"And the pink shirt," Joey went on, "is what I work in."
"Oh yeah," said Gino. "You work." To show that the idea amused him, Gino smiled. It was an odd, abrupt smile that squeezed his eyes and stretched his mouth so wide that the flesh of his cheeks piled up like drifted snow. But there was no humor whatsoever in the smile, and it seemed like Gino struck the expression only because he'd seen it on other people. "Well, siddown, siddown."
He motioned Joey into the booth next to the girlfriend, and still he didn't introduce her, so Joey introduced himself. He would be sitting thigh to thigh with her, breathing in her perfume that smelled like a rose garden on a very humid day. He ought to know her name at least.
"I'm Vicki," she said, and she held out a hand whose long red fingernails jabbed into Joey's wrist as they shook. Hearing the name, he could not help taking a quick confirming glance at this Vicki's semi-credible boobs. Their top acre jiggled as she slid across the booth, and he felt reassured that they were made of flesh.
"Had lunch?" asked Gino. He had a frozen daiquiri in front of him and a menu at his elbow.
"Don't have time," said Joey. "Gotta get back soon."
"My brother the executive," said Gino.
"Someday, maybe. Or maybe not. So what's up with you?"
Gino shrugged. His elbows were on the table and his beefy forearms framed a triangle of his wide and powerful chest. There was a definite resemblance between the two half brothers, but everything about Gino was thicker, coarser, more rough-hewn, as if he'd been sprung from the mold and sent on his way while Joey had continued to be carved and whittled, losing in strength what he gained in elegance. Where Joey's neck was thin but graceful, Gino's was sturdy but squat. Where Joey's gait was modest but springy, Gino's was imposing but earth- bound. And while Gino had a handsome face, it was a handsomeness that existed on the very edge of the ugly. His black eyes were bright and hard, but at moments they fell into a beady stare that suggested a birdlike unintelligence. His strong square nose, with its ample nostrils, could have been lifted directly from a Roman statue yet was only a hair's breadth away from being hoggish. His mouth was as lippy and sensual as his girlfriend's was unpromising, yet sometimes in the effort of forming words it appeared blubbery and almost lewd. 'Things are pretty much status quo with me," he said. "But hey kid, I got a bone to pick with you. How come you didn't come see me before you left New York?"
Now it was Joey's turn to shrug. To answer the question properly would have taken a lot more time than he had, probably the rest of his life in fact, and Gino wouldn't get it anyway. "Lot to do," he said. "And you know how it is, once you decide to go somewhere, ya just wanna get onna road. But how'd you decide to come to Key West?"
"Like I said, just a vacation. As good a place as any to catch a tan, and this way I get to see you."
Joey pulled his eyes away from his half brother and looked around the Eclipse on the pretext of scouting up a waitress. He found one and ordered a club soda. But all the while, he was reflecting on what a lousy liar Gino was. Or rather, Gino was a barely adequate liar, given the very low ambitions of his lying. A top- notch liar was satisfied with nothing short of convincing. An imaginative liar could spin out a story whose amusingness made up at least in part for the fact that you were being jerked around. But Gino didn't have enough imagination to make up a good story, or enough shame to give a damn if you knew he was lying in your face. It was just his way his way-one of his ways-of letting you know you would get nothing from him.
"Well, it's nice you came," said Joey, deciding to answer lie with lie. "So what'll you do while you're here."
"Ya know," said Gino. "Hang around. Eat. Do some shopping."
The word galvanized Vicki like a pinch on the nipple. "Shopping's lousy here," she suddenly piped up. "I never seen a town where all they got is T-shirts. All up and downa street."
"So you'll buy T-shirts," Gino said.
Vicki pulled her thin mouth into a pout. "Inna Bahamas, at least there's duty-free. Ya know, like perfume, jewelry-"
"Shut up," said Gino. "We ain't inna Bahamas."
"You could take a tour of the condo," Joey said, and regretted it before the words were out of his mouth. But he had a long history of misspeaking around Gino, out of discomfort. Besides, it was already getting to be a salesman's reflex with him to tell people they should have a look at Parrot Beach.
"That might be fun," said Vicki.
Gino didn't look like he thought so. He had no interest in Florida real estate. Or maybe what he had no interest in was what his kid brother was doing with his time.
So Joey backpedaled. "Nah, forget about it. It's not that inneresting, and besides, you hafta qualify."
"Whaddya mean, qualify? What kinda bullshit is qualify?" As a great sprinter comes to full speed in a single stride, so Gino Delgatto had the knack of coming to full belligerence in a single word. He was always ready to take umbrage at the merest suggestion that he might not be good enough for something.
"Like, for one thing," Joey said, "you need a credit card. You got a credit card, Gino?"
"Course I got a credit card. What kinda jerk travels these days widdout a credit card? I got a Gold Card. Dr. somebody. From Westchester, I think." And Gino smiled, not the stiff, forced grin but an easy smile of true delight. He was stealing. He was happy.
"And a license," Joey said.
"I got Bald Benny's old license," Gino said. "You know that."
Joey sipped his club soda. He was almost enjoying the conversation now. Should he point out that it might be awkward when Gino was asked to show both IDs, or should he leave his big brother with the mental challenge of figuring it out for himself? In the meantime he glanced at Vicki. Not much of a vacation for her, he figured. No shopping, no condo tour, no casinos with big-name entertainment. Did she withhold sexual favors when she was ticked off? Joey hoped so.
Gino at length came to the end of his analysis. "Yeah, I guess it would look, like, strange."
"Too bad," said Joey. "I coulda made forty bucks offa you guys."
"Hey, you strapped?" said Gino, and predictably, he reached into his pants pocket. Joey had seen him do it hundreds of times. He did it as naturally as other guys took their dicks out to pee. A single motion, the fat, spiraled wad of bills appeared, and Gino was once more master of the situation.
But this time Joey waved him off. "No, thanks, Gino. I'm not strapped. Besides, it wouldn't be the same, taking the money from you. It's a game, getting people to take the tour. The kick, that comes from figuring the game out, playing it good, and winning. Winning-you can understand that, can't ya, Gino?"
— 17 -
After work that day Joey drove the Cadillac to the Paradiso condominium and went looking for Bert the Shirt. He wasn't in his apartment. He wasn't under the steel umbrella by the pool. He wasn't in the screened gazebo where four old guys were playing gin.
"Anybody know where Bert is?" Joey asked the group.
One of the card players slowly lifted his left arm, held his wrist as far away as possible, and squinted at his watch. "Probably on the beach by now. His dog likes to watch the sun go down."
So Joey picked his way through the traffic on A1A, slipped through the ranks of bicycles and scooters streaming along the broad promenade that flanked the road, found a gap between two joggers, and stepped onto Smathers Beach.
An odd beach Smathers was, not like Jones Beach, Rockaway, or Coney Island. It was made of old coral, the bigger pieces resembling knucklebones, the smaller ones looking like shards and ribs from a well- picked chicken. Over the coral was a layer of imported sand that the town fathers had decided would be good for tourism. Where did it come from, this yellow-brown sand that looked like nothing else in the lower Keys? Or, for that matter, where did it go? Joey had no idea. But from day to day, and even from hour to hour, the sand seemed to sift downward through the coral, gradually disappearing into the bowels of the earth. What didn't fall through the cracks in the limestone blew unpredictably on every changing wind. One day it seemed that every grain of sand had decided to congregate up near the airport; next day the yellow-brown mass had migrated three quarters of a mile and was leaning against the fence that enclosed the private beach of the Flagler House hotel. There was only one thing you could count on about this sand: it would not be where your next footstep fell. No, your next footstep would carry you to an exposed and upturned knuckle of coral, a piece of ancient Florida history that would stab you in the arch.