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have a cup of coffee.
    ———
    At first glance, the Godfather was unimpressed with the Key West nursery.
    "Up north," he said, "the nurseries up north, they have more stuff. Ornaments like, trellises. Fountains, ya know, like comin' outa fishes' mouths, angels peeing, that kinda thing."
    "Here it's mostly plants," said Joey. "Baby trees, sometimes ya see 'em comin' right outa the coconut. And flamingoes maybe. Ya know, their feet are metal rods, ya stick 'em inna ground."
    "Flamingoes?" said the Godfather. "Sandra want flamingoes?"
    Joey thought it best to let the question slide, he just led his father through the ranks of encroaching palms and ferns. Hibiscus flowers tickled their forearms as they passed; miniature oranges scented the air with citrus. There was no roof at the nursery, just a fine black netting that kept the birds away and muffled the ferocious sunshine. Nor was there a floor. The bare ground was covered with chips of wood and bark that felt moist and cozy underfoot, it made you realize why bugs and mice and lice liked to live in rotted logs.
    At the end of the aisle, between the palm food and the snail bait, they ran into Arty Magnus.
    He was wearing olive-drab shorts and torn sneakers with no socks. His legs were long and bandy, a little bit like frogs' legs; his knees turned out just slightly and were rubbed red from kneeling in his yard. He had pieces of leaf in his frizzy hair.
    "Joey," he said. He tried to put some heartiness in it, but he was thoroughly distracted. Something was eating his jasmine leaves, and he was in the grip of that dismay known to every gardener, less an anxiety than a fatalistic dread, the sure knowledge that at that very moment one's beloved exotics were being reduced to naked scaly twigs by malicious vermin of infinite appetite and implacable will.
    "Arty, how ya doin'?" Joey said.
    The editor was going to say something breezy and move on, but then he noticed the old man half hidden by Joey's shoulders. The Godfather. The Reluctant Godfather. Standing in a Florida nursery on a Sunday morning like any other alte cocker , a little stooped, a little bored maybe, surrounded by tagged foliage and big bags of things that would rupture him if he tried to lift them. Arty Magnus suddenly felt that he was staring. He tried to pull his gaze away, he turned his head but his eyes stayed steady like the needle on a compass. It was getting uncomfortable, then Joey shuffled his feet in the mulch and said, "Arty, I'd like you to meet my father. Pop, this is Arty Magnus."
    No mention of a name, the editor noted. Incognito. Even in Key West, where in theory there was no Mafia and in fact no one read the papers. He extended his hand, and now it was Vincente who was looking harder and longer than might be thought polite. He was examining Arty's hand before he shook it, noticing the fine dark lines of embedded soil that marked out creases and wrinkles the way ink marked out fingerprints.
    "Nice ta meet ya," Vincente said.
    "Nice to meet you, sir," said Arty.
    Feet wriggled in the tree bark.
    "We're here for dirt," said the Godfather. "How 'bout you?"
    "Poison," said the editor.
    The old man stood with his back to a ficus. He folded his hands as at a funeral and nodded sadly. "Sometimes ya gotta kill the little bastuhds. Sometimes there's just no other answer."
    On the way back to Joey's, Vincente said, "Your friend, his hands—he digs inna dirt."
    " 'Course he does, he works for the paper."
    "Nah, I'm serious," said the Godfather. "A man who gardens, I like that. Life, death, ya take responsibility. What ta take away, what ta leave. He knows somethin'. . . . What's he do for the paper?"
    "City editor, his title is," said Joey. "Assigns things to the reporters. Covers some things himself. City commission, politics."
    "Ah."
    In Joey's neighborhood the blocks were short and there were stop signs on every corner. It was hard to get going more than fifteen miles an hour, and on those lazy streets