after that. Everyone shook hands genially and promised to stay in touch. It was only a few minutes after eleven o'clock.
They had a final drink after the visitors left. Empt clapped a meaty hand on Bending's shoulder, called him "old buddy," and said he had handled the matter of the local builder in masterful fashion.
"Like I told you," he said, laughing, "Bullshit Baffles Brains."
"Luther," Bending said, "what I told them was true. We want to keep a low profile on this thing, and the easiest way to keep everyone happy is to spread the loot around so none of the locals start asking questions."
"Ahh," Empt said roughly, "who gives a good goddamn what those turd-kickers think?"
William Holloway drove Bending home. Again, both men were silent with their own thoughts.
It was a balmy night, cool enough to turn off the air conditioner and run the windows down. As they drove eastward, they lost the moist, humid land odors and smelled the pungent freshness of the sea. It came into view molten and heaving, rippled mercury in the nightglow.
William Jasper Holloway felt a vague distaste for this melodramatic scene. It was all, land and sea, too exuberant. It offended his New England sensibilities. In all the State of Florida, there was no decent restraint.
He longed for order and tradition. He would have welcomed limits. Discipline, punishment, and guilt. But he found himself loose, a man involved with Teenage Honeypots, and he could not puzzle out the path that had brought him to this place.
It was said that in a new Ice Age, all of Florida would be submerged. Holloway found sour satisfaction in that prediction. He didn't want to think that the same catastrophe would drown his beloved Boston. It was enough to wish for the day when all this dreamy indolence would disappear.
All of Luther Empt's women, wives and whores alike, were as brassy as he. They all haggled. He was not an introspective man; it never occurred to him that he sought out such women. But he was happy with the cost-counters, the women who could work a deal. He respected them.
It simplified things. It saved him from such intangibles as affection, responsibility, love. It brought his personal relations down to the bottom line. Numbers. Profit or loss. Something he could understand.
He was smirky after the meeting with the mob guys. It was going to be a sweet deal. And it ended before midnight. Plenty of time . . .
He carried the unused whiskey down to his white Cadillac Seville. Then paid the bill at the motel desk with a credit card. It would all be billed to the new corporation. No fool he. Shortly before twelve, he was heading south on Federal Highway, windows down, a tape playing soft rock. He loosened his tie, opened his collar.
"Tomorrow der vurld!" he shouted in a thick German accent, and laughed uproariously.
He had, he figured, been to every raunchy pickup joint in Palm Beach and Broward counties. And sometimes as far south as Dade. He was heading for one of his favorite haunts now: a nude dancing dive west of 1-95 on Atlantic Boulevard. He usually scored there.
It was traditional Florida Honky-Tonk. Splintered wood floors. Topless barmaids. Neon beer signs. Plastic tables. Crashing jukebox. Waitresses with black net opera hose. A rough crowd of rednecks, tourists, hustlers, drug pushers— the lot. Luther Empt loved it: the smoke, noise, the smell— everything.
He was smart enough to know he was a man of crass tastes and vulgar appetites. The fancy Palm Beach cocktail lounges were bullshit. His home—the "Gold Coast villa"—was bullshit. This place, where men came to find women they could fuck, was the real thing. Everything else was bullshit.
He shouldered his way to the bar. He ordered a double Cutty from a barmaid whose naked breasts looked like underdone flapjacks. Then he stared around to check the action. He didn't even glance at the nude go-go dancer who was stroking her appendicitis scar in rhythm to "I Want to Love You, Baby."
There were creamers
They had a final drink after the visitors left. Empt clapped a meaty hand on Bending's shoulder, called him "old buddy," and said he had handled the matter of the local builder in masterful fashion.
"Like I told you," he said, laughing, "Bullshit Baffles Brains."
"Luther," Bending said, "what I told them was true. We want to keep a low profile on this thing, and the easiest way to keep everyone happy is to spread the loot around so none of the locals start asking questions."
"Ahh," Empt said roughly, "who gives a good goddamn what those turd-kickers think?"
William Holloway drove Bending home. Again, both men were silent with their own thoughts.
It was a balmy night, cool enough to turn off the air conditioner and run the windows down. As they drove eastward, they lost the moist, humid land odors and smelled the pungent freshness of the sea. It came into view molten and heaving, rippled mercury in the nightglow.
William Jasper Holloway felt a vague distaste for this melodramatic scene. It was all, land and sea, too exuberant. It offended his New England sensibilities. In all the State of Florida, there was no decent restraint.
He longed for order and tradition. He would have welcomed limits. Discipline, punishment, and guilt. But he found himself loose, a man involved with Teenage Honeypots, and he could not puzzle out the path that had brought him to this place.
It was said that in a new Ice Age, all of Florida would be submerged. Holloway found sour satisfaction in that prediction. He didn't want to think that the same catastrophe would drown his beloved Boston. It was enough to wish for the day when all this dreamy indolence would disappear.
All of Luther Empt's women, wives and whores alike, were as brassy as he. They all haggled. He was not an introspective man; it never occurred to him that he sought out such women. But he was happy with the cost-counters, the women who could work a deal. He respected them.
It simplified things. It saved him from such intangibles as affection, responsibility, love. It brought his personal relations down to the bottom line. Numbers. Profit or loss. Something he could understand.
He was smirky after the meeting with the mob guys. It was going to be a sweet deal. And it ended before midnight. Plenty of time . . .
He carried the unused whiskey down to his white Cadillac Seville. Then paid the bill at the motel desk with a credit card. It would all be billed to the new corporation. No fool he. Shortly before twelve, he was heading south on Federal Highway, windows down, a tape playing soft rock. He loosened his tie, opened his collar.
"Tomorrow der vurld!" he shouted in a thick German accent, and laughed uproariously.
He had, he figured, been to every raunchy pickup joint in Palm Beach and Broward counties. And sometimes as far south as Dade. He was heading for one of his favorite haunts now: a nude dancing dive west of 1-95 on Atlantic Boulevard. He usually scored there.
It was traditional Florida Honky-Tonk. Splintered wood floors. Topless barmaids. Neon beer signs. Plastic tables. Crashing jukebox. Waitresses with black net opera hose. A rough crowd of rednecks, tourists, hustlers, drug pushers— the lot. Luther Empt loved it: the smoke, noise, the smell— everything.
He was smart enough to know he was a man of crass tastes and vulgar appetites. The fancy Palm Beach cocktail lounges were bullshit. His home—the "Gold Coast villa"—was bullshit. This place, where men came to find women they could fuck, was the real thing. Everything else was bullshit.
He shouldered his way to the bar. He ordered a double Cutty from a barmaid whose naked breasts looked like underdone flapjacks. Then he stared around to check the action. He didn't even glance at the nude go-go dancer who was stroking her appendicitis scar in rhythm to "I Want to Love You, Baby."
There were creamers
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