forty bucks, forked over from the
mysterious coffers of the legitimate world.
Returning to his post, he resolved to put
the commission toward a pair of tennis shoes. The black loafers he
was wearing were stylish but wrong. They let too much heat come up
through the sidewalk and their thin soles passed along the pebbled
texture of the concrete. He figured he'd keep this job at least a
few more weeks, till he found the right way back to his true
calling. This was temporary, very temporary, but for as long as it
lasted he might as well be comfortable.
— 15 —
In the last week of February Joey made four
hundred and eighty dollars and decided to celebrate by inviting
Bert the Shirt over for filet mignon and a couple bottles of
Valpolicella. It was time, he felt, that Bert and Sandra met. It
was time he learned to use the gas grill at the compound. It was
time, maybe, to get on terms with such basic social ceremonies as
having a friend to the house on Saturday night.
Sandra bought a new blouse for the occasion.
It was thin white cotton stamped with small pink birds, and it hung
on the back of a chair while Sandra brushed on her eyeshadow and
dabbed on her lipstick. She was beginning to have what was, for
her, a tan. On her face and shoulders, orange-pink dots were strewn
across her blue-white skin, gradually coloring her in the way a
comic strip is colored in. The resulting blush made her light eyes
seem a crisper green, green like a vegetable with crunch, and her
short hair closer to silver than to yellow. "You know," she said,
lifting a bra strap to better examine her tan lines in the mirror,
"sometimes I think I'm the only person in this town who wears a
bra."
Joey had a quick flash of Vicki, and
banished the image.
He regarded Sandra's chaste white appliance,
with its rim of dainty lace, its girding of clasps and elastic.
"Well, you don't have to wear one," he said, feeling on safe ground
saying it. It was about as likely that Sandra would give up her
foundation garments as that the cardinal would stop wearing a
hat.
"Well," she said, and left it at that.
Turning half profile, she appraised her chest with that amazing
dispassion women can muster when looking at their bodies. When Joey
looked in the mirror, he tended to see muscle definition that
wasn't quite there, tended not to notice the merest beginnings of a
tummy. But Sandra duly recorded every crease and flaw, pitilessly
noted every lack or excess. Humbled by such realism, Joey changed
the subject.
"So the potatoes are in, the lettuce is
washed. What else?"
"I wish the plates matched."
"It's a rented place. Bert'll
understand."
The evening, even by Key West's relentless
standards, was beautiful. A slow and undramatic sunset had left the
sky pale yellow in the west, lavender backed by pearl gray at the
zenith, velvety blue like the inside of a jewel box in the east.
The air was the temperature of lips and there was just enough
breeze to lift the smell of jasmine from the hedge. The compound
was given over to uncomplicated pleasures. Wendy was sitting
chin-deep in the hot tub while Marsha massaged the tension out of
her shoulders. Luke the musician and Lucy the mailman dangled their
feet in the still blue pool, their twin headsets plugged into a
single Walkman. Steve the naked landlord, draped now in a towel
against the relative chill of dusk, had dozed off in a lounge
chair, a paperback about clones rising and falling on his ample
stomach.
Joey ushered in Bert the Shirt just as Peter
and Claude, dressed in peppermint-stripe tunics, were heading off
to work. He introduced them.
"And who's this little fur-face?" cooed
Claude.
Joey could not help cringing a little.
Fur-face?
But the retired mobster held his chihuahua
forward in the palm of his hand so Claude could pet him. "This
useless thing? This is Don Giovanni."
"Like the opera," Peter said, and he burst
into a scrap of tune.
The tune sounded vaguely familiar to Bert,
though since he'd died
mysterious coffers of the legitimate world.
Returning to his post, he resolved to put
the commission toward a pair of tennis shoes. The black loafers he
was wearing were stylish but wrong. They let too much heat come up
through the sidewalk and their thin soles passed along the pebbled
texture of the concrete. He figured he'd keep this job at least a
few more weeks, till he found the right way back to his true
calling. This was temporary, very temporary, but for as long as it
lasted he might as well be comfortable.
— 15 —
In the last week of February Joey made four
hundred and eighty dollars and decided to celebrate by inviting
Bert the Shirt over for filet mignon and a couple bottles of
Valpolicella. It was time, he felt, that Bert and Sandra met. It
was time he learned to use the gas grill at the compound. It was
time, maybe, to get on terms with such basic social ceremonies as
having a friend to the house on Saturday night.
Sandra bought a new blouse for the occasion.
It was thin white cotton stamped with small pink birds, and it hung
on the back of a chair while Sandra brushed on her eyeshadow and
dabbed on her lipstick. She was beginning to have what was, for
her, a tan. On her face and shoulders, orange-pink dots were strewn
across her blue-white skin, gradually coloring her in the way a
comic strip is colored in. The resulting blush made her light eyes
seem a crisper green, green like a vegetable with crunch, and her
short hair closer to silver than to yellow. "You know," she said,
lifting a bra strap to better examine her tan lines in the mirror,
"sometimes I think I'm the only person in this town who wears a
bra."
Joey had a quick flash of Vicki, and
banished the image.
He regarded Sandra's chaste white appliance,
with its rim of dainty lace, its girding of clasps and elastic.
"Well, you don't have to wear one," he said, feeling on safe ground
saying it. It was about as likely that Sandra would give up her
foundation garments as that the cardinal would stop wearing a
hat.
"Well," she said, and left it at that.
Turning half profile, she appraised her chest with that amazing
dispassion women can muster when looking at their bodies. When Joey
looked in the mirror, he tended to see muscle definition that
wasn't quite there, tended not to notice the merest beginnings of a
tummy. But Sandra duly recorded every crease and flaw, pitilessly
noted every lack or excess. Humbled by such realism, Joey changed
the subject.
"So the potatoes are in, the lettuce is
washed. What else?"
"I wish the plates matched."
"It's a rented place. Bert'll
understand."
The evening, even by Key West's relentless
standards, was beautiful. A slow and undramatic sunset had left the
sky pale yellow in the west, lavender backed by pearl gray at the
zenith, velvety blue like the inside of a jewel box in the east.
The air was the temperature of lips and there was just enough
breeze to lift the smell of jasmine from the hedge. The compound
was given over to uncomplicated pleasures. Wendy was sitting
chin-deep in the hot tub while Marsha massaged the tension out of
her shoulders. Luke the musician and Lucy the mailman dangled their
feet in the still blue pool, their twin headsets plugged into a
single Walkman. Steve the naked landlord, draped now in a towel
against the relative chill of dusk, had dozed off in a lounge
chair, a paperback about clones rising and falling on his ample
stomach.
Joey ushered in Bert the Shirt just as Peter
and Claude, dressed in peppermint-stripe tunics, were heading off
to work. He introduced them.
"And who's this little fur-face?" cooed
Claude.
Joey could not help cringing a little.
Fur-face?
But the retired mobster held his chihuahua
forward in the palm of his hand so Claude could pet him. "This
useless thing? This is Don Giovanni."
"Like the opera," Peter said, and he burst
into a scrap of tune.
The tune sounded vaguely familiar to Bert,
though since he'd died
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