"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.