"Fuck is not exactly? Ya did 'im or ya didn't."
"We tried," Chop said. "He wasn't in his bed. Some broad was there."
Nicky could not help being curious. "Tall broad?"
"How you know?"
"Lotta attitude? Kathy, Kitty, somethin' like that?"
"Squid went in wit' a stocking on his head," said Chop. "I don't think they chatted."
Nicky did a little dance to warm his feet. "Okay, okay. So when ya gonna try again?"
Dryly, Chop said, "I guess when Squid wakes up."
There was a pause. Nicky shivered and tried to figure why his cheap new suit made him sweat indoors but didn't keep him the least bit warm outside. Must be a fucking blend.
"Nicky," Chop went on at last, "this isn't turning out to be as easy as you think it is."
"Come on. The guy's on his own, ya know where he is—"
"Squid won't use a gun or a knife."
"So let 'im use a wire, an ice pick—"
"He won't use anything but seafood."
"Say wha'?"
"Seafood. He started the job wit' seafood, he says he won't finish any other way. Last night's try was wit' a sailfish."
"Sailfish?"
"Stuffed. Ya know, the nose."
"For Christ's fucking sake," said Nicky.
"You wanted a genius," said Chop. "You got one."
Nicky chewed his lip, wrapped himself in the cold, metal housing of the phone wire. "Chop, I ain't got time for this. Tell Squid—"
"I've told him," Chop interrupted. "The fucking guy's impossible. I don't know what he's gonna do. Get a octopus ta strangle 'im? Give 'im a heart attack wit' men-a-war?"
Nicky finally realized that, on top of his frustration, he was getting very scared. He'd hired lunatics and they were blowing it. His plot would be discovered and he'd be sure as hell rubbed out. Every hour that passed increased the chances it would go that way. In a pinched, congested voice, he said, "I want him done today. Today."
Chop said calmly, "Nicky, I'm bein' as straight wit' you as I can be. All I can promise you is seafood. I can't promise you today, I can't promise you tomorra—"
Nicky Scotto slammed down the phone, slammed it down with such gusto that he felt the lining in the right shoulder of his cheap new suit begin to tear.
In the narrow bed across from Chop's, Squid Berman was still pretending to be asleep. But he couldn't quite hide that he was smiling. He was winning. He was happy. He was doing things his way and not letting anybody spoil it.
*
Big Al Marracotta had had worse outings, but they'd generally entailed someone ending up in a car compactor or a garbage dump. For an occasion not involving death, the misery of this last night would be hard to top.
Humiliated in the drag bar, he'd staggered up Duval Street, back toward his hotel. But his nerves were shaken, and he needed one more drink. He had it, then resumed his journey. His legs were tired, however; the walk seemed long, and he decided to break it up by stopping for another cocktail. By four A.M. he was within two blocks of the Conch House. Cruelly, the lights came up in the last place that would serve him, and he threw himself into the meandering stream of diehards on the sidewalk.
Surrounded by taller men, unseeing and unseen, he'd stumbled right past the glaring window of an all-night diner. A stupid little dog had singled him out to bark at.
Back in his room at last, he took some aspirin and immediately threw up. Rising from the bowl, he'd wandered to the bedroom and walked around in dizzy circles, looking down at the tattered shreds of Katy's underthings. Then he'd passed out, small and alone and smelling foul, on the huge bed meant for frolicking.
He awoke now to a shard of late-morning sun slicing through the drapes and a monumental hangover. His eyeballs had dried out, his cheeks stuck to his gums. His kidneys felt like they had sugar crystals deep inside them. He put a pillow on his head but could not get back to sleep. Finally he called room service, ordered every purported cure that he could think of. Tomato juice. Oysters. Soft- boiled eggs.
In the agony of waiting for his breakfast, he tried but failed to fend off a terrible admission: vacation, all in all, was going lousy. For a rare and blurry introspective second, he wished he could pinpoint and repair the moment it had all gone wrong, but he knew that he could not. He'd lost his girlfriend and he felt like hell. He was bored stiff with lying in the sun. Business problems were preying on his guts and he saw no way to turn the thing around.
The embarrassing truth was that he might as well go home. Back to wife and work and aggravation, back to the stinking weather and the smell of fish.
He just had to find a way to explain it to himself, and to others, so that it wouldn't look like he had caved, so that leaving early wouldn't feel like a defeat. Once he'd figured that one out, he was ready to get on the road.
29
Katy and Al Tuschman had finished their coffee, then retrieved the dog and gone to the pier at County Beach to watch the sun come up.
They'd sat on rough boards damp with night, their feet dangling above an ocean so still that it reflected pale blue stars amid the gold-green streaks of phosphorescence. For a moment Katy's head had rested on Al's shoulder. He didn't know if she had meant to put it there or if she'd briefly nodded out. He'd thought to touch her hair, but didn't. He'd stroked the dog instead.
Just after six, the eastern sky had turned a rusty yellow and swallowed up the constellations. Narrow, scattered slabs of cloud went lavender, and the water changed from black to a strange and depthless burgundy. When the sun cracked the horizon, it was instantly too bright to look at. The air grew hot in seconds and the tropic day came on so suddenly that there was no way to be ready for it. Caked sand sparkled; shadows stretched away from palms, opaque and confident, like they'd been there all along.
Taken by surprise, Al had shaded his itching eyes and was overtaken by a yawn. "What now?" he said.
Katy shrugged and yawned in turn. Pelicans flew by. Fifi stood and stretched over her front paws.
Thinking aloud, Al went on, "We go back to the hotel, we're sitting ducks."
Katy had squinted against the glare that skipped across the ocean like a spray of pebbles. "Maybe that's not the worst idea."
"Maybe not the best."
"Face them," she went on. "Explain things, get it over with."
Al thought about the fish stuck in the bed. "If you get time to explain."
Katy yawned again. It was a deep, sinuous yawn that made her feel the cut on her side. "Probably they won't do anything daytime."
Big, strong Al Tuschman considered that, then said, "What's the argument against bolting? Fleeing? Running away?"
For that Katy had no answer she could put in words. She just looked at Al with intimately tired eyes, and he understood, though he couldn't say it either. The only argument against fleeing was that if they bolted now they would lose each other. He'd get a flight to Newark, she to LaGuardia, and since they were very different from each other and weren't lovers, that would be the end of it. That's what happened when vacation was over and real life reasserted its habits and limits and demands. After sunset and sunrise and sharing a room, after dancing, and talking in their underwear, they'd go back to being the selves that they were used to, and it would seem preposterous, impossible that they would hang around together. That was the only argument against bolting right this minute.
Al bit his lip, looked down at the twinkling ocean. Not totally persuaded, he said, "I guess they won't try anything in daylight."
They stood and stretched. Fifi shook herself, dried her damp fur in the hot morning sun. They strolled slowly back to Paradise, where they soon fell sound asleep, side by side, on shaded lounges near the pool.
*
A block and a half from the fish market, beneath a torn green awning on a bent and rusty frame, there was an Irish bar. It had a chrome steam table filled with cylinders of soggy vegetables, and a plastic slab where a man in a spattered apron carved hunks of fa
tty meat. The place smelled of cabbage and stale beer and in the lull before lunch hour it was a perfect place to talk.
In a booth way at the back, Nicky Scotto was leaning forward above a Heineken and saying, "I gotta go to Flahda. Right away."
"Don't do it," said Donnie Falcone, solemn in his big black overcoat.
"It's the only way," said Nicky. Desperation made him lean still farther.
Donnie leaned in, too. Their noses were close. They could smell each other's aftershave. "Think. You can't be seen in Flahda. It's suicide. What about the guys you—"
"They're fucking up," said Nicky. "Unbelievably, they're fucking up. I gotta do the fuckin' job myself."
"You told me they were pros," said Donnie. "I don't see what's the—"
"Problem?" Nicky interrupted. Furiously he swigged some beer, wriggled against the booth to try and stop the itching from his cheap and crappy suit. "Here's the fuckin' problem." He told Donnie about his hired men's determination to finish the job with seafood.
"Jesus Christ," said Donnie, and he shook his head of beautiful black hair. "Where'd you find these guys?"
"Chop's solid," Nicky said. "Does cars in Hialeah. I've worked wit' 'im through Miami. But the other guy— Squid. He's good people but he's crazy."
Donnie rubbed his cardboard coaster; little tubes of paper rolled beneath his thumb. "Nicky, listena me. You cannot let yourself be linked—"
The other man locked his jaw to keep his voice from getting loud. "I'm runnin' outa time! How much longer's he gonna be down there? Two days? Three?"
"Nicky, please. Stay out of it. Let it run its course."
"They fuck it up," the man in the bad suit rambled, "and then what? Big Al gets outa Flahda. Comes back and takes over the market. Now he's surrounded wit' goombahs—"
"And you're no worse off than you were before," Donnie pointed out.
"Except I am," said Nicky. " 'Cause I got my heart set on it. 'Cause in my mind it's done already."
"Nicky, please. I'm begging you—"
"I'm goin', Donnie. I got to. First plane I can get on."
Donnie pursed his lips and slowly pushed himself upright in the booth. He scratched an eyebrow and said, "Nicky, I got a question for you. From the very start a this whole fuckin' mess, every single thing I tell you not to do, you do it. Why you bother askin' my advice?"
Surprised by the question, Nicky blinked. He thought the reason should be obvious. Absently, he tugged at his gapping lapels. " 'Cause you're my friend," he said.
30
After his late breakfast, Big Al Marracotta ate more aspirin, then pulled on his cabana set and went down to the pool. He simply didn't know what else to do.
But the midday sun ratcheted up the dull ache in his head until it was an unbearable throbbing, so he retreated into the shade and looked at women, shamelessly stared as they coaxed their bathing suits down over the pale crescents at the base of their buttocks, as they rearranged their bosoms after diving.
After a while he waded to the swim-up bar, had a Virgin Mary, and then another. He sucked the lemons, chewed the ice. Very gradually, the spices and the celery joined forces with the aspirin and made him feel a little better. He dunked his head in the pool, and the cool water seemed to siphon pain away. He ate an order of conch fritters. They expanded in his stomach and made him feel almost okay.
In its grim but loosening grip, the hangover now seemed less like an overwhelming fact than an arduous but necessary passage. On the far side of that passage lay something like peace of mind, in the form of several benign, face-saving fibs he could tell himself about vacation.
Sipping yet another Virgin Mary, he was beginning to believe it had all worked out for the best. He'd had a bunch of first-rate sex, then got rid of Katy without tears or complications. He was due to ditch her anyway; it was a good thing it happened now, so he could have his blowout then get back to New York. Face it—he was needed there. He counted. He was an important guy, and nobody's patsy. He'd proven that by taking vacation when he damn well wanted to. But now he'd be big about it, responsible, and go home early. Impress the hell out of Tony Eggs with how fast and neatly he could get the market back in order.
Resolved, almost happy, he waded out of the pool, reclaimed his cabana jacket. He air-dried for a minute, then went up to his room.
Upstairs, he sat down on the bed and tried not to realize he was nervous. He studied the telephone, silently rehearsed. The words, the tone of voice—it had to be exactly right. He breathed deep and dialed Tony Eggs' social club.
An underling answered. The underling was allowed to pass along the call only as far as Carlo Ganucci.
The old consigliere got on the line and said hello.
"Carlo!" said Big Al, bearing down to put some Florida sunshine in his voice. "How are ya?"
Ganucci's eyeballs had turned yellow and he was down to 115 pounds. He wasn't sure what was killing him but he knew that he was dying. He said, "Fine. How're you?"
"Tan. Rested. Fabulous," said Big Al. "Tony there?"
Carlo tried to do his job. "Zere a message I can give 'im?"
"Please," said Al. "I'd really like to talk to 'im myself."
There was a pause. Ganucci figured that Tony probably didn't want to be bothered with this call, but resisting, arguing, took more strength than he could spare. He padded off to get the boss.
The line was vacant for what seemed to Al a very long time. He strove to keep his concentration. Be upbeat, he told himself. Cheerful. Strong.
Finally Tony Eggs picked up the phone. He didn't say hello. He said, "So how's the weather down in Flahda?"
The sarcasm put a ding in Big Al's confidence. But he had a game plan and he stuck to it. "Beautiful," he said. "Incredible. But listen—"
"What ya got left down there?" Tony interrupted. "Two days? T'ree?"
"This is why I'm callin'," said Big Al. "I mean, it's great down here—the sun, the palm trees. But, hey, I got responsibilities. You got, like, a situation up there. I'm a guy does the right thing. So I'm comin' back early. Leavin' today."
Tony didn't answer right away. Big Al knew why. He was impressed. Grateful. Maybe even touched. Didn't know exactly what to say. Al basked in the silence, knowing that things had worked out for the best and he was scoring a lot of points.
At last Tony said, "Don't bother."
Big Al squirmed against the rumpled sheets. "Excuse me?"
"Don't bother. Take your time. Enjoy yourself."
Al squeezed out half a laugh that sounded sick. "Hey, that's nice a you, but my mind's made up. Where things stand wit' the market—"
"The market isn't your concern no more."
"What?" He jumped down from the bed, wrapped himself in phone cord.
Tony Eggs was very calm. "It isn't yours no more. I gave it back ta Nicky."
Numbly, Big Al echoed, "Gave it back to Nicky? Just like that?"
Tony said nothing.
"After the fuckin' job I did for you?"
"You did okay, Al," Tony Eggs conceded. "But your time there, it was, like, a tryout."
"A tryout? A fucking tryout? No one ever said anything about it bein' a tryout."
Tony put a shrug in his voice. "Well, that's what it was."
"Sonofabitch!"
"And inna meantime, Nicky convinced me just how bad he wanted it. Me, I like a guy who's hungry."
Big Al took tiny steps that led him in a circle. "I can't believe I'm hearin' 'iss."
"Believe it, Al," said Tony. "No hard feelins, huh?"
Marracotta tried and failed to keep a note of pleading out of his voice. "Don't do this ta me, Tony!"
"Enjoy the resta your vacation."
Big Al heard the phone click in his ear. He held the receiver at arm's length and stared at it a moment. His first impulse was to bash it against the wall, but he was suddenly too drained to do it. He replaced it gently in its cradle, sat down softly on the high edge of the bed.
In the social club on Prince Stre
et, Tony Eggs Salento turned to his favorite nephew, Donnie Falcone.
Donnie said, "Thought fast on that one, zio."
Sorrowfully and mordantly the old boss shook his head. "Those guys are both such fuckin' losers."
*
In the courtyard at Paradise, Al and Katy had slept for hours as the other couples and the European threesome woke up and breakfasted, as the sun rose higher and tested their parasol of leaves and fronds.
They slept until the crisscrossed straps of their lounges had impressed their pattern on legs and arms and faces, and they now awoke among naked people basted with sunblock, breathing air perfumed with coconut and chlorine.
Katy yawned and stretched and rubbed the corners of her mouth. "Delicious sleep," she slurred. "Needed it. Delicious."
Cottony and not quite awake, carrying over some refrain from a vanished dream, Al Tuschman blinked at her and mumbled words that were mashed by the weight of his cheek against the lounge. "Mishin tibby hoppy."
"Hmm?"
With effort he rose up on a crampy elbow. Fifi squirted out from underneath his lounge and tried to lick his chin. He said, "People kept saying it to me when I first got here. 'Mission to be happy.' 'Happiness our mission.' Sounded stupid then."
Katy came up on an elbow, too, and rearranged her blouse. "And now?"
He yawned and pulled his eyebrows close together. "Person doesn't just change," he said. "Score the basket. Close the sale. Ya know, those are missions."
"But you didn't answer the question," Katy pointed out.
"Yeah, I know I didn't," he admitted. Absently, he tugged his lower lip. The air felt great. Someone dunked in the pool and the water made a beautiful sound. Lizards clung to croton branches and billowed out their ruby throats. Al Tuschman gave an embarrassed little laugh. " Ya know," he said, "I think I sort of half believe it."
Katy reached across the space between their lounges and touched his hair. She didn't mean to do it; it just happened. His hair was dense and springy and a little moist from the heat of sleep. She quickly pulled her hand away and spoke immediately, as though to erase the fact that the touch had happened. "Mind I take a shower?"
Welcome to Paradise Page 15
