Not that he was against obedience. No, obedience was a handy thing, it made it nothing personal if, say, you were called upon to hurt someone; it justified holding back, say, from something that deep down you were scared to do. You obeyed out of respect, which was fear dressed up in fancy clothes, and the respect gave the whole business its dignity.
Still, there were times when obedience was a burden, a cramp, a real pain in the ass, and in those situations it was only natural that a guy would find a reason, many reasons, to disobey. Who wouldn't? If other guys played by the rules no matter what, that would be one thing, but hey … Gino squeezed the steering wheel and thought about his old man's book. It broke the rules in every way. Telling secrets. Trusting outsiders. Did you still have to follow orders from a man who did things like that? Especially if the orders held you back from something where there was a nice buck to be made?
Gino didn't quite notice where he'd made a U-turn, but at some point he'd spun the car around; the moon was on the other side. He was heading back toward Flagler House and something had been decided.
When he bulled into his top floor oceanfront room, he did not at first see Debbi. He found her out on the balcony, sipping a martini and looking at the stars. She was holding her fingers at peculiar, pained, arthritic angles, and it took Gino a moment to understand her nails were drying.
'Tomorrow we're drivin'a Miami," he announced.
"Jesus, Gino. Not again."
By way of answer, Gino said, "Juh order me a drink?"
Debbi looked through the railing at the palm trees on the beach. "Other people," she said, "they come ta Florida ta relax. You, ya come ta Florida, ya run around like a cockaroach."
Gino went inside to call room service.
Debbi kept talking to his back. "Can't we sit still five minutes? Can't we settle in a little bit?"
Gino ordered a bottle of bourbon, switched the TV on, and poked his head just for a second through the open sliding door to the balcony. Obedience could sometimes be a cramp, a pain, and so could the company of a complaining broad. "I'm drivin' up for a day or so. You wanna stay, stay. I don't give a fuck."
19
"Look," said Sandra Dugan, as she rummaged through the refrigerator for romaine, endive, hearts of palm, "it's always a gamble. When I started in with Joey, that was a gamble too."
Debbi Martini leaned against the counter and sipped a glass of water. She was happy to be standing in this kitchen, pleased with herself for having had the nerve to call Sandra that morning. When Sandra invited her to come by and have lunch, gratitude had closed her throat. Now she gave a little laugh and said, "Joey, a gamble? Joey's so nice, so regular."
Sandra's head was in the fridge, her voice was muffled by lettuces, muted by the pith of grapefruits. "When I met him," she said, "he didn't know it yet."
"Didn't know it?" Debbi said.
Sandra wheeled, handed the other woman some greens, kicked the fridge door shut. "We were living in Queens. He was still very close with his family, that whole group. You know what I'm saying. Joey was the kid brother. He thought he had a lot to prove."
Debbi considered, and realized all at once that she felt like a kid sister, standing there with Sandra. They were pretty much the same age, give or take a year or two, but Sandra had a husband, ran a business, was mistress of a real house with matching plates. Sandra hired and fired people, picked out furniture. She had a sense of the future—her stocked refrigerator told you that. Sandra, in short, was a grownup, had lucked or bluffed or willed her way to some mysterious graduation, while she, Debbi, seemed to keep repeating the same dreary classes in remedial life. From bad in school to frustrated at work. From Mr. Wrong to Mr. Trouble to Mr. Cokehead to Mr. Slob.
"You like sprouts?" Sandra asked.
"Hm?" said Debbi. "Yeah, love 'em. ... So with Joey—what made him change?"
Sandra took a
Still, there were times when obedience was a burden, a cramp, a real pain in the ass, and in those situations it was only natural that a guy would find a reason, many reasons, to disobey. Who wouldn't? If other guys played by the rules no matter what, that would be one thing, but hey … Gino squeezed the steering wheel and thought about his old man's book. It broke the rules in every way. Telling secrets. Trusting outsiders. Did you still have to follow orders from a man who did things like that? Especially if the orders held you back from something where there was a nice buck to be made?
Gino didn't quite notice where he'd made a U-turn, but at some point he'd spun the car around; the moon was on the other side. He was heading back toward Flagler House and something had been decided.
When he bulled into his top floor oceanfront room, he did not at first see Debbi. He found her out on the balcony, sipping a martini and looking at the stars. She was holding her fingers at peculiar, pained, arthritic angles, and it took Gino a moment to understand her nails were drying.
'Tomorrow we're drivin'a Miami," he announced.
"Jesus, Gino. Not again."
By way of answer, Gino said, "Juh order me a drink?"
Debbi looked through the railing at the palm trees on the beach. "Other people," she said, "they come ta Florida ta relax. You, ya come ta Florida, ya run around like a cockaroach."
Gino went inside to call room service.
Debbi kept talking to his back. "Can't we sit still five minutes? Can't we settle in a little bit?"
Gino ordered a bottle of bourbon, switched the TV on, and poked his head just for a second through the open sliding door to the balcony. Obedience could sometimes be a cramp, a pain, and so could the company of a complaining broad. "I'm drivin' up for a day or so. You wanna stay, stay. I don't give a fuck."
19
"Look," said Sandra Dugan, as she rummaged through the refrigerator for romaine, endive, hearts of palm, "it's always a gamble. When I started in with Joey, that was a gamble too."
Debbi Martini leaned against the counter and sipped a glass of water. She was happy to be standing in this kitchen, pleased with herself for having had the nerve to call Sandra that morning. When Sandra invited her to come by and have lunch, gratitude had closed her throat. Now she gave a little laugh and said, "Joey, a gamble? Joey's so nice, so regular."
Sandra's head was in the fridge, her voice was muffled by lettuces, muted by the pith of grapefruits. "When I met him," she said, "he didn't know it yet."
"Didn't know it?" Debbi said.
Sandra wheeled, handed the other woman some greens, kicked the fridge door shut. "We were living in Queens. He was still very close with his family, that whole group. You know what I'm saying. Joey was the kid brother. He thought he had a lot to prove."
Debbi considered, and realized all at once that she felt like a kid sister, standing there with Sandra. They were pretty much the same age, give or take a year or two, but Sandra had a husband, ran a business, was mistress of a real house with matching plates. Sandra hired and fired people, picked out furniture. She had a sense of the future—her stocked refrigerator told you that. Sandra, in short, was a grownup, had lucked or bluffed or willed her way to some mysterious graduation, while she, Debbi, seemed to keep repeating the same dreary classes in remedial life. From bad in school to frustrated at work. From Mr. Wrong to Mr. Trouble to Mr. Cokehead to Mr. Slob.
"You like sprouts?" Sandra asked.
"Hm?" said Debbi. "Yeah, love 'em. ... So with Joey—what made him change?"
Sandra took a
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