Nacho Unleashed

by Laurence Shames

  Now and then I try to imagine what it would be like to be a wild dog rather than a pet. Nice fantasy, right? Freedom. Adventure. Howling at the moon. Very romantic stuff. But I can’t help wondering if that life would really be all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, if you’re part of a pack and you’re not the leader, you’re still taking orders pretty much, except now it’s from another dog rather than a human. A case could be made that that would actually be worse. Or say you were the leader—well, I couldn’t even imagine taking on that much responsibility for the pups and the weaklings and everybody depending on me to settle disagreements and make the right decisions.

  Or again, what if I was a wild dog without a pack, a solitary hunter, entirely on my own? I mean, it’s a noble image and all that bullshit, but could I really hack it? Honestly, I doubt it. Not that I couldn’t keep myself fed on tasty rodents; that’s what I was bred for, after all. But the loneliness would hurt. Plus, let’s be practical. Big brave solitary hunter. Fine. But what if you get sick? What if you get injured? One damaged paw, a couple of broken teeth, and you’re dead meat out there on the prairie or wherever. Years later someone finds your little bleached skull and takes it home as a souvenir, makes an ashtray out of it, stubs out cigarettes where your brain was. Fuck that. So I guess it’s really best just to know who you are and make your peace with it. I’m not leader of the pack material. I’m not wild dog material at all. I’m a pet. I’m tame. I’m used to being helped when I need it. It’s fine.

  Anyway, I started in on this because, a day or so ago, Master decided that we were going for a drive. A long drive, practically the whole day up and back, all the way up to Miami. Wasn’t my idea, of course, though I admit I was thrilled about it. I don’t get to ride in cars much, since Master’s antique El Dorado mostly sits in the garage with various fluids, some blue, some green, slowly leaking out the bottom of it.

  It’s a big deal when he takes the car out, so there’s a fair bit of preparation that goes into it. First, he puts on his driving shirt, the one with the pattern of checkered flags. He’s also got a special cap, a snap-brim job, that he only wears for the car. Plus tight gloves with air-holes in them. You might recall my mentioning that he sometimes dresses us up in matching outfits and that I think this is a bit twee. I make an exception for the driving clothes. I really like my checkered flag vest and especially my goggles, which keep the grit out of my eyes and make me look sort of like I came from outer space.

  Master’s car is huge and curvy. It makes the cars parked around it look like little square toys. On the other hand, the other cars don’t have rust all over them. And none of them has a top like Master’s. It used to be a convertible way back before I was born, but at some point the springs that raised and lowered it got bent and warped and stuck, so now the top is halfway up and halfway down, sort of like the sun-shade on a baby carriage. Useless in the rain, believe me.

  Anyway, anyone who’s ever driven the Overseas Highway knows how beautiful it is, so I won’t fall all over myself trying to find better adjectives than the ten million writers, a few of them actually talented, who’ve already described it. But I will make one small observation from my perspective as a small passenger in goggles: There’s a helluva contrast between the pretty parts—water and trees, mainly—and the parts that people have put there—tacky motels, drive-thrus, gas stations. So if you’re looking sideways and the scenery is sort of flicking past frame by frame, the way it does in a moving car, what registers is sort of Gorgeous-Horrible-Stunning-Awful-Amazing-Horrendous-Breathtaking-What the Fuck Were They Thinking?

  Another interesting thing about the ride was the way that drivers greeted each other as they went along. Sometimes people would pull up very close behind us, almost like their car was trying to sniff our car’s butt, doggy-style. After a time, the other driver would start honking his horn, to say hello, I guess. Then, when there was an opening in the traffic, he would pull around and wave to Master with his middle finger. I guess that’s a special greeting people use on highways. Master would wave back by flicking his fingers under his chin. The only other thing worth mentioning about the drive is that, even though I was just standing there with my front paws resting on the window frame, Master still kept me on the leash, with his end snugly looped around his fingers. What was he thinking—that I’d go chasing after a motorcycle? That I’d jump out in front of a Winnebago? I mean, I know he cares about me and all, but I wish he’d give me just a little more credit for common sense.

  But so much for the drive.

  Eventually we get to Miami and stop in front of a big fancy building whose windows look orange in the sunshine. A guy in a uniform gives Master a funny look as he ducks under the half-closed roof to open the car door for us. Another guy lets us into the lobby. Yet another guy asks for Master’s name then picks up a telephone. That’s three guys in matching uniforms before we even make it past the desk, so I’m guessing this is some real hotshot of a building. Finally we get into an elevator, which doesn’t make me happy. Even to me, elevators feel tiny and confining and I get a knot in my stomach as soon as the doors slide closed. How do Great Danes stand it? I’d be climbing the walls.

  Now here’s something that surprised me: The elevator door finally opens after twenty floors or so, and we’re right inside someone’s condo. I’m no expert, but don’t elevators usually open onto public hallways? So this guy we’re going to see must be quite the honcho with his private elevator.

  Two more guys are waiting for us when the door slides open. These guys aren’t wearing uniforms, just tight pants and shirts stuffed with lots of muscle. The first thing they do is start to tickle Master. They have him raise his arms, then start patting and plucking at him, head to toe, even in his crotch. It looks like fun, so when they get down near his feet, I sidle over to get in on it. One of the guys just puts his hand against my ribs and pushes me away so hard that I skid halfway across the room like I’m on ice skates. Why? What the hell had I done to him?

  Anyway, with all the ceremony and the small army of protectors, I’m imagining by now that we must be going to visit with some major Alpha, so I’m a little surprised when we finally make it to the living room and our host turns out to be a small man in pajamas. Nice pajamas, don’t get me wrong, black silk, but still—pajamas. And slippers with the heels stomped down. He’s mostly bald, his black eyes are a little glassy, and his head is gleaming like maybe he’s got a fever.

  Master walks over toward him, holds out his hand, and says, “Hello, Cholly.”

  The other man takes a half-step back and says, “Do yourself a favor, Bert. Don’t touch me. Got some nasty bug I just can’t shake. Your age, it’d definitely kill ya. Wouldn’t take much, let’s face it.”

  I suddenly realize, not from the guy’s words but from his tone of voice, that I’ve met him before, way back when I was a pup and he visited Key West on some business thing. Name’s Charlie Ponte and his tone was memorable because it sounded several different ways at once. It was needling but also chummy, had a nasty edge but was also almost affectionate. I gather from this that him and Master are what people these days call frenemies—a concept that is practically impossible for a dog to grasp. Us, it’s one way or the other. We like someone or we don’t. There’s none of this I-love-you-I-hate-you bullshit, none of this we’re-buddies-but-I-talk-behind-your-back. We don’t fake friendship. Some things are sacred.

  Anyway, Ponte says, “Still got the mutt, I see,” and he half bends down to pet me. Like I want his fucking germs? Especially right after he insults my pedigree or lack thereof? Master, looking out for me as always, twitches the leash and pulls me out of reach. Ponte doesn’t seem too broken up. Let’s be real, he didn’t really want to pet me anyway.

  The big guys who let us in are still standing in the doorway. Ponte tells them to bring some coffee. He sits down on a sofa. Master sits in a chair. I lie on the floor, just where the rug meets the tiles. Makes for a nice contrast of temperatures and textures.

&nb
sp; “So Bert, ya old bastard,” the man in pajamas goes on, “it kills me to say it, but it’s good to see ya. What brings ya to Miami?”

  “Just felt like a drive,” says Master. “Ya know, shake some sludge outa the carburetor.”

  “Always with the bullshit. All these years, still with the bullshit. Come on, Bert, what’s up?”

  “Well, okay. As you may perhaps have an inkling about or let’s say be aware of, I like to kind of stay informed about things of possible interest going on in my neighborhood or what you might call my immediate environs.”

  “Translation,” says Ponte. “You want some inside dope as usual.”

  “Correct. More specifically, I was hoping to gain some insight or, so to speak, details about a certain personage who is friends of friends of ours, and who has recently relocated to your lovely metro area after a sojourn in a Federal facility, and who now seems to be involved in some substantial way in an enterprise in Key West, which I will make bold to assume could probably not happen without your blessing or at least knowledge and acceptance, as you are still, and yeah, I am trying to flatter you ‘cause it’s almost always worked before, a big fuckin’ cheese around heah.”

  In the time it takes Master to complete this one sentence, the bodyguards make a pot of espresso and bring it in along with a couple of fussy little cups and a plate of biscotti. Almond. The aroma trails behind the cookies like a banner in a breeze. I want one pretty bad.

  “What kind of enterprise we talking?” Ponte says.

  “Rum.”

  At that, the big guys sort of flick their eyes toward Master. Ponte says to them, “Pour the coffee and get lost.”

  When they’re gone, he says, “What’s it to you, Bert?”

  “Oh, nothin’ much. Idle curiosity mostly. I mean, hey, it’s not every day that a little burg like mine gets a visit from a guy a the stature or let’s say standing of a Carlo Costanza.”

  Say this for Master, he doesn’t always have a lot of good cards to play, but when he plays one, he makes it count. The mention of the name makes the guy in the pajamas put his coffee cup back into its saucer. “How you know about Costanza?”

  “Maybe I’m not as totally outa things as you seem to think I am, Cholly. Let’s just say a coupla casual connections. Not business. Social. So what’s he up to down there?”

  Ponte reaches for a cookie. This puts me in a dilemma. What if he offers me one from his hand? I don’t want his germs but my mouth is watering for a biscotto. Would I be able to resist? Anyway, it’s academic. He doesn’t offer me a cookie. Some host. “What’s he up to?” he parrots back. “He’s makin’ rum. Nice little boutique operation.”

  “Boutique my ass. You own a piece of it, Cholly?”

  Ponte smiles at that. The smile puts some ripples in his bald and gleaming head. “Now why would you think that, Bert?”

  “’Cause you own a piece of everything.”

  Another smile. “Again with the flattery.”

  “Keep lappin’ it up and I’ll keep pourin’ it on,” says Master.

  “Well, actually,” says Ponte, “I’m not actively involved. I’ll receive let’s say a modest royalty when the business turns profitable.”

  “It ain’t profitable so far?”

  “Draw your own conclusions, Bert. Sometimes ya have to take the long view. Course, when you’re a hundred and ten or however the hell old you are, maybe the long view gets a little shorter.”

  “This operation, ‘zit legit?”

  “Why would ya think it wasn’t?”

  “Oh, just my suspicious nature, I guess. That, plus a line a reasonin’ that goes somethin’ like this: Costanza was a fish guy and a criminal his whole career. Whadda fish guys know about the liquor business? Completely different products. So if there’s no overlap between the products, what’s the most likely common thread? Criminality. Or, to put it another way, probably it ain’t so legal.”

  “Thin logic, Bert. Would never hold up in court.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But lucky for you, we ain’t in court, we’re in your livin’ room. So lemme tell ya why I’m askin’ all this, Cholly. I happen to have a young lady friend who just got involved with that company. I just wanna make sure she’s not in for any trouble.”

  “Young lady friend? Ya boppin’ her?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “What parta the company she work in?”

  “Tasting room.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not like somethin’ bad’s gonna happen in a tasting room.”

  “Then where is somethin’ bad gonna happen?”

  “Christ, Bert,” says the man in the pajamas, “did I say anything bad was gonna happen anywhere? I just said nothin’ bad would happen in a tasting room.”

  He’s trying to look exasperated as he says this, but I’ve figured out by now that this is a game they’re playing, and like any game, throw-the-stick or whatever, it’s fun for both until it isn’t, and it’ll go on till someone gets sick of it and stops. The pajama guy doesn’t seem to be there just yet, though maybe he’s getting close. So Master takes a time out and reaches for a cookie. He breaks it in half. Well, more like three-quarters and a quarter, but if we’re going by body weight I’m still getting more than my share when he drops it onto my tongue, so why complain? He nibbles his but I scarf mine. Bad manners, maybe, but I’d waited a long time for that cookie. The thing I love about almond is the way that oily richness stays in the back of your throat even after the sweet part is all used up.

  Two nibbles into his biscotto, Master jumps back in from a slightly different angle. “Costanza’s move to Miami—sort of out of the blue, wasn’t it?”

  “Was it? Ya never heard a no one movin’ to Miami? Ya never seen the U-Hauls comin’ south on 95? It’s like half a fuckin’ Toronto is movin’ to Miami.”

  “I’m just wonderin’ how it came about. If maybe it had to do, say, wit’ someone he met in the joint who had what we might call useful or promisin’ connections down heah.”

  “Interesting theory.”

  “Maybe someone who was inna booze business before.”

  “Now you’re just gropin’ inna dark.”

  “Okay, then, maybe someone who wasn’t inna booze business.”

  That seems to be one fetch-the-stick too many for the man in the pajamas. He raises a hand and says, “Enough, Bert, you’re givin’ me a headache already and I gotta take my pills and have a nap. It’s time for you to leave.”

  Very innocently, Master says, “Jeez, Cholly, you’re not feelin’ well?”

  “I feel like shit and as usual you’ve got me talkin’ more than I should.”

  Master tries to hide it, but I can tell he’s pretty pleased at that. Everybody feels good when they’re doing something they’re good at, right? Anyway, he starts getting up from his chair. Halfway to standing, like he’s just talking to himself, he says, “Just wonder who he hung out wit’ inna Pen.”

  Ponte seems to give in to the idea of one more fetch. “Bert,” he says, “it’s unlike you to miss a step in the logic, but maybe before you exhaust yourself wonderin’ who he buddied up with, you should consider what kinda Pen he went to.”

  “Say wha’?”

  “Who finally nailed Costanza, Bert? Not the FBI. The IRS. They got him on taxes, nothin’ else. No RICO bullshit or anything. So where would they have put him? What kinda company would he have been keeping? Think about it on the long ride home.”

  Master has finished standing up by then. He reaches a hand toward the man still sitting on the sofa, then seems to remember about the fatal germs and pulls it back again. “Okay, Cholly, thanks. Always edifying to have a schmooze wit’ an old friend. Feel better soon.” He slowly bends down to pick me up off the floor. I catch his eye as he’s bending, then glance at the plate of cookies, then shoot him an imploring look. Bless him, he gets the message. He says to our host, “Mind I grab a coupla biscotti for the road?”

  10

  “W hat’cha
writing this morning?” asked Rita, as she and Albin were having their separate breakfasts at their separate little tables at opposite ends of the compound’s swimming pool. They had the courtyard to themselves, as they often did at that mid-morning hour, since the couple of residents with regular day jobs had already gone off to work, and the ones who worked nights were still asleep. Key West, after all, was a three-shift kind of town; no, actually, it was more than that: It was three different towns according to the time of day.

  Around dawn it was still a fishing village; it belonged to charter crews rigging baits, flats guides tying flies, jumpy clients drinking coffee from cardboard cups and hoping not to mess up their chances at big fish. At mid-day it was an almost-standard tourist mecca of ice cream cones and cruise ship gangplanks and the clashing smells of suntan lotion and French fry grease. Late at night it was Mardi Gras year-round, complete with wet t-shirts, vodka-and-jello shooters, transvestites in stilettos, revelations of tattoos in private places. The odd part was that, on a crammed-full island only four miles long and two miles wide, denizens of these barely overlapping towns could go years without ever running into one another.