from here. The water in between, it's called the Florida
Straits. Now, ships useta all the time run up onna reef and sink.
These families that are so rich now? They lived in shacks by the
water. Shacks! They peed innee ocean. They didn't even have glass
inna windows.
"But they were smart. They built lookout
towers. A ship goes down, boom, they jump in their boats and row
out the Straits. They rowed out there in squalls, in hurricanes.
And the law of the sea says the first guy who gets there, it's his
boat. He owns whatever's on there—silver, jewelry, cash, whatever.
Course, sometimes it helped to have a shotgun, to prove you were
there first. So these snooty families that get hospital wings named
after them, they started, like, as hijackers."
Joey was still staring at the water; his
hairline was crawling. "So, Bert, you're telling me I should get a
fucking rowboat and wait for a shipwreck?"
"Nah, forget about it," said the older man.
"This was a hundred years ago. These days, there's treasure
salvors, it's big business. There's this one guy, Clem
Sanders—"
"Bert," Joey blurted, "so what are you
telling me? I'm like dyin' heah."
"What am I telling you?" Bert repeated.
"Joey, I'm sevenny-tree years old, I been dead, I hafta all the
time know what I'm saying? I'm just thinkin' out loud, like trying
to clue you in on the local traditions. 'Cause they matter, Joey.
Remember that. Local traditions. They matter in New York, they
matter here. Where's the goddamn dog?"
Bert reached down underneath his chair,
stretched his fingers toward the quivering chihuahua, and looked
skyward to check the position of the sun. Then he stood up halfway
with the chair lifted against his shrunken backside and moved a
foot or so around the table. "You're a pain innee ass," he said to
the dog. Then, to Joey: "I gotta keep him in the shade or he like
dries out. He went inta convulsions once. Almost popped his eyes
right out of his head. Fuck you laughing at?"
"Bert," Joey said, "you weigh like a hundred
seventy pounds and the dog like weighs four ounces. Wouldn't it be
easier to move the dog?"
"Dog don't wanna move. Dog don't wanna do
nothing but shit onna floor and now and then jerk off on a table
leg. Mind your fucking business."
"I ain't got no business. That's why I'm
here."
"Right," said Bert. "So think about water.
This is what I'm telling you. This Clem Sanders guy, this treasure
guy, he goes around telling people that a whole third of all the
gold and silver and jewels that's ever been mined has ended up at
the bottom of the sea."
"A third of everything?" said Joey. " 'Zat
true?"
Bert turned his palms up and shrugged. "How
the fuck should I know if it's true? I only know this guy says it."
He put a red three on a black four.
Joey went back to staring at the green water
and listened to the dry rustle of the palms. "So Bert," he began,
trying to keep his tone businesslike and to choke back the rising
wave of panic, the unspeakable fear that he might go broke, come up
with no ideas, and return, ashamed, to Queens. "I don't know what
I'm gonna do. But let's say I come up with a way to pull some bucks
outta the ocean. We gonna be partners, or what?"
Bert pursed his full and restless lips,
turned over his last card, and, stymied, gathered up his losing
hand. "Kid," he said, "it's nice of you to ask. But I'm through.
Me, I'm all talk and no action, and I like it that way. It's real
easy. And I'll tell ya something, Joey. The longer you stay in
Florida, the more you appreciate what's easy."
— 10 —
It was unusual for anyone to knock at the
gate of the compound, since half of Key West knew the combination
to the lock. But several days after Joey's visit to the Paradiso,
at about ten-thirty in the morning, there was a rapping at the
wooden door. Steve the naked landlord was already in the pool with
his beers and his ashtray in front of him, his paperback spread
open on the damp tiles. Peter and Claude, the bartending
Straits. Now, ships useta all the time run up onna reef and sink.
These families that are so rich now? They lived in shacks by the
water. Shacks! They peed innee ocean. They didn't even have glass
inna windows.
"But they were smart. They built lookout
towers. A ship goes down, boom, they jump in their boats and row
out the Straits. They rowed out there in squalls, in hurricanes.
And the law of the sea says the first guy who gets there, it's his
boat. He owns whatever's on there—silver, jewelry, cash, whatever.
Course, sometimes it helped to have a shotgun, to prove you were
there first. So these snooty families that get hospital wings named
after them, they started, like, as hijackers."
Joey was still staring at the water; his
hairline was crawling. "So, Bert, you're telling me I should get a
fucking rowboat and wait for a shipwreck?"
"Nah, forget about it," said the older man.
"This was a hundred years ago. These days, there's treasure
salvors, it's big business. There's this one guy, Clem
Sanders—"
"Bert," Joey blurted, "so what are you
telling me? I'm like dyin' heah."
"What am I telling you?" Bert repeated.
"Joey, I'm sevenny-tree years old, I been dead, I hafta all the
time know what I'm saying? I'm just thinkin' out loud, like trying
to clue you in on the local traditions. 'Cause they matter, Joey.
Remember that. Local traditions. They matter in New York, they
matter here. Where's the goddamn dog?"
Bert reached down underneath his chair,
stretched his fingers toward the quivering chihuahua, and looked
skyward to check the position of the sun. Then he stood up halfway
with the chair lifted against his shrunken backside and moved a
foot or so around the table. "You're a pain innee ass," he said to
the dog. Then, to Joey: "I gotta keep him in the shade or he like
dries out. He went inta convulsions once. Almost popped his eyes
right out of his head. Fuck you laughing at?"
"Bert," Joey said, "you weigh like a hundred
seventy pounds and the dog like weighs four ounces. Wouldn't it be
easier to move the dog?"
"Dog don't wanna move. Dog don't wanna do
nothing but shit onna floor and now and then jerk off on a table
leg. Mind your fucking business."
"I ain't got no business. That's why I'm
here."
"Right," said Bert. "So think about water.
This is what I'm telling you. This Clem Sanders guy, this treasure
guy, he goes around telling people that a whole third of all the
gold and silver and jewels that's ever been mined has ended up at
the bottom of the sea."
"A third of everything?" said Joey. " 'Zat
true?"
Bert turned his palms up and shrugged. "How
the fuck should I know if it's true? I only know this guy says it."
He put a red three on a black four.
Joey went back to staring at the green water
and listened to the dry rustle of the palms. "So Bert," he began,
trying to keep his tone businesslike and to choke back the rising
wave of panic, the unspeakable fear that he might go broke, come up
with no ideas, and return, ashamed, to Queens. "I don't know what
I'm gonna do. But let's say I come up with a way to pull some bucks
outta the ocean. We gonna be partners, or what?"
Bert pursed his full and restless lips,
turned over his last card, and, stymied, gathered up his losing
hand. "Kid," he said, "it's nice of you to ask. But I'm through.
Me, I'm all talk and no action, and I like it that way. It's real
easy. And I'll tell ya something, Joey. The longer you stay in
Florida, the more you appreciate what's easy."
— 10 —
It was unusual for anyone to knock at the
gate of the compound, since half of Key West knew the combination
to the lock. But several days after Joey's visit to the Paradiso,
at about ten-thirty in the morning, there was a rapping at the
wooden door. Steve the naked landlord was already in the pool with
his beers and his ashtray in front of him, his paperback spread
open on the damp tiles. Peter and Claude, the bartending
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