"I was," said the old man casually, pulling the cherry out of his whiskey sour and nuzzling the fruit off its stem. Taking his time, he licked the froth from his lips and smiled.
Old people took a grim delight in talking about their ailments and operations, about their arteries hardening and their brains softening, their ankles swelling and their field of vision shrinking. In Florida these small epics of collapse and decay had become both an art form and a competitive sport, and Bert the Shirt d'Ambrosia had polished his delivery to the point where he was seldom beaten in the ghoulish contests. He had the best material, after all. Arthritis, phlebitis, prostate trouble, even cancer-these things couldn't hold a candle to a guy who'd actually died.
"Yeah, Joey, I was fucking dead. Scientifically, electronically dead. Morto, capeesh? Yeah. This was about eight years ago.
"You remember what the papers called the I-Beam Trial? Big-ass fucking trial. RICO. Construction racketeering, shit like that? They pulled in everybody. All the families. Some guys they booked, some guys they just subpoenaed. Big publicity splash. Well, a few guys didn't wanna go to court, remember? They faked angina, fainting spells, whatever.
"Me," Bert went on, "I went. I wasn't indicted. They were just yankin' my chain. I figured fuck 'em, they wanna put me on the stand, I can take the heat. Big mistake, Joey. I get to court, there's a million reporters on the steps, the prosecutors are in their best suits, cameras are in my face. I start not feeling good. I get clammy, my arms start to tingle. I get this tightness in my chest, and all I can think of is that it's like a fucking meatball rolling toward my heart. I'm thinking, Shirt, you asshole, all those big-ass steaks, all that booze, all those cigarettes, all that tension-now you're gonna die right here on the six o'clock news.
"I can hardly talk. I whisper to my lawyer, 'Hey, Bruce, I think I'm havin' a heart attack.' He laughs. He thinks I'm fuckin' around. 'Hey, that wasn't the plan,' he says. "You wanted to appear.' Then he notices I'm turning blue.
"So now I'm on a stretcher, they're carrying me back down the courthouse steps. My eyes are closed, and I can still see flashbulbs going off. And it dawns on me, the one good thing about dying. I went to court to play the big man, show everybody I wasn't afraid. Now I couldn't give a fuck what anybody thought. They wanna think I'm a common criminal, they wanna think I'm a coward, fuck does it matter? You live, you die. I should care what these assholes thinka me?
"By the time they get me to the ambulance, I'm pretty out of it. I hear the siren, but it seems like really far away. I know I'm movin', but it's like bein' on a boat more than drivin' downa street. They stick this oxygen mask over my face, and the oxygen has like a blue smell, an electric smell. It makes me think of when I was a little kid and went to Rockaway and there was a big-ass summer thunderstorm. The air smelled like that after lotsa lightning. I thinka that, my mother onna beach with me, and I start to cry.
"They told me after, I was unconscious by the time we got to St. Vincent's. They put me on a whaddyacallit, a monitor, were rolling me through the hall, and that was that."
"That was what?" Joey asked, his elbows deep in the padded bar, his drink getting watery in front of him.
"It," said Bert. "That was it. I died."
"Unbefuckinglievable," said Joey.
"Yup. They told me after, I was dead for like forty seconds. They jump-started me with this cattle prod kinda thing. I twitched like a goddamn spastic, then I started breathing again.
"So anyway, I stood inna hospital three weeks. They hadda check for brain damage, shit like that. When ya die, ya know, it affects the mind sometimes. And I'll tell ya something weird. The only parta my brain that was affected? I can't carry a tune no more. I can't even sing Happy fucking Birthday. And I useta love to sing.
"So I did some thinking. I decided I wanted out. Yeah, outta the family. I mean, enough was enough. My nerves were shot. So when I got home, I went right to the top, right to Scalera. Joey, that man was a prince. He invited me to his house. I took a copy of my EKG with me.
"So he gives me a glass of anisette, and he says, 'Shirt, what's on your mind?'
"So I unroll the paper on his dining room table and I say, 'Frankie, you know what this is?'
"He looks at it, it's like a graph, ya know, and he says, 'Looks like the fuckin' stock market.'
"I say, 'No, Frank, it's my life. And you see this flat part over here? This is where I died.'
"And he says, 'Jeez, Bert, I'm sorry.'
"So I says, 'Don't be sorry, I'm O.K. now. But Frank, the way I look at it, I've given my life for this thing of ours. I was solid and loyal to the end.'
" 'I knew you would be, Bert,' he says. 'But what are you getting at?'
" 'Frank,' I say, 'I feel like I deserve something for dying.'
"Now, this makes Scalera a little nervous because, as fine a human being as he was, he didn't like to part with money. He was a little, ya know, cheap, let's face it. So he says, "Whaddya want, Bert?' but his voice isn't quite as friendly as before.
" 'All I want is to be allowed to walk away,' I tell him. 'I want your blessing to retire.'
"So now he's relieved that I'm not asking for cash. But he's still nervous because what if it gets around that it's O.K. to quit, and good earners start walking away? 'Jeez, Bert,' he says, 'I'd like to say yes, but it'd be, like, a precedent. I mean, O.K., you're a special case, you died. But what if the next guy says to me, Hey, I got shot, or, Hey, I got my knees smashed in. I mean, where would I draw the line?'
"Well," Bert continued, "to me it's pretty obvious where he should draw the line: death. When a guy dies, he can quit. How much clearer could it be? But hey, he's the Boss. I'm not gonna argue. I just wait."
"So he asks me, 'Where you wanna retire to?'
" 'The Florida Keys,' I tell him right away. I mean, I been thinkin' about it the whole time I was inna hospital."
" 'Hm,' he says, 'that sounds nice,' and it was almost like the Godfather was envious of me. You know why, Joey? 'Cause I was ready to walk away, ready to leave everything behind. That's the only thing people really envy. Remember that, kid. 'Well, Bert, I'll tell you what,' he says. "We can't call it retirement. But you go to Florida with my blessing, and we'll say you're my eyes and ears down there. We need information, contacts, we'll call on you. How's that?'
" 'Frankie,' I say, 'that's great. God bless you.' So here it is eight years later, Joey, and here I am." Bert lifted his hands and his eyes toward the ceiling, but whether he was thanking heaven for his resurrection or simply locating himself in space it was impossible to tell. "Six years ago I had a triple bypass, and today I feel as good as an old fart can expect to feel."
Joey took a sip of his tequila. "Unbefuckinglievable, Bert. Afuckingmazing. So have they called on you?"
The old mafioso leaned closer and Joey caught a whiff of his bay rum after-shave above the booze-and- washrag smell of the bar. "Joey," he whispered, "this is why I wanted to talk to you. This is what I'm trying to tell you. There's been nothing for them to call on me about. In the early years, yeah, every three, four months they'd ask me to check up on something, but it was usually something in Miami. These New York guys, ya know, they got no sense of geography. I'd say to them, 'How the fuck should I know what goes on in Miami? Miami is as far from here as Brooklyn is from Baltimore.'
" 'Oh yeah?' they'd say. "Where's Baltimore?'
"But Joey, since Scalera got whacked, I hardly get called at all. Once in a great while maybe. But our friends are just not active down here, Joey. This is what I'm telling you. And why aren't they? 'Cause there's a whole different mix of people down here- Cubans, military, treasure hunters, smugglers-and a whole different set of scams. Your father knows that, Joey. Your brother Gino should know it."