hurt—"
"That ain't the point," said Gino.
"No?" said Joey. "Then what is the point?"
Asked for logic, Gino swiveled farther in his chair, presented a wider swath of his ass. He chewed a fingernail, grunted, then finally said, "The point is that who we are, what we do, it's like . . . separate."
Joey crossed his legs, hugged an ankle. "Separate from what?"
Gino gestured broadly, tried to pluck an answer out of the cool and empty air. "From everything. From how the other jerks live, how they do their business, how they settle things—"
"All the more reason," Joey said, "that someone should tell the story from the inside—"
The Godfather interrupted. He broke in with a rumble; there was a low rasp that readied the air before the words came out. "Gino, you got any money?"
The question seemed to come from nowhere, it made the big man squirm. He gave a short nervous laugh that was meant to sound offhand. "Plenny, Pop. But I don't see where money has to do—"
"I just thought," Vincente said, "maybe it bothered you, what I'm payin' Ahty, that after I'm dead it's his ta sell."
Gino tried to wave that notion away with a gesture that was a little too emphatic. "Nah, Pop, nah. It ain't the money. It's just that—"
He broke off, twisted in his seat, shook his head, and wriggled in his choked quest for words.
"I'm listenin'," said the Godfather.
"He's an outsider," Gino spluttered. "He ain't even Italian. Fuck is he, Jewish? So now you're gonna be spendin' all this time wit' 'im, gettin' close wit im—
"Gino, you jealous?" asked his brother.
"Fuck you, Joey. It ain't about that."
"It ain't about money," Joey said right back. "It ain't about bein' jealous. Gino, the more you shoot your mouth off, the more things it comes out it ain't about."
Gino's flat black eyes picked up blue light from the pool and zinged it at Joey. The big man's hairline crawled, the cloth of his trousers chafed him, his glower flicked back and forth between his father and his brother, and he couldn't figure out who he was madder at. When he spoke again his voice was dangerously calm. "Look," he said. "I don't wanna be embarrassed. 'Zat so fuckin' hard t'understand?" "Gino," Joey said, "Pop ain't gonna—" Gino cut him off. "You ain't a Delgatto. Fuck's it to you? For all I know, your Jew friend's givin' you a cut—"
"That's enough, Gino," Vincente said. He said it very softly. His hands were folded against his shrunken stomach. He looked at his two sons and wondered how much power and how much wisdom it would take to do right by more than one person at a time. A breeze stirred, just cool enough to tickle the backs of necks. Finally Vincente spoke again.
"Gino," he said, "look at me. I'm doin' this thing, my mind's made up. But my word as your father: I won't do or say anything that would embarrass you."
The two of them locked eyes. Gino's pudgy face was a mix of umbrage and defiance; Vincente's expression held determination and a dim unlikely hope. He wanted Gino to believe him, and he wished that Gino would return his promise, his pledge not to dishonor their common name, though he understood that was probably too much to wish for.
Gino went away mad.
He climbed into his rented T-Bird, floored it in reverse, and drove the few short blocks to Flagler House. But when he got there, saw the valet coming to take charge of the car, he decided he wasn't ready to go in yet; he wanted to ride around and think. He peeled out of the driveway and started over.
He drove up A1A, along the beach toward the airport. A lopsided moon was just coming up over the Florida Straits. A powdery orange pocked with gray, it threw a reddish beam that ran along the flat water and tracked the car as it barreled up the road.
The white lines slipped past, the coastline curved, and meanwhile Gino was thinking about obedience and respect. Or at least that's what he thought he was thinking about. In truth, he was thinking more about what he could dare to get away with.
"That ain't the point," said Gino.
"No?" said Joey. "Then what is the point?"
Asked for logic, Gino swiveled farther in his chair, presented a wider swath of his ass. He chewed a fingernail, grunted, then finally said, "The point is that who we are, what we do, it's like . . . separate."
Joey crossed his legs, hugged an ankle. "Separate from what?"
Gino gestured broadly, tried to pluck an answer out of the cool and empty air. "From everything. From how the other jerks live, how they do their business, how they settle things—"
"All the more reason," Joey said, "that someone should tell the story from the inside—"
The Godfather interrupted. He broke in with a rumble; there was a low rasp that readied the air before the words came out. "Gino, you got any money?"
The question seemed to come from nowhere, it made the big man squirm. He gave a short nervous laugh that was meant to sound offhand. "Plenny, Pop. But I don't see where money has to do—"
"I just thought," Vincente said, "maybe it bothered you, what I'm payin' Ahty, that after I'm dead it's his ta sell."
Gino tried to wave that notion away with a gesture that was a little too emphatic. "Nah, Pop, nah. It ain't the money. It's just that—"
He broke off, twisted in his seat, shook his head, and wriggled in his choked quest for words.
"I'm listenin'," said the Godfather.
"He's an outsider," Gino spluttered. "He ain't even Italian. Fuck is he, Jewish? So now you're gonna be spendin' all this time wit' 'im, gettin' close wit im—
"Gino, you jealous?" asked his brother.
"Fuck you, Joey. It ain't about that."
"It ain't about money," Joey said right back. "It ain't about bein' jealous. Gino, the more you shoot your mouth off, the more things it comes out it ain't about."
Gino's flat black eyes picked up blue light from the pool and zinged it at Joey. The big man's hairline crawled, the cloth of his trousers chafed him, his glower flicked back and forth between his father and his brother, and he couldn't figure out who he was madder at. When he spoke again his voice was dangerously calm. "Look," he said. "I don't wanna be embarrassed. 'Zat so fuckin' hard t'understand?" "Gino," Joey said, "Pop ain't gonna—" Gino cut him off. "You ain't a Delgatto. Fuck's it to you? For all I know, your Jew friend's givin' you a cut—"
"That's enough, Gino," Vincente said. He said it very softly. His hands were folded against his shrunken stomach. He looked at his two sons and wondered how much power and how much wisdom it would take to do right by more than one person at a time. A breeze stirred, just cool enough to tickle the backs of necks. Finally Vincente spoke again.
"Gino," he said, "look at me. I'm doin' this thing, my mind's made up. But my word as your father: I won't do or say anything that would embarrass you."
The two of them locked eyes. Gino's pudgy face was a mix of umbrage and defiance; Vincente's expression held determination and a dim unlikely hope. He wanted Gino to believe him, and he wished that Gino would return his promise, his pledge not to dishonor their common name, though he understood that was probably too much to wish for.
Gino went away mad.
He climbed into his rented T-Bird, floored it in reverse, and drove the few short blocks to Flagler House. But when he got there, saw the valet coming to take charge of the car, he decided he wasn't ready to go in yet; he wanted to ride around and think. He peeled out of the driveway and started over.
He drove up A1A, along the beach toward the airport. A lopsided moon was just coming up over the Florida Straits. A powdery orange pocked with gray, it threw a reddish beam that ran along the flat water and tracked the car as it barreled up the road.
The white lines slipped past, the coastline curved, and meanwhile Gino was thinking about obedience and respect. Or at least that's what he thought he was thinking about. In truth, he was thinking more about what he could dare to get away with.
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