One Big Joke

by Laurence Shames

  Even at the Mafia table, there were some chuckles. Bert gave forth a spasmodic giggle that woke up his dog. Peppers was overtaken by a percussive snort that made him have to blow his nose. Carmine momentarily forgot his stance of stubborn grumpiness and felt a chortle laboring to rise from deep down in his chest, but just then he heard, buried somewhere in the general chorus of laughter, a laugh that was different from all the others and reminded him of one he used to know. It was a laugh like a bell, like the sound of the little triangle that people play in marching bands and whose small bright sound somehow slices through the noise of all the bigger, louder instruments. Carmine knew he wasn’t really hearing it. It wasn’t possible. It was his imagination, his disappointment mocking him. The laugh lingered in his ears and for a moment he wondered if he was going nuts. His own half-formed laugh died with a metallic taste at the back of his throat.

  A few minutes later, when the comedian had finished his act and walked off the bare stage, Carmine finally gave in to the humiliating impulse to swivel around and look in the direction from which the imagined and painful and impossible laugh had come. There was no one sitting there at all.

  21

  Outside, Ricky had bounded down the gangplank, raced up the dock ramp, and sprinted a block and a half along Roosevelt Boulevard before Carla and Lenny could catch up with him. They found him half bent over with his hands on his knees as he labored to regain his breath. His face was damp and shiny with exertion; his toupee was askew and his thin moustache had come unstuck at one corner. For a moment he said nothing, just wheezed, then he straightened up, wheeled toward Lenny, and with a fury that now stood in for fear, he said, “I got just one question for you. Why the fuck did you set me up?”

  Lenny said, “What?”

  “You heard me. You set me up, didn’t you? Told him I was in Key West. Led me right into the trap.”

  “Are you crazy, Ricky? Are you demented? Why the hell would I do that?”

  “You’re mad at me. You’re mad I didn’t stick around to do your stupid show.”

  “I’m not mad,” Lenny lied. “No, okay, let’s be honest, of course I’m mad you didn’t stick around to do my stupid show. That stupid show was my future. But I’m not mad to the point of wanting to get you killed. That’s just ridiculous.”

  Ricky looked down at the hard and cheap black shoe that was part of his disguise. His foot was tapping against the sidewalk and he couldn’t seem to make it stop. The three of them were standing near a streetlamp at the corner of Eisenhower Boulevard. The streetlamp threw a cone of purplish light in which the plaid pattern of his jacket looked like a schematic drawing of a subway system and the reddish strands of Carla’s wig glowed like the coils in a toaster.

  “Well, if you didn’t set me up,” said Ricky, “then why the hell’s he here?”

  “An excellent question,” Lenny said. “I have no idea. But let me ask you one now. I know you’re an actor and all, but did it ever occur to you, even for a second, that maybe it isn’t about you? That there are other reasons in the universe for why stuff happens?”

  Ricky didn’t answer that, just looked down at the foot that continued tapping all on its own.

  “Or that maybe you should think twice about making crazy accusations against people who are on your side? Or that maybe you just need to pop a couple Xanax, chill the fuck out, and apologize?”

  Before he could respond, Carla said, “Too late on the Xanax. I flushed it.”

  “You what?”

  “Okay, maybe it was a little optimistic, a little premature. Sorry. I thought things were calming down.”

  

  Inside Titters, it was break time. The makeshift stage went briefly dark, people shuffled off to the restrooms or the bar, and Bert the Shirt, in his endlessly patient and quietly relentless way, resumed his nosey quest for information.

  “So anyways,” he was saying, “if this is just a courtesy call or sentimental journey that Fat Lou asked you to pay on an old and trusted friend, then I’m honored by the gesture and glad to have your company, but if there’s more of a tactical or let’s say strategic item on youse’s agenda, like for instance my helping in some liaison capacity between your usual stompin’ ground and the very different turf on which you currently find yourselves, then it would be helpful that I have a little more insight into what it is youse are hoping to accomplish and how I can help prevent the embarrassing spectacle of you falling on your asses while you’re tryin’ to do it, which, let’s face it, is something that can happen all too easily and sometimes wit’ disastrous or even fatal consequences when people try t’operate in a neighborhood not their own.”

  Carmine and Peppers found themselves holding their breath until the old man had finally reached the end of his sentence, a sentence that was more like an aria. Then they shared a glance. Neither of them wanted to admit it, but Bert’s insinuations about people screwing up when far from home had touched a nerve. They were not well-traveled guys. They’d seldom been north of the Bronx or south of Philadelphia. They were strangers in Key West. And, so far, what was their experience of the place? They’d been sure they were going to a strip club and instead they ended up at a comedy joint full of lesbians and stoners. If they’d misread that situation so badly, how many others would they misread, and at what cost?

  Peppers decided it would be safer in the long run to open up at least a little bit, swap some information. Jack-knifing his concave body low across the table, he said softly, “You know a guy named Ted Clifton?”

  At the mention of the name, the drowsy chihuahua in Bert’s lap raised its head and let out something between a whimper and a growl. Bert said, “Yeah, I know him.”

  The goombahs waited for more. Nothing came. Carmine said, “And?”

  “And what? I know him.”

  Peppers said, “Two minutes ago you were givin’ way longer answers wit’out there was even a question.”

  Bert shrugged and petted the dog.

  “Ya trust the guy?” Carmine pressed.

  “About what?”

  “Ya know,” said Peppers. “Just in general.”

  “Just in general? Like, to hold my wallet? Walk my dog? Save me a seat at the movies? All depends what you’re askin’ do I trust ‘im about.”

  “Let’s just call it business,” Carmine said, and crossed his arms against his massive chest as if to prevent any further information from leaking out.

  “Business,” Bert murmured. “In business, no, I wouldn’t trust him.”

  “Why not?” asked Peppers.

  “Well, for starters, he already has the bubbas in his pocket, the politicians and the cops and so forth, and he doesn’t seem to be hurting in the cash flow department, so what kind of business would it have to be for him to need a partner such as Fat Lou unless it was a business that was not strictly kosher and maybe he just didn’t have the balls to do it on his own? What kinda business might that be? That’s the question.”

  “No it ain’t,” said Peppers, revealing just the first faint hint of irritation. “The question is why wouldn’t ya trust ‘im?”

  “Oh yeah, that. Because he ain’t trustworthy.”

  “That’s just sayin’ the same thing different,” Carmine observed.

  “Very astute,” said Bert. “Look, bottom line, he’s not an honorable guy. Never gets his own hands dirty. But he’ll cheat, he’ll connive, he’ll try to grab more than his share, and, down here at least, he has the lawyers and connections to get away with it. Home field advantage. That’s where maybe I can help. But how can I help if I don’t even know what we’re talkin’ about?”

  Carmine and Peppers consulted with their eyes and seemed finally to realize they were teaching way more than they were learning. They clammed up and drank their drinks.

  A few moments later, the house lights dimmed and the stage lights came on. Thin applause greeted the next performer. Bert stroked his dog and told himself to be content with what he’d teased out of his
guests so far. Ted Clifton—slick, tidy, presentable Ted Clifton, with his silk pants and cotton sweaters with the famous logos—was getting into bed with the Mob. That was kind of interesting, and not a bad bit of nosing for just an hour or two of friendly chitchat.

  22

  At two a.m. Lenny was still wired, shaken up, and baffled by what he’d seen and heard earlier that evening, and he was pacing in Pat’s living room when she finally got home from the club. She put away the night’s meager receipts, kicked off her shoes, then the first thing she said was, “So, was the material really that bad?”

  “Hm?”

  “The Trump bit. With the ping-pong. I thought it was really pretty clever.”

  “Who said it wasn’t?”

  “You guys walked out,” she said. “I saw you slip away the second he finished. Didn’t even clap.”

  “No offense to the comic. I thought the routine was more than decent. A little topical for my taste, but you know me, I go more for the timeless, the universal. But leave that on the side for now. That’s not why we bolted. We bolted because the guy who wants to kill Ricky was right there in the room.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sitting at a three-top with another Miami Vice-looking guy and a very old man in a red vest with a dog.”

  “With Bert?”

  “I have no idea who he was with. I only know the three of them were sitting at a table maybe fifteen feet away. Carla recognized the old boyfriend even though he mostly had his back to us. We snuck out under cover of a little laughing, and then Ricky accused me of setting him up.”

  “Setting him up?”

  “Yeah, like somehow I ratted him out and arranged the whole thing to get him whacked because I’m mad he didn’t do our show.”

  Pat took a moment to process that, then said, “I need a drink.”

  “Count me in,” said Lenny.

  She poured them each some bourbon, neat, and they went out to the backyard. Key West is never completely quiet, but at two a.m. on a weeknight, a good distance from Duval Street, it comes pretty close. The hum of traffic dies away, the honking of scooter horns becomes only a rare annoyance, and mostly what you hear is the rasping of crickets, the soft rustling of palm fronds on every scrap of breeze, and the plaintive voices of invisible tree toads, which bleat like tiny sheep. Lenny took in the lulling symphony, put his feet up on a wicker ottoman, sipped his whisky, and said, “Pretty relaxing here.”

  “Used to be,” said Pat.

  “Till I showed up.”

  “You’re the least of it.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “I mean compared to Ricky being on the lam and the guy who wants to kill him showing up at my club as the guest of one of my very few regulars, who I happen to think of as a friend.”

  “The old man? He’s a friend?”

  She nipped at her bourbon. “Maybe that’s a stretch. But he comes in two, three times a week, usually early when there’s hardly anyone around. We chat. He’s a nice guy, probably lonely. Has some pretty good stories from New York. I always sort of wondered if he was Mafia or just from Brooklyn. I guess now we know.”

  Lenny said nothing for a moment, just gazed contemplatively at the peaceful blue light that shimmered through and above the water of the swimming pool. Then he said, “Wonder what’s in it for him.”

  “What’s in what for who?”

  “For the old man. Getting Ricky killed.”

  Pat put her drink down harder than she meant to and it made a sharp sound against the little glass table. “Now wait a second—”

  Leaning forward at the waist and neck, Lenny didn’t wait. “I mean, what’s his angle on it? Cosa nostra loyalty oath? Some code of honor bullshit?”

  “Hold on. Please. They happened to be there together. We can’t just assume that Bert’s involved.”

  “We can’t? Why can’t we? How else does this Carmine guy end up at your club? Coincidence?”

  “Coincidences happen,” Pat said.

  “In clusters? Like, the guy who wants to ice Ricky, who happens to be Mafia and from New York, just happens to walk into your club half a continent away? And he just happens to be shepherded by another guy who also happens to be Mafia? That’s a lot of coincidences.”

  Pat was shaking her head. “I just can’t imagine Bert would be part of something like that. He’s practically a hundred. He has a little dog.”

  “Maybe Hitler had a little dog. A dachshund probably. Maybe a schnauzer. So what?”

  “Maybe,” Pat countered, “they’re just old friends from the City. Maybe it has nothing to do with Ricky. Does Bert even know who Ricky is? How would he know he was in town?”

  “You said the old man’s a regular, right? Did he happen to be there the other night when Ricky came in naked?”

  “Well, yeah, he was,” admitted Pat. “But he wouldn’t have recognized him.”

  “Why not? You did.”

  “That was because of the routine, the Star-Spangled Banner bit. I wouldn’t’ve recognized him just by his looks. I don’t think anybody would’ve. No way.”

  Lenny sipped his bourbon and looked up at the stars. They dimmed and brightened as otherwise invisible wisps of cloud scudded by beneath them. Finally he said, “Look, Pat, I’m a gag writer, not a freakin’ Sherlock, but it seems to me there are two possibilities for how Carmine gets to your club. Either it’s a long-ass series of coincidences, or else Bert brings him there to get him close to Ricky. I know you hate that idea, but doesn’t it seem logical?”

  “Logical, okay. But I just don’t buy it in my gut. There’s gotta be another explanation.”

  “Let’s hear it then. I’m all ears.”

  She pressed her lips together so firmly that they almost folded up between her teeth. She always did this when she was concentrating really hard, and, way back when she and Lenny used to flirt, he’d found it adorable. Now she held the clench until her mouth went white at the corners, then finally said, “What if Carmine’s being in Key West has nothing at all to do with Ricky? Nothing whatsoever?”

  “Okay, let’s roll with that. Then why’s he here?”

  “Who knows? Why’s anyone in Key West? Vacation? Midlife crisis? Maybe he’s here on business. Different business, I mean.”

  Lenny volleyed that right back. “Different business? Pat, it’s a small island. How many Mafia gigs are available on a given day? He’s going to have another one aside from whacking Ricky? Double-dipping in this little outpost? Possible, I guess, but doesn’t it sound like piling on just one more coincidence?”

  She started raising a hand to protest, then let it slowly fall and curl around her whisky glass instead. Looking off at the blanket of blue light above the pool, she said wearily, “Yeah, I guess it does. Can’t even convince myself there’s a better explanation.” She lifted the glass to her lips but put it down again without drinking. “Just makes me feel a little sick to think that Bert is helping out a killer.”

  23

  Next morning, not early, Bert gently put his dog down on the drain board next to the kitchen sink, then untangled the coiled wire of his landline phone and called Fat Lou. Dispensing with pleasantries, he said, “I met your geniuses last night and I’m reporting back. Here’s my report: I was not impressed.”

  At home in Bay Ridge, the New York boss was having breakfast. His wife had made him a hubcap-sized frittata with hunks of sweet sausage in it. The sausage contained fennel seeds that now and then got stuck in his teeth. While continuing to eat and at the same time talking on the phone, he also managed to unseat the wedged particles with a fingernail and to arrange them in a circle on the paper napkin next to him. Chewing, he said to Bert, “Didn’t think you’d be.”

  “Those two numb-nutses goin’ head-to-head with Ted Clifton? Trust me, it’s not a good idea.”

  Sounding annoyed but not surprised, Lou said, “They told you who the partner was? They wasn’t supposed to say that wit’out I gave permission.”

  “Well, t
hey did. They leaked like sieves. They folded like a cheap umbrella.” He gave the dog a wink. The dog looked at him with awe.

  Lou grunted or maybe burped. “They spill what the business is, too?”

  “Nah, I didn’t get that out of ‘em,” Bert admitted. “Ten minutes more, I woulda. But I ran outa time. Another comedian came on.”

  “Comedian?”

  “Yeah, I took ‘em to a comedy club. Which is another strange thing about these knuckleheads. When I tol’ ‘em where we were meeting, they sounded all excited, then, when we was sittin’ there, they hardly cracked a smile. Strange birds.”

  Fat Lou folded another slab of frittata into his face and talked around it. “So what’s the problem with havin’ ‘em sit down with Clifton?”

  “The problem is that, in this particular case or let’s say instance, two heads ain’t better than one, ‘cause two heads ain’t very bright. Whereas Clifton is. Now, your business, whatever it happens to be, I’m gonna assume that by its very essence or let’s say the nature of the beast, it entails some kind of risk and that, should things not go well or even reach a point of being all fucked up, someone’s gonna take the fall. Who’s that gonna be? Clifton? No, he doesn’t work that way. Lemme tell ya a story.”

  In Bay Ridge, Fat Lou rolled his eyes and gestured to his wife to pour more coffee into his gargantuan mug.

  “Couple years ago,” Bert went on, “this big housing project went belly up. Investors got wiped out. Developer went to jail for fraud. Except, guess what? The schmuck who went to jail, that wasn’t the real developer, he was the guy that Clifton put in the hot seat. Couple years before that, there was this big road improvement contract except the roads didn’t get improved. Clifton’s front guy is still in the Pen. Year before that—”