and the chaise, looking out the window at boats bobbing in green water. It was actually pretty nice, except that he was running scared, hiding out. This was the exact opposite of what actors and comedians were supposed to do. They appeared. As in Now appearing…But he was now disappearing. So everything—his life, career, reputation—was suddenly on hold. No doubt he’d disappointed lots of people who’d been working with him. Maybe he was missing his one and only chance to be a TV star. The lead role on Groomer would have been the perfect vehicle for him, assuming he could stay alive long enough to play the part. Instead, he was a fugitive.
This struck him as particularly unfair because, as far as he could remember at least, he hadn’t gone out of his way to steal Carmine da Silva’s girlfriend. She’d stolen herself. She’d made the first move. At least that’s how Ricky remembered it. True, he didn’t remember it that clearly.
He recalled that it started at a fancy club uptown, The Neapolitan, where they did cabaret, torch songs mostly, lots of comic patter thrown in between numbers to let the piano player rest his fingers. Ricky was at the bar with a couple of buddies. He’d had some pills and some vodka, then some different pills and some cognac, and his vision was a little glary and rounded at the edges, his hearing had a silvery sort of sheen to it. There’d be dues to pay for the high, there always were, but in the meantime he felt great and, comedy-wise, he was in that sweet zone where his mind was moving quicker than time itself, which meant that he could somehow anticipate what the next laugh line would be and the precise instant it would fall, and he could manage seamlessly to shim a wisecrack of his own into the cadence. He did this in an undertone mostly intended to be heard by the pals around him. He took the emcee’s tepid witticisms and put a sharp edge on them. He improvised parodies of the song lyrics being sung. He was on a roll. Basically, he was just keeping himself amused.
But fate is fate, and it so happened that there was a table for eight set up within earshot of him. Four men, four women. They were drinking bottle after bottle of Cristal but they didn’t seem to be having a whole lot of fun and they didn’t quite seem to agree on what they were there for. Sometimes, like if the song was Over the Rainbow, it seemed like the women wanted to listen to the music but the men, elbows splayed wide, heads held low, were leaning across them deep in raspy conversation. Other times, like for instance if it was My Way, it seemed like the men wanted to hear the song but one of the women was in the middle of a story. So no one ended up really hearing much of anything.
They didn’t laugh much at the patter either. Maybe the group just didn’t think the stuff was funny, or maybe it was that the men thought it was undignified, a violation of their gravity, to drop their guard and get too cracked up in public, and maybe the women picked up a cue that if the men weren’t laughing, they shouldn’t laugh too damn much either. In any case, the eight of them just sat there drinking champagne and looking, at most, mildly amused or at least pleased with themselves for getting a good table at a fancy club.
Or seven of them sat that way. The one who didn’t was tall and pretty and had originally been positioned so that her back was mostly to Ricky but she could sort of see him if she twisted to look over her left shoulder. She hadn’t even noticed him when she’d first sat down, but as the evening went on she couldn’t help overhearing his asides, his running commentary on the show, his quips. Humor just seemed to spurt out of him like a jet of water from a stony hillside, and the refreshment of it made the dry and plodding chitchat at her table seem even duller. By slow degrees, hoping that the movement would not be noticed, she pivoted just slightly in her chair, showing Ricky more of her profile, making the ear that was facing him the one that she was listening with.
Her companions at the table didn’t seem to notice the attention-shift, but Ricky did. For him, it wasn’t even a conscious noticing, just an entertainer’s instinct to find what was working, find who it was working for, and play in that direction. So without exactly deciding to, he started, still in an undertone, playing to the tall woman with the big eyes and black hair. He sensed what she smiled at and what she didn’t. On the fly, he was tailoring a routine to her reactions. Thing is, he wasn’t flirting, he was riffing. At some point it became a lot like flirting, but that just sort of happened. It had never been the plan.
After a while the tall woman excused herself and got up to go to the ladies’ room. Her path took her right past Ricky’s barstool but she didn’t linger for a schmooze. She understood her situation. She was the mistress of a very jealous guy who was not above making scenes at clubs. She wasn’t supposed to talk to other men, she wasn’t supposed to return their glances, and she knew that if she did, there would be trouble. So she just barely slackened her pace as she moved past Ricky and she said hardly above a whisper, “You’re funny.”
Ahead of the beat, quick as thought, he answered, “And you’re beautiful. Wanna make so
mething of it?” It wasn’t a pickup line; well, it was, of course it was, though he didn’t intend it that way at the time. It was just a comeback, a reflex, a morsel of improvisation.
She kept walking. He thought that was the end of it.
He couldn’t know that, in the ladies’ room, after she’d refreshed her makeup, Carla had taken a long look at herself. She was twenty-eight, which was almost twenty-nine, which was practically thirty, and she had a boyfriend who was clearly some kind of criminal, though she didn’t know the details and didn’t want to know them. Was this really what she wanted from her life? She was plenty smart enough to know there was no future in it. But forget the future. Was there even a present? True, there were some good times, nice places, nice things she couldn’t have afforded on the wages she earned from her shifts at a cosmetics counter at Bloomingdale’s. But there was also lots of boredom, lots of feeling like she was just tagging along on someone else’s idea of what fun was, lots of feeling used. She was settling for too little and at honest moments she knew it. Standing there in front of the ladies’ room mirror, shooting herself an I-dare-you kind of glance, she came to a bold and dangerous decision. She opened her purse, found a scrap of paper and an eyebrow pencil, then leaned down across the damp counter and wrote out her phone number.
She didn’t look at Ricky when she sidled past him at the bar and slipped the paper into his hand. The contact between them was so quick and so light that he wasn’t even sure if her fingertips had grazed his palm. He squeezed the unexpected and unread message and watched only casually as the tall woman reached her table, waited a futile moment for her date to pull her chair out for her, then pulled it out herself and resumed her seat among the group that wasn’t laughing.
One Big Joke Page 4
