Sunburn (10 page)

Confusion lingered for a moment, but it passed, and then the Godfather felt weirdly, deadly happy. He was floating, empty, on a brief vacation so splendid as to undo his life. Behind his eyelids, different colors scudded past; he tried them on like ties. He saw a color he especially loved and locked it into place. It was a reddish purple streaked with black; he recognized it instantly as the color of the pressed grapes when his father made wine in the basement sixty years before. He smelled the mash—musky, woody, more like wine than the finished wine itself—and then he smiled, or thought he did, when he remembered what was done with the squeezed-out fruit. They had a fig tree in the backyard, a fig tree that bore figs in Queens. It was a thousand miles out of place, this tree, but it would live the winter if you took care of it, if you decked it out. So the pressed grapes would be spread around the tree, would ripen again into a gorgeous reddish-purple mat of stems and skins and mold. Tarpaper, ashes, old linoleum held down with tires—everything was blanketed around the tree, built up in a cone that sometimes gave off steam. And in the summer there'd be figs, their skins sticky with oozing juice, their insides warm as thighs. And basil, huge bouquets of it, and tomatoes, red as fire engines even at the core. . . .

The Godfather stirred. Flat light filtered through his eyelids. His ears hummed though the throbbing in his head had eased, flattened into a steady ache. He remembered where he was, remembered that some six decades, a little more, had passed. He'd have to tell Arty about the fig tree, the mat of grapes. He told himself, Remember ta tell Ahty.

He opened his eyes. He saw the porcelain of the commode, the open cabinet of the leaky sink he'd failed to fix. A drop fell from the faucet, mocking him.

He rested awhile, telling himself there was no reason he shouldn't stay there on the chilly floor next to the toilet. Finally he got to his knees, put things back into the cabinet, closed it up. He didn't want to leave a mess, didn't want anyone to know he'd fainted or that he'd tried to do a simple job and couldn't do it. He paused a moment more, then slowly stood and went on thin unsteady legs to his bed.

" 'Lo, Bert," said a voice from over his left shoulder.

The resurrected mobster, his clogged chihuahua dozing on his lap, made only a slow and grudging effort to turn around. He was on the beach, sitting in his folding mesh-weave chair; it was nearly sunset and he wasn't feeling sociable. The cold front had passed through, leaving in its wake a crystalline blue sky and a brisk wind that chased the ocean ripples back to sea. He wanted just to watch.

But, grudgingly, he turned. He saw two men, one of them an old acquaintance from New York. His name was Hawkins, and a decade or so before he'd been a most aggressive and resourceful cop, the agent who, almost single-handedly, had built the so-called I-Beam case and had subpoenaed Bert the Shirt to testify at the trial of his bosses. Bert had been walking up the courthouse steps, rehearsing the words of the Fifth Amendment, when the pressure got him and he died.

"Well, whaddya know," he said, and with no further comment he turned back toward the green ocean and the sinking orange sun.

His two visitors strolled around his chair and stood in front of him in the crumbled coral that passed for sand. Bert took a moment to size up the other guy: short, white, thick-built in a sleeveless shirt and running shorts. He said to Hawkins, black, tall, almost gangly, "Congratulations, Ben. I didn't know you had a son."

Mark Sutton's sprayed hair moved no more than a building in the wind, but his neat bland face crawled with affronted dignity. He moved his mouth, but before he could speak he doubled over and gave a wrenching sneeze.

Bert ignored the introduction. "Those winter colds," he said. "I remember 'em. The mucus, postnasal drip, the way your nostrils get all crusty inside, after a few days they bleed." He put his hands behind his head, sucked in a deep breath of salty air. "Mus' be mizzable up theah."

Ben Hawkins crinkled up his stuffed nose and sniffled. "Don't gloat, Bert," he said. "Man your age, it's unbecoming."

The old mafioso motioned like he was composing a photograph, then waved the younger agent a little to the right. "Yo, Muscles, you're blockin' my view."

Sutton slid over an inch or two.

Hawkins said, "Nice shirt."

Lovingly, Bert caressed his billowing sleeve. The blouse was of a heavy, nubby linen, a forest-green background with tiny pastel boomerangs. "Good clot', good tailoring, seams ya could swing on. . . . Ya come alla way down heah to compliment me on my habbadashery?"

"Checking out the hit on Emilio Carbone," said Mark Sutton. He set his mouth in a purposeful frown and gave a slight flex to his abs.

Bert jerked in his chair, threw his hands up like in the Wild West. "How'd ya know it was me, kid? OK, ya got me fair and square."

Hawkins shook his head. "Same old Bert. Always taking credit."

Bert didn't answer, he just stared at Ben Hawkins's feet, stared at them so long that eventually Mark Sutton and Hawkins himself glanced down at them as well, looking for an answer to some mute mystery. "I was just tryin'a think," the old man said at last, "if ever in my life, even once before, I seen a black guy wearin' boat shoes."

"Vincente Delgatto's in town," said Hawkins.

"And speakin' a habbadashery," said Bert, "you, Hawkins, you think you're dressed for Key West? Creased chinos? Gingham shirt? You're dressed for fuckin' Palm Beach. Muscles heah, he's dressed for Key West. Tank top. Tight shorts. The fellas on Duval Street are gonna love 'im."

"Must be nice having an old friend around," said Ben Hawkins. "Been seeing him?"

"Nah," said Bert. "Busy schedule. Ya know, hot dates, gin rummy. Lotta women after me." He scratched Don Giovanni behind the ears and looked out across the ocean. Windblown ripples skidded southward, toward the sun. For some reason Bert found it sad to see the water move that way, receding.

"Some people think Delgatto called the hit on Carbone," said Mark Sutton.

"That's fuckin' stupid," said the Shirt.

"Gino's in town too," said Hawkins. "We thought maybe there's a confab going on."

The sun went a shade redder and seemed to spin as it made its arcing dive for the horizon. "You try havin' a confab wit' Gino," Bert suggested. "See if ya can follow two words he says."

A moment passed. Then Hawkins said, "Bert, there's no hard feelings between us, right?"

He petted his dog. "Ya mean just because ya killed me? 'Course not. Best thing that ever happened. Wit'out ya killed me, I could be standin' theah like you. Red eyes, runny nose—"

"So maybe you'll help us out this time," Ben Hawkins said.

"Don't make me laugh, I got chapped lips."

"You're an easy guy to talk to, Bert," said Hawkins. "Maybe Vincente said something, maybe the Fabrettis have been in touch."

"I'm retired," said the Shirt. "Thanks to you."

Mark Sutton put his hands on his hips and bent forward with a show of menace. "You're not retired as far as we're concerned."

The Shirt looked deeply unimpressed. "Where'd ya find this guy," he said to Hawkins, "the high school gym?"

"Be nice, Bert," urged Ben Hawkins. "Who knows, maybe sometime there'd be something we could do for you."

Bert peered off at the ocean. The sun was a finger's breadth above it now, pouring an endless stream of molten stuff that put a red trough in the water. The line of flame spilled straight toward Bert the Shirt but then was intercepted by the bulk of Mark Sutton's quadriceps. "There is," the old man said to Hawkins. "Ya could ask Muscles heah ta please stop standin' in my light."

That evening, sitting outside on the patio, Joey Goldman said, "Pop, I think that's great. Terrific. I'm happy for ya."

The bastard son half rose from his chair, leaned across the low metal table, and touched his father's shoulder. The touch was part squeeze, part pat on the back, it seemed more like something a father would do to a son than vice versa, and the upside-downness of the moment made both men feel a little shy. Vincente looked down and almost smiled. Writing a book—OK,
telling
a book—the newness of it, the unlikeliness, did in fact make him feel somehow boyish, pleasantly green. For a couple of breaths he basked in the quiet pleasure of realizing that even now, at the age of seventy-three, he could still surprise himself, still strike off toward the unexpected. He savored that realization until he could no longer ignore the fact that Gino, his firstborn, his heir, had made no response whatever to his news.

Finally he could not help asking, "And you, Gino, you got anything ta say?"

The heavy man shifted in his chair, he turned onto a hip so that his ample backside was lifted slightly toward his father and his jowly sulking face was held away. He sucked his teeth, pushed out his lips, and said at last, "I think it's wrong. Ya want the truth, I think it fucking stinks."

Overhead, crisp winter stars were shining; the cloudless sky seemed empty of all movement. A blue gleam hovered above the lightly rippled surface of Joey Goldman's swimming pool. Gino's vehemence came as a rude insertion in the stillness.

"You of all people, Pop," he went on. "Blabbin'. Spillin' your guts. Tellin' everyone about us. It ain't right."

Joey watched his father, waited for the old man to defend himself, to put Gino in his place. But Vincente just sat, his hands folded in his lap, his long hairy ears apparently unstung by his son's complaints. It was the younger brother who could not keep silent.

"Gino, it's a different world out there," he said. "What're we talking heah, Sicilian passwords? Secret handshakes? Ya think Pop's gonna give away any deep dark secrets, ya think he's gonna say things that could hurt—"

"That ain't the point," said Gino.

"No?" said Joey. "Then what is the point?"

Asked for logic, Gino swiveled farther in his chair, presented a wider swath of his ass. He chewed a fingernail, grunted, then finally said, "The point is that who we are, what we do, it's like . . . separate."

Joey crossed his legs, hugged an ankle. "Separate from what?"

Gino gestured broadly, tried to pluck an answer out of the cool and empty air. "From everything. From how the other jerks live, how they do their business, how they settle things—"

"All the more reason," Joey said, "that someone should tell the story from the inside—"

The Godfather interrupted. He broke in with a rumble; there was a low rasp that readied the air before the words came out. "Gino, you got any money?"

The question seemed to come from nowhere, it made the big man squirm. He gave a short nervous laugh that was meant to sound offhand. "Plenny, Pop. But I don't see where money has to do—"

"I just thought," Vincente said, "maybe it bothered you, what I'm payin' Ahty, that after I'm dead it's his ta sell."

Gino tried to wave that notion away with a gesture that was a little too emphatic. "Nah, Pop, nah. It ain't the money. It's just that—"

He broke off, twisted in his seat, shook his head, and wriggled in his choked quest for words.

"I'm listenin'," said the Godfather.

"He's an outsider," Gino spluttered. "He ain't even Italian. Fuck is he, Jewish? So now you're gonna be spendin' all this time wit' 'im, gettin' close wit im—

"Gino, you jealous?" asked his brother.

"Fuck you, Joey. It ain't about that."

"It ain't about money," Joey said right back. "It ain't about bein' jealous. Gino, the more you shoot your mouth off, the more things it comes out it ain't about."

Gino's flat black eyes picked up blue light from the pool and zinged it at Joey. The big man's hairline crawled, the cloth of his trousers chafed him, his glower flicked back and forth between his father and his brother, and he couldn't figure out who he was madder at. When he spoke again his voice was dangerously calm. "Look," he said. "I don't wanna be embarrassed. 'Zat so fuckin' hard t'understand?" "Gino," Joey said, "Pop ain't gonna—" Gino cut him off. "You ain't a Delgatto. Fuck's it to you? For all I know, your Jew friend's givin' you a cut—"

"That's enough, Gino," Vincente said. He said it very softly. His hands were folded against his shrunken stomach. He looked at his two sons and wondered how much power and how much wisdom it would take to do right by more than one person at a time. A breeze stirred, just cool enough to tickle the backs of necks. Finally Vincente spoke again.

"Gino," he said, "look at me. I'm doin' this thing, my mind's made up. But my word as your father: I won't do or say anything that would embarrass you."

The two of them locked eyes. Gino's pudgy face was a mix of umbrage and defiance; Vincente's expression held determination and a dim unlikely hope. He wanted Gino to believe him, and he wished that Gino would return his promise, his pledge not to dishonor their common name, though he understood that was probably too much to wish for.

Gino went away mad.

He climbed into his rented T-Bird, floored it in reverse, and drove the few short blocks to Flagler House. But when he got there, saw the valet coming to take charge of the car, he decided he wasn't ready to go in yet; he wanted to ride around and think. He peeled out of the driveway and started over.

He drove up A1A, along the beach toward the airport. A lopsided moon was just coming up over the Florida Straits. A powdery orange pocked with gray, it threw a reddish beam that ran along the flat water and tracked the car as it barreled up the road.

The white lines slipped past, the coastline curved, and meanwhile Gino was thinking about obedience and respect. Or at least that's what he thought he was thinking about. In truth, he was thinking more about what he could dare to get away with. Not that he was against obedience. No, obedience was a handy thing, it made it nothing personal if, say, you were called upon to hurt someone; it justified holding back, say, from something that deep down you were scared to do. You obeyed out of respect, which was fear dressed up in fancy clothes, and the respect gave the whole business its dignity.