"Hold me to it, Sandra," he said, and there
was a note of pleading in his voice. "I wanna be held to it. This
is what I'm telling you. For once I wanna be held to it."
—
At two
a.m
. Bert
the Shirt d'Ambrosia was still sitting in his recliner sporadically
looking at television with the sound turned off. But mostly he was
thinking out loud, talking to his dog. "This is not good, Giovanni.
Not good at all."
The chihuahua did a little pirouette on its
velvet bed. The flickering TV picture made kaleidoscopes in its
stuck-open pupils.
"Fucking Gino gets away clean, Joey gets
grabbed. Ponte's gotta be very frustrated, very pissed."
The dog lay down and licked its private
parts.
"Ya know what bothers me, Giovanni, what
gets to me? In like the backa my mind, I can't help wondering if
maybe it's my fault."
The dog gave a little whine of disagreement,
or maybe it was in pain.
"Maybe I gave some bad advice," the Shirt
went on. "Did I? I really can't remember. Sometimes, I'll tell ya
the truth, Giovanni, I don't even notice I'm givin' advice. That's
the scary part, huh? Sometimes I'm just yakkin' away, and a kid
like Joey, he sees the white hair, he figures, hey, this old guy
must know somethin'. Ha. Fuck do I know? Poor kid, he listens to
me."
The old man shook his head. The chihuahua
shook its whiskers. Then Bert spent a long moment climbing out of
his recliner and the two of them walked stiffly to the bedroom.
—
45 —
Joey did not think he'd slept. He was too
scared, too uncomfortable, too weirdly proud of himself for
proposing marriage, and besides, he'd been keeping a weather vigil.
He wanted to believe that by paying close attention, he could usher
in a calm dawn, could keep away the winds or squalls that would
prevent Clem Sanders from going to the reef. He lay still and
silent, sniffing for airborne salt and iodine. The back of Sandra's
hand was against his, his left ankle was chafed from the rope that
held him down. Over and over again, he'd rehearsed what he would
say to Charlie Ponte, how he would explain his plan for turning
three million dollars into four. For what seemed like many hours he
stared at the grooves in the louvered windows, searching for the
first pale slices of saving light.
But he must have dozed at least, because
suddenly the objects in the room had sharp outlines, people were
talking on the other side of the half-closed bedroom door, and he
was extremely confused. He gave an involuntary yank of the wrist
that was bound to his fiancee's. Sandra let out a little grunt of
protest. Then they both blinked themselves more or less awake.
"Lazy sacka shit," came a voice from the
other side of the door. It was followed by some slaps. "I pay you
to sleep, or what? Stupid fucking dagos I got heah. Where's the
fucking kid? I want my stones."
There was a scuffling of chairs being pushed
away, sounds of big bodies springing out of furniture, and within a
couple of seconds Joey and Sandra's bedroom was invaded. Charlie
Ponte himself led the charge. He was wearing a silver jacket, his
eyes were wild above their liverish sacs, and the little man did
not look as faultlessly neat as Joey remembered. It was the hair,
which was now windblown, almost spiked, peaked a little like a
crown around the balding place on top. Ponte was full of a manic,
savage cheer that was first cousin to bloodlust. He circled the bed
and grabbed Joey by the front of his pink shirt. "Rise and shine,
scumbag," he said. "Today's the day I get my emeralds."
He seemed not to notice that Joey was tied,
and he started slapping him for not getting up fast enough. The
slaps made the bed bounce and Sandra started to cry.
"Shit," said Ponte. "Shit. I ain't heah to
deal with assholes, and I ain't heah to deal with crying broads."
Only then did he see the ropes. "O.K., O.K.," he said over his
shoulder to the two thugs who'd accompanied him from Miami. "Untie
these losers and let's get out onna fuckin' water."
On the water? The two goons leaned over the
bed and started wrestling with Tony's bizarre knots. The mattress
rocked, Sandra whimpered. On the water? The new thugs took out
knives. The steel got hot against Joey's ankle as they sawed away.
He tried to think but things were moving way too fast for him. His
eyes were crusty. He had to piss. He hadn't so much as yawned and
already he'd been smacked across the face, pummeled around the
nose. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. He'd rehearsed
his pitch to Ponte; he'd thought the whole thing through. It was
supposed to be civilized, a sit down where people could work things
out. This was just mayhem. One of the new thugs slipped with his
knife and poked Joey in the calf. He started to bleed on the
sheet
. On the water?
"Mr. Ponte," Joey blurted, "wait a—"
By now Bruno had blustered into the bedroom.
His boss had caught him napping and Bruno wanted to make amends by
being extra ugly. "Can it, mouth," he said. He reached for Joey and
held him by the throat while the other two finished unbinding
him.
"But—" Joey squeezed out. Bruno backhanded
him across the cheek.
The thugs yanked Sandra and Joey to their
feet and pushed them out of the crowded bedroom. There was no air
left in their bungalow, it was all dark suits that swallowed the
light, black shoes that freighted the earth so it seemed to tip.
"Lemme take a piss at least," Joey said as he was being bundled
through the kitchen.
"Piss off duh backa duh boat," one of the
goons advised him.
"What boat?" Joey was looking down at the
black and white linoleum squares, they swam at his feet and made
him dizzy. He spotted his sunglasses on the kitchen table and just
managed to grab them as he was being swept along.
"What boat?" mimicked Charlie Ponte. Joey's
bafflement amused him and he spat out a derisive laugh.
"Asshole."
The goons obediently cackled along with
their boss as they herded their captives out through the sliding
door and into the compound. The morning was dead still, a pillow of
mist sat on the flat water of the hot tub. The sky was halfway
bright but even through shades it had no color, and Joey, who had
little experience with dawns, guessed that the sun had been up for
maybe fifteen minutes, half an hour. He wished he could stop being
so confused and wished he could walk closer to Sandra, could push
aside the two thugs who loomed between them as they crunched along
the gravel path.
Bruno and Tony's dark blue Lincoln was
parked between some garbage cans around the corner. There was no
other car.
One of the new goons opened a back door and
stuffed Sandra and Joey through it. He climbed in after them, his
colleague sandwiching the captives from the other side. Bruno got
in the driver's seat, Tony squeezed in the middle, and Charlie
Ponte rode shotgun.
"Where are you taking us?" Sandra asked.
Bruno pulled away from the curb.
Ponte didn't bother to turn around. He
didn't see the point of talking to hostages. But he was in high
spirits and he did like talking to his boys, liked to show them how
smart he was. "Broad wants to know where we're takin' 'er. Kid
wants to know what boat." He shook his head. "Ya know what's wrong
with this fuckin' country? People are stupid, they can't figure
nothin' out. Fuck she think we're takin' 'er? To the emeralds,
honey! Inna boat we come down from Miami in. Guy tells us the
stones are inna water. Fuck's he think—we're gonna fetch 'em with a
Lincoln?"
The goons laughed.
"But Mr. Ponte—"
"But Mr. Ponte,"
mimicked the Miami
Boss. "Asshole's a broken record with this Mr. Ponte shit. Smack
'im for me, will ya." One of the backseat thugs obliged, but be
couldn't get much leverage in the packed car and the blow did
nothing more than make Joey's sunglasses rattle on his nose. "And
tell 'im he ain't heah to talk, he's heah to bring us to the
stones." Ponte paused as the Lincoln slunk through the narrow empty
streets. "And if he don't bring us to the stones, he better not
waste his fucking breath yammering, 'cause he's gonna have a long
swim home."
—
46 —
The cigarette boat was cobalt blue and
shaped like a shark. It sat perfectly still in the celery-green
water at the end of the Flagler House dock. Two guys had stayed on
board. Divers. They had stubble beards, crinkled eyes, and wore
wetsuit tops unzipped to the solar plexus. One of them reached up
to help Sandra into the open cockpit. The other started the twin
engines; they fired into life with a roar that shook the ocean.
Joey was pushed into the boat, then he was pushed up against a
gunwale as Ponte's goons piled in behind him. He just had time for
one quick look at the sleeping hotel, early light throwing triangle
shadows across its balconies. Then the cigarette spun seaward. In
three seconds the hull was up on plane, shushing over the slashed
water of the Florida Straits with a sound like a million skis on
icy snow.
Charlie Ponte crab-walked across the tilted
cockpit and screamed in Joey's face: "So, asshole, where we
goin'?"
White-knuckled, Joey squeezed the gunwale
and willed his brain to think of something clever. Through the
wildly vibrating air he glanced back at Sandra; she was pressed
between two goons on a little wraparound settee at the stem, and
her eyes did not look good, they looked forlorn as candles whose
wicks had gotten buried in wax. Joey was still stalling even as he
watched Charlie Ponte's small neat fist coming toward his chin, and
the instant before the blow was one of stunning clarity in which
Joey realized there was no lie that would save him and the truth
probably wouldn't help much either.
Now, what the hell, he was ready to talk,
but his mouth wasn't quite right after getting hit, and all that
came out was a mumble.
"What, asshole?"
"Like twelve miles up," he shouted. "There's
a piece a land shaped like a lamb chop bone. Then it's about five
miles out from there. But listen—"
Charlie Ponte didn't want to listen. He had
what he needed, and he turned his back on Joey. He shot a look at
the guy at the wheel. The guy nodded. Then Ponte smiled. It was a
big smile of genuine contentment. Finally he was winning, and
winning was what he liked.
Joey leaned back against the gunwale and
watched Key West whiz by. Smathers Beach and the open U of the
Paradiso condo. The airport with its faceted weather bubble like
the eye of a bug. Cow Key Channel, and beyond it, the gross pyramid
of Mount Trashmore. Joey gave a bitter silent laugh. Gahbidge, he
said to himself. Nice try at a life, kid, but it's all coming down
to gahbidge.
He turned around and looked out at the blank
green water of the Straits. Here and there it was blotched purple
with coral heads or under the ragged shadows of the few small
clouds. Joey scanned the horizon, wondering if he'd be able to spot
Clem Sanders's salvage boat, wondering if Clem Sanders had even
made it out there. He took big gulps of salt air, and each breath
carried a different mix of fear and acceptance. He'd had his plan,
his plan had been short-circuited, and now what happened would
happen. Like Bert said, who could argue with that?
The boat roared on. Sometimes its noise was
a featureless rumble; then at moments its engines would sync a
certain way and there'd be piston beats like drumrolls. The sun was
flame white by now and they slammed straight toward it. Tiny
pellets of spray screamed past the boat and pebbled Joey's glasses.
Up ahead, maybe half a mile landward, was the promontory that led
into the channel for the Sand Key Marina. A low line of mangrove
arced around like a rib. The boat driver pointed to it, Joey
nodded, and the cigarette banked steeply and headed south.
Joey searched the horizon. But his shades
were bouncing on his nose, his eyeballs were rattling in their
sockets, and he couldn't see much of anything.
The driver abruptly cut back on the
engines.
The deafening noise softened to a
rhythmically popping clatter, the spray stopped slicing past. Then
the water caved in like a disappointed dream and the blue boat came
off of plane and settled down heavy and dead. The driver pointed
past the bow. "We got company out there, Mr. Ponte."
Ponte moved his mouth but no sound came
out.
The driver reached into a small compartment
underneath the steering wheel and produced a pair of binoculars. "
'Bout two miles off," he said. "Could be a shrimper, but I don't
think so. Looks to be anchored."
"Gimme the fucking glasses," Charlie Ponte
said. He pressed them to his eyes and Joey could see his hands were
trembling. Unconsciously, his thugs moved closer around the Boss,
as if they could somehow all see through the binoculars at once.
With the boat stopped, the morning sun was brutal, and everybody
started to sweat. "What you know about this, kid?"
Joey took an instant to look at Sandra. His
expression was wry, flat, and fatal, the same expression he'd worn
when he asked her to drop everything and move to Florida with him.
"It's a salvage boat, Mr. Ponte. I been tryin' to tell ya this all
morning."
No one moved, no one breathed. Ponte's face
crawled, his upper lip pulled back from his teeth. He wanted to
claw at Joey's eyes, wanted him held down so he could kick him
around the cockpit. The only thing that stayed his fury was that he
couldn't spare the time.
"How the fuck you know about it?"
Joey leaned back against the gunwale and
exhaled loudly. He shifted his weight, looked down at his feet. A
man with a tortured conscience, with a terrible confession to make.
"Gino," he softly said.
Ponte went toward him and hit him with both
hands on the chest, as if he were trying to beat open a door.
"Gino,
what? What,
Gino?"