Tricky Business (19 page)

As Tark writhed on the floor, clutching at his neck, making a sound like
uck uck uck,
Frank rolled to his hands and knees, spat out another mouthful of tongue blood, and started struggling upright, trying to clear his head, to figure out how he was going to get the boat to the rendezvous, or anywhere, without Tark to drive it.

He was halfway to his feet when his peripheral vision registered that Kaz was no longer lying on the floor. He started to move, but as quick as he was, he was too late to get out of the way of the eight-pound marine fire extinguisher coming down on the back of his head.

FAY STOOD AT THE WAITRESS STATION OF THE bar, waiting for Joe Sarmino to finish her drink orders. Joe was a 67-year-old Cuban who, before he became a bartender, raised a family and put four kids through college by cleaning pools in the expensive homes of Coral Gables and Pinecrest, going house to house in his pickup with jugs of chemicals in the back, dawn to dusk, six days a week, 34 years.

“I think sometimes I pee chlorine,” is how he described it to Fay.

Once, when the bar was slow, he told her about things he'd found in his clients' pools. Alligators, for example; he'd encountered at least a dozen. Also the occasional snake. Hundreds of frogs. These were to be expected in South Florida, which as far as the native wildlife was concerned was still a swamp, no matter how many houses got built on it. But Joe had also found numerous non-wildlife things in pools, the most memorable being a naked human corpse; natural causes, the coroner said. Joe had also found a bowling ball, a trombone, a wide variety of cellular telephones, dozens of car keys, and a riding lawnmower, whose owner had decided at 5 A.M., after a night of alcohol and cocaine consumption, that it would be a good idea to spruce up his backyard. Joe had found a rifle, at least ten brassieres, a laptop computer, and three television sets, all of which had been deep-sixed following fourth-quarter-collapse losses by the Miami Dolphins. (“That prevent defense,” Joe said. “It don't prevent nothing.”)

Joe had also once serviced a pool containing the business wardrobe of a prominent, and well-dressed, Miami attorney. When Joe arrived, the attorney was in the deep end, wearing a dive mask and flippers, going down to the bottom and coming back up with a silk tie, a suit jacket, a wingtipped shoe, a dress shirt. He'd fling it onto the pool deck, take a breath, then go down for a new article of clothing.

“You need help with that, Mr. B?” Joe asked.

“No, thanks, Joe,” the attorney said. “I'm fine.”

The patio door opened, and a hand-stitched Italian loafer came sailing out, just missing the attorney's head, splashing into the water.

“VERY MATURE,” said the attorney. “THAT'S VERY MATURE.”

“DON'T TELL ME ABOUT MATURE, YOU BASTARD,” said a woman's voice from inside the house. “YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THE WORD MATURE MEANS.” The other loafer came sailing out.

“Maybe I come back another time,” said Joe.

“No, no,” said the attorney. “Do what you have to do.” He dove back under, came back up with a belt, holding it up like he'd caught an eel. Joe started around the pool, cleaning the basket filters. Something came flying out the patio door, splashing into the shallow end. As it settled on the bottom, Joe saw that it was a golf club. He didn't play, but sometimes on Sundays, on the sofa, he'd nap while watching the PGA on TV. This looked to him like a five iron.

“OH, THAT'S INTELLIGENT,” said the attorney. “THAT'S GOING TO ACCOMPLISH A LOT.”

“INTELLIGENT?” said the voice from the house. Another club came sailing out. Driver. “YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT INTELLIGENT? HOW INTELLIGENT IS IT TO COME HOME WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND'S PANTIES IN YOUR FUCKING GLOVE COMPARTMENT ? Oh, hello, Joe.”

“Hi, Mrs. B,” said Joe. “I think maybe I come back later.”

“No, no,” she said. “You go right ahead.” Another club splashed into the water, a putter, with one of those offset shafts. The attorney, treading water, watched it sink to the bottom.

“YOU WONDER WHY WE HAVE INTIMACY ISSUES,” he said. “YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO THE TONE OF YOUR VOICE.”

Joe told this story to Fay deadpan, polishing the bar. Fay shook her head.

“Intimacy issues,” she said.

“Next week I go back there,” he said, “they on the patio together, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, like nothing happen.”

“Just like that,” said Fay.

“But I bet he have to buy some new shoes,” said Joe.

Tonight on the
Extravaganza,
there wasn't time for long conversation, just a few minutes here and there while Fay waited for Joe to fill her drink orders. Mounted over the bar was a TV set, usually tuned to ESPN, but tonight tuned to NewsPlex Nine. On the screen a reporter was in a supermarket, interviewing panicked shoppers lined up with their overflowing carts, then showing bare shelves, the reporter explaining that the store was running out of certain emergency supplies—water, batteries, bleach.

“Let me ask you something,” said Fay. “What's the deal with the bleach?”

“The bleach?” said Joe.

“Yeah,” said Fay. “In a hurricane, people always buy bleach, but I don't get what they do with it.”

Joe paused for a moment from pouring margarita mix, pondering. Then he said: “I don't know, but they tell you to buy it, the bleach.”

On the screen, the supermarket reporter had been replaced with a blob of red that whirled around in the center of the screen, counterclockwise, like a hurricane, and then turned into the words NEWSPLEX NINE BREAKING STORM NEWS BULLETIN. These words then whirled around and got smaller and went to the upper right corner of the screen, which now showed the NewsPlex Nine NewsCenter, where the male and female anchors/lovers were looking even more frowny than usual, indicating that something bad, and therefore exciting, had happened.

“I'm afraid we have had a tragic development in connection with Tropical Storm Hector,” said the female, who then looked to the man to continue the story, because NewsPlex Nine anchors generally did not say more than a sentence at a time.

“We have had an apparent electrocution caused by a power line down in some flooding in the Westchester area,” said the male anchor.

“Westchester, I used to live there,” said Joe Sarmino. “They getting flooding every time a dog take a leak.”

The female anchor was saying, “. . . to NewsPlex Nine Storm Specialist Todd Ford, on the scene of this tragic development.”

On the screen was a blond young man in a yellow NewsPlex Nine rain poncho, standing at the middle of a flooded residential street, the water coming up to his mid-shins.

“Bill and Jill,” he said, “police are telling us the tragedy occurred about forty-five minutes ago, when a young boy was electrocuted while playing with some friends in the street about two blocks behind me. As you can see, there's about a foot and a half of water here, and there are power lines down, so police and fire rescue are warning the public that they must not, I repeat not, go into this flood water, because it is extremely dangerous.”

“Why is HE in the water?” said Fay.

“That's what I'm wondering,” said Joe.

Now NewsPlex Nine was doing a picture-in-picture effect, with the reporter in the main picture and the anchors frowning in a smaller picture on the upper left. The upper right still said NEWSPLEX NINE BREAKING STORM NEWS BULLETIN.

“Todd,” said the male anchor, “do we have any identification yet on the victim?”

“As of now,” said the reporter, “police are saying only that—”

The larger picture went dark. In the smaller picture, the two anchors continued frowning for a second. The male said: “Todd?”

Nothing.

The female said: “Apparently, we're having some technical difficulties from that location.”

Joe Sarmino said to Fay, “Maybe we safer out here.”

 

AT A THREE-DOLLAR BLACKJACK TABLE ON THE first deck, Arnie was staring at his cards, a six and a three. He tapped the table for another card; the dealer flipped him a two. He tapped again; another six. Seventeen.

“I should stand on this,” he announced to the other players—two Latin guys—and the dealer. “That's the smart strategy, stand on seventeen. But I'm not gonna stand, and you know why?”

Nobody said anything.

“Because I been following the smart strategy all night, and you know what I won?”

Nobody said anything.

“I won bupkis,” said Arnie. He looked at the Latin guys. “You familiar with bupkis? They got bupkis in Cuba?”

“Not Cuba,” said one of the Latin guys. “El Salvador.”

“You got bupkis down there?” said Arnie.

“What is it?” said the guy.

“It's nothing,” said Arnie.
“Nada.”

“Oh yeah,” said the guy. “We got a lot of that.”

“You want a card?” the dealer asked Arnie.

“Isn't that what I'm saying?” said Arnie.

“I got no idea what you're saying,” said the dealer.

“I' m saying hit me,” said Arnie.

“Then tap the table,” said the dealer. “So
they
know what you're saying.” He pointed up at the surveillance camera.

Arnie waved to the camera, then tapped the table. The dealer flipped over another card. The queen of clubs.

“NOW the smart strategy works,” said Arnie, as the dealer took his chips.

“How you doing?” said Phil, coming up to the table.

“If the object of blackjack was to get twenty-two or more,” said Arnie, “I would own this boat. You?”

“Tell you the truth, I did pretty good at the roulette,” said Phil. “Playing my grandchildren's birthdays. I hit three times, you believe that?”

“I can't remember my grandchildren's birthdays,” said Arnie.

“Neither can I,” said Phil. “But from now on, they're on the twelfth, sixteenth, and twenty-seventh.”

“Are you in?” the dealer said to Arnie.

“Of course,” said Arnie, putting three one-dollar chips in the circle. “Lady Luck is gonna change her mind. I feel it.”

The dealer dealt one card, two cards. The first El Salvadoran had blackjack. The second took a card, stood on eighteen.

“So how come you left, if you were winning?” Arnie said to Phil.

“There was a smell,” said Phil.

“A smell?” said Arnie.

“Like somebody took a dump.”

The El Salvadorans laughed. Phil turned to them.

“What?” he said.

“You playing roulette upstairs?” the closer one said. “With the lady?” He made the international hand gesture for large bosoms.

“Yes,” said Phil. “Why?”

The El Salvadorans laughed again. The dealer snickered.

“What?” said Phil.

“You want a card?” the dealer asked Arnie. Arnie had a king and a three. He tapped the table.

“Come on, Lady Luck,” he said.

The dealer flipped him a nine.

“Bupkis,” said the El Salvadorans.

“Lady Luck is a bitch, you know that?” said Arnie.

 

“THAT'S GOOD,” SAID LOU TARANT. “RIGHT there.”

Tarant was sitting, naked, on a leather sofa in the living room of his 4,200-square-foot North Miami Beach penthouse condominium with ocean view, in front of his $8,000 42-inch, flat-screen plasma-monitor TV. In his right hand, he held the remote control. His left hand was on the neck of Dee Dee Holdscomb, Bobby Kemp's former secretary, who was kneeling between Tarant's thick hairy thighs.

“That's real good,” Tarant said.

“Mmmmwmf,” said Dee Dee.

“What?” said Tarant.

Dee Dee lifted her head. “Don't squeeze my neck so hard,” she said. “I tole you that a hunnert times.”

“Sorry,” said Tarant. “You're doing real good, baby.”

“Mmmmwmf,” said Dee Dee, back at work.

Tarant clicked over to ESPN, now showing video of John Daly hitting a tee shot. Christ, that guy could rip it. That thing had to go half a mile. Tarant had a titanium driver, took lessons, worked on his stance, practiced his swing every chance he got, went to the driving range every week, and he couldn't come within a hundred yards of this guy's tee shots, this fat slob who wouldn't last five seconds against Tarant in a fight. It pissed Tarant off, the way this guy could hit the ball.

“
Dammit
Lou,” said Dee Dee, lifting her head again, yanking his hand away from her neck. “I just
tole
you, don't
do
that.”

“Sorry, baby,” he said, putting his hand back, pushing her head back down. “It just feels so good, what you're doing there, is all.”