Joey's refurbished 1973 El Dorado convertible got about eight blocks to the gallon. But nice light filtered through the mahogany trees; there was time to check the progress of the poincianas and time to mull things over.
"But ya know what he really wants ta do," said Joey, two blocks later.
"Who?"
"Arty. The gardener. . . . What he really wants ta do is write books."
The Godfather looked out the open passenger-side window.
"Yeah," Joey went on. "And I bet he'd be good at it. Not afraid ta dig in wit' his hands, ya know what I'm sayin'?"
Some people were playing badminton on one of Key West's rare large lawns. Vincente watched the slow and idiotic flight of the shuttlecock against the flawless sky.
'Tell ya what," said Joey. "Why don't we have him to the house for dinner? Shoot the shit, talk about gardening. How would that be, Pop?"
There is a moment when an idea either puts on flesh or is forgotten, squirms into possibility with the red stretch of any birth or vanishes without a trace. Vincente propped his wizened elbow on the hot frame of his window. A deep breath whistled in his nose as he slowly turned toward his bastard son. In his face was relief and a tentative capitulation, a half acceptance that maybe he had reached the age when sometimes, on certain things, maybe certain other people knew better than himself. "OK," he said. "That'd be OK."
8
It was just noon when Gino rolled off of the bimbo.
He blinked up at the ceiling of his deluxe room at the Flagler House, mopped his damp chest on the sheet, then turned his hairy back to her as he reached for the phone to call room service. "Whaddya want for breakfast?" he asked.
"You're so romantic," Debbi said. "So tender."
"Eggs, omelet, wha'?"
She didn't answer right away. Her body felt numb, her head was heavy on the pillow, she was faintly nauseous. It had started to dawn on her that maybe she shouldn't have come to Florida, that maybe she was less blithe than she thought she was, that Gino in small doses was OK, a nice dinner, an evening out, but traveling with Gino was much too much and much too little.
"Come on," he said. "They're onna line." Into the phone he added, "Hol' on a minute, the duchess can't make up her mind."
Debbi was looking at the bright wand of sunshine that squeezed through the place where the blackout curtains overlapped. It was spectacular, that slash of light, it hurt the eyes. She imagined the grainy heat of the beach, the green sparkle of the water, the sudden coolness of a passing cloud. It should have been a day of clean enjoyment.
"I'll have the family cocktail," she said.
Her last name was Martini. Family cocktail was her little joke.
"Little early, ain't it?" Gino said.
"And a bran muffin," Debbi said. It was hard to make bran muffin sound defiant, but she tried.
Over breakfast, Gino announced that they were driving to Miami.
"But we just got here," said Debbi.
"Right," said Gino, puncturing an egg yolk. "And now we're goin' there. What of it?"
Debbi had put on a hotel bathrobe. The neckline of it showed some pretty freckles at her throat. Her red hair was flat on one side and wild on the other. "I thought we came here so you could visit with your father."
Gino chomped a triangle of toast. When he talked, the melted butter put a greasy yellow shine at the corners of his mouth. "We're comin' right back. But I gotta see a guy. I'll leave ya at a mall, you'll like it."
Debbi sipped her drink. The gin tasted weird but it was more the toothpaste than the hour of the day. "I don't wanna go to a mall. A mall I can go ta anytime. I'll stay here, I'll go ta the beach."
"The beach, you'll get sunburn."
"I like sunburn. I came here for sunburn. Sunburn, Gino—not ta go to a freakin' mall."
"Nah, I want y along."
"Wha' for?" she said. She toyed with her bran muffin; brown crumbs spilled off it like tiny dislodged rocks bouncing down a hillside. "Ya don't talk ta me. Ya don't talk t'anyone."
"Shut up, Debbi. Half a drink,
"But ya know what he really wants ta do," said Joey, two blocks later.
"Who?"
"Arty. The gardener. . . . What he really wants ta do is write books."
The Godfather looked out the open passenger-side window.
"Yeah," Joey went on. "And I bet he'd be good at it. Not afraid ta dig in wit' his hands, ya know what I'm sayin'?"
Some people were playing badminton on one of Key West's rare large lawns. Vincente watched the slow and idiotic flight of the shuttlecock against the flawless sky.
'Tell ya what," said Joey. "Why don't we have him to the house for dinner? Shoot the shit, talk about gardening. How would that be, Pop?"
There is a moment when an idea either puts on flesh or is forgotten, squirms into possibility with the red stretch of any birth or vanishes without a trace. Vincente propped his wizened elbow on the hot frame of his window. A deep breath whistled in his nose as he slowly turned toward his bastard son. In his face was relief and a tentative capitulation, a half acceptance that maybe he had reached the age when sometimes, on certain things, maybe certain other people knew better than himself. "OK," he said. "That'd be OK."
8
It was just noon when Gino rolled off of the bimbo.
He blinked up at the ceiling of his deluxe room at the Flagler House, mopped his damp chest on the sheet, then turned his hairy back to her as he reached for the phone to call room service. "Whaddya want for breakfast?" he asked.
"You're so romantic," Debbi said. "So tender."
"Eggs, omelet, wha'?"
She didn't answer right away. Her body felt numb, her head was heavy on the pillow, she was faintly nauseous. It had started to dawn on her that maybe she shouldn't have come to Florida, that maybe she was less blithe than she thought she was, that Gino in small doses was OK, a nice dinner, an evening out, but traveling with Gino was much too much and much too little.
"Come on," he said. "They're onna line." Into the phone he added, "Hol' on a minute, the duchess can't make up her mind."
Debbi was looking at the bright wand of sunshine that squeezed through the place where the blackout curtains overlapped. It was spectacular, that slash of light, it hurt the eyes. She imagined the grainy heat of the beach, the green sparkle of the water, the sudden coolness of a passing cloud. It should have been a day of clean enjoyment.
"I'll have the family cocktail," she said.
Her last name was Martini. Family cocktail was her little joke.
"Little early, ain't it?" Gino said.
"And a bran muffin," Debbi said. It was hard to make bran muffin sound defiant, but she tried.
Over breakfast, Gino announced that they were driving to Miami.
"But we just got here," said Debbi.
"Right," said Gino, puncturing an egg yolk. "And now we're goin' there. What of it?"
Debbi had put on a hotel bathrobe. The neckline of it showed some pretty freckles at her throat. Her red hair was flat on one side and wild on the other. "I thought we came here so you could visit with your father."
Gino chomped a triangle of toast. When he talked, the melted butter put a greasy yellow shine at the corners of his mouth. "We're comin' right back. But I gotta see a guy. I'll leave ya at a mall, you'll like it."
Debbi sipped her drink. The gin tasted weird but it was more the toothpaste than the hour of the day. "I don't wanna go to a mall. A mall I can go ta anytime. I'll stay here, I'll go ta the beach."
"The beach, you'll get sunburn."
"I like sunburn. I came here for sunburn. Sunburn, Gino—not ta go to a freakin' mall."
"Nah, I want y along."
"Wha' for?" she said. She toyed with her bran muffin; brown crumbs spilled off it like tiny dislodged rocks bouncing down a hillside. "Ya don't talk ta me. Ya don't talk t'anyone."
"Shut up, Debbi. Half a drink,
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