Joey measured his need to talk against the tenets of his code. He couldn't say he wanted to look scary so he could shake guys down. "Ya know," he said, "just so I could, like, persuade people to do things for me."
"People do what they want," said Sandra. "You want people to do things for you, Joey, you have to make them want to."
But what Joey wanted was for people to hand him large amounts of cash. This didn't happen by making nice. It happened by… well, Joey was close to admitting he didn't know how it happened. And in the meantime here he was, snuggled up in the sack, helplessly going broke. In the meantime he was feeling more guilty every day that Sandra was earning and he was not. No, he had to keep pushing.
But why? Where was the justice in it, the sense? Joey thought about Steve. He didn't push. All he did was stand bare-assed in the pool all day. And, unlikely as it seemed, Steve was in his quiet way a big shot. He owned the compound. He was a landlord in a town where rents were through the roof. How had it happened? Did he start off rich, or once do something very smart? Joey had to admit he didn't have a clue how most people made their livings, couldn't figure the logic that made the legitimate world keep turning. If he could figure it out… well, hell, he had his own angles to worry about.
And there were plenty of them he hadn't looked into yet. There was bed linen for the hotels and table linen for the restaurants. There was construction, union or otherwise. There was garbage. He just had to keep up his initiative. He'd get some sleep, drink some coffee, catch some sun; then, when he was feeling rested and looking prosperous, he'd drag his desperate ass downtown and try again.
–
Cliff, the daytime bartender at the Eclipse Saloon, smiled weakly and stifled a yawn. This was the sleepy time, coming up on four p.m. The lunch rush was over, the waitresses were smoking and yakking across the empty dining room as they filled the ketchup bottles and topped off the saltshakers for dinner. The bar was vacant except for a couple of lushes who'd been there since breakfast and the occasional regular who stopped by for one pop and some air-conditioning. Late afternoon was also when the dullest strangers wandered in, baffled tourists traveling alone, salesmen who needed a quick belt before opening the swatch book one more time. They always wanted to talk, these solitary ones. They talked about ex-wives, their time in the navy, the clogs in their fuel injectors. They talked about autumn in New England, winter in the Rockies, springtime in Amarillo, about everyplace they ever remembered being happy, but not happy enough to stay there. Now here was a guy who wanted to talk about garbage.
"So how does it work down here?" Joey asked, nursing his tequila. "Is it city, or private, or what?"
"You pay the city," said Cliff, "and the city contracts it out."
"Ah," said Joey. Cliff didn't want to sound bored, and Joey didn't want to sound disappointed. But if garbage money went right to the town, hell, that was like socialism. How could you slam if the cheeks got mailed straight to city hall, if there were no private carters to squeeze? It killed initiative. "And there's no one who's, like, independent?"
The bartender caught himself yawning and pretended instead to be swallowing a sneeze. "I think the problem is using the dump. We've got this huge land-fill here. People call it Mount Trashmore…"
Across the U-shaped bar, a white-haired gent was gesturing for a cocktail, and Cliff took the opportunity to escape.
In a moment he returned, and his manner toward Joey had become just slightly deferential. "Bert would like to buy you a drink," he said, nodding toward the old man. "And if you have a minute, he'd like to talk with you."
Now, the Eclipse Saloon was a serious drinking establishment, the edge of whose bar was heavily padded with vinyl-covered foam rubber so customers could rest their elbows or their heads for long periods of time. Joey suddenly felt his arms sinking helplessly deeper into the upholstery, and he realized that his strength was being sapped by an idiotic gratitude that had put a lump in his throat. For weeks he'd been pushing, pushing, pushing. He'd thrust himself on people, taken the lead in every encounter. Everybody had either shied away or been ready to fight. This-O.K., it was a tiny thing, a free drink, but except for the occasional cup of herb tea, it was absolutely the first time in Florida that anyone had done anything for him.
He nodded a thank-you and the old gent waved him over.
He had white hair that in recent years had taken on a tinge of bronzy yellow, yellow like the color of nicotine. He was lean and tall, but with the stretched-out droop of someone who used to be taller. His eyes were black, deep-set, and just a little too close together around a bent and monumental nose.
"Hello, Joey," he said. "Siddown."
The recognition should have made him very edgy, but Joey was so hard up for company that he barely let himself be bothered. "How you know my name?"
"This is a small town, Joey. Guy shows up, drives around in an El D with a New York tag, starts asking about bolita, starts talking to truckers, it gets noticed, people talk. And me, I'm a guy people talk to. No particular reason. Except I'm around, I'm available, I listen."
There was something strange about Bert's voice, something that Joey could not immediately place. Then he realized what it was. Bert sounded normal to him. "You from New York?"
"Yeah. Brooklyn. President Street."
"Whaddya know. Me, I'm from-"
"Astoria," Bert put in. "Right around Crescent Street."
Joey gave an uneasy little laugh. "You tryin' to make me, like, paranoid?"
"Joey," said the old man. He leaned back on his stool to give his young companion a chance to see him whole. "You really don't remember me? I guess I've really fucking aged."
Joey scanned the old man's long and loose-skinned face, and meanwhile Bert went on. "And if ya don't mind my saying so as an old family friend"-he pointed to the earpiece of Joey's sunglasses looped over his shirt pocket-"carrying your glasses that way, it makes you look like a pimp."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," said Bert. "And speaking of which, if you're gonna pimp, try females. You might do better."
"You know about that." It wasn't a question, and Joey no longer sounded surprised.
"Small town, Joey. Very small town. But hey, that goes for every town. New York's the same. Joey, your father's a friend a mine, a business friend. And I knew your mother. A lovely woman. Plus which, I knew you, Joey, when you were a little kid. Four, five years old. Too little to remember, I guess. I useta see you inna park. You had the curliest hair of any kid there. You don't remember?"
The old man's lips were full and always moving, as if his teeth didn't set too comfortably in his gums. His ears were close to his head but big and soft, with fleshy lobes. His shirt was immaculate, with a pattern of white diamonds embossed on a white background, the starched wings of the collar as straight and even as the tail fins of a plane. "Bert," said Joey. "Bert." He screwed his face into deep-memory mode; then it unwound into a tentative smile. "Bert the Shirt?"
The old man give a quick and furtive glance around the virtually empty bar. " Piano, piano, Joey. That's not a name I'm known by anymore. It's just Bert d'Ambrosia, retiree."
"Bert," Joey repeated, like the name tasted good in his mouth. "Sure I remember. My mother liked you. Said you were a gentleman. And you always had hard candies in your pocket." Then Joey's face darkened and by primitive reflex he recoiled. "But hey, I thought you were dead."