Tropical Freeze by James W. Hall Page A

Gaeton’s comings and goings. He was always glancing at Gaeton’s trailer when he was cutting somebody’s yard. Darcy even spoke to him some. That was when Gaeton got serious and found out his name from one of the neighbors, had Adamson run the boy through the FBI computer.
    He’d checked out normal. Normal for a sleazeball.
    Gaeton said, “It’s because where I work, it’s our business, knowing about people, looking things up on them. You have any idea who I’m referring to here? Who you’ve got rolled up here.”
    “Yeah, right. You’re Mafia. You’re Al Capone’s little brother. Right, right. I’m not as dumb as I look, dingleberry.”
    “Not mafiosi, Ozzie. The other side. The good ones. The guys with the morals and the tin stars. You’ve just waded hip-deep into shit here, buddy.”
    “What a crock,” Ozzie said. “Listen to me, dickbrain, you’re fucking with my woman, and I’m pissed,” Ozzie said, his eyes out of gear, concentrating on pumping that iron.
    “Who we talking about here?” Gaeton said. “Your woman.”
    “You know fucking well who we’re talking about.”
    Something in Gaeton sagged. This had nothing to do with Benny. Some relief there. This was something else. This looked to be some serious miswiring in the kid’s medulla oblongata.
    “Could that be Darcy Richards?” Gaeton said. “Your woman?”
    “You got it, corn dog.”
    “She aware of this? That you’re her boyfriend?”
    “She will be,” Ozzie said. “Soon enough. When I’m ready.”
    “Hey, Oz. You better find yourself another roll of linoleum for her then.”
    Ozzie sat down on the roll, about where Gaeton’s knees would be, set the weights aside. “Jagoff like you, in the position you’re in. Me, I wouldn’t be in a talking mood.”
    “So I’m supposed to be your rival?”
    “You got it,” Ozzie said.
    “Oh, Jesus,” he said, barely a sound. “Ozzie, Ozzie.”
    “So what is this deep shit I’m supposed to be stepping in?” Ozzie gave the roll a little turn, rolling his butt back on it, and the linoleum revolved a quarter of a turn to the left. Gaeton got a sudden close-up of the cement floor.
    Gaeton said, “Ozzie, the lady you’re hot for, she’s my sister, man. My little sister.”
    Ozzie brought the roll back upright.
    “Sure she is,” Ozzie said. “What a bullshit artist.” But Gaeton could hear the last of the cockiness bleeding away.
    “Go ask her, Oz. See if she has a brother. She comes down to visit him on the weekends, stays in his trailer. Ask Papa John or anybody around here. You’re making a major fuck-up here.” Gaeton tried to keep his voice slack, not let this bozo see the anger.
    “You’d like that, huh? Me go over there and ask her and then everybody’d know who done what to who.” Ozzie rocked the linoleum roll back and forth, looking down at Gaeton, running all this around inside there.
    “Ozzie, you’re no murderer. I look at you and I see a guy trying to work his way up the ranks. You found yourself a great teacher, you’re probably learning some good scams. But I don’t see a murderer. That’s a whole different order of stupidity. People still care about that.”
    That got a slow turn of his head. A squint in his eyes and lift of eyebrow, theatrical slyness.
    Gaeton said, “Yeah, that’s right. I know a good bit about you. Heard it on the coconut telegraph. It’s an island, Oz. Somebody takes a deep breath on one side of this town, somebody’s eardrums pop on the other. You forget, man, I lived here all my life. I seen Papa John’s boys before, coming and going. I know what kind of shit he gets you boys to pull for him.”
    “What a lying sack.” Ozzie stood and picked up one of the barbells, dangled it over Gaeton’s face. “Don’t give me any more of this bullshit, or I’ll do you right here and now.”
    Gaeton said, “He have you popping Pirellis at the restaurant parking lots? Slapping bald ones on his rims, while the guy’s inside