Sunburn by Laurence Shames

waves from the illumined shrubs, and from the house came sharp contentious voices that were drowned in the outdoor mildness like scorpions in the swimming pool.

15
    "Gino," Vincente had begun, "it's like extremely obvious you got a hard-on and it hurts, so g'ahead, you talk first. I'm listening."
    The three of them had settled into Joey Goldman's study. It was a Florida study, airy and sparse. There was a glass block wall where up north there might have been a fireplace, recessed lights on dimmers filled in for old silk-shaded lamps, the chairs were upholstered in white cotton where you might have expected cordovan leather. Still, it was a serious and manly room; it had a globe and it had liquor. Gino had asked for a bourbon, and Joey poured him three fingers' worth. Then the younger brother backed away, propped himself on the arm of a settee, and let the urgent Gino have his say.
    But Gino didn't find it easy. He dropped his head so that his chin went double, pawed the floor like a bull. "Awright, Pop," he began, "it's like this. While I been heah, heah in Florida, up in Miami, Key West, ya know, I been goin' back and fort'—"
    With his glass he gestured up and down Route 1; then he took a swallow. His father propped his elbows on Joey's limestone desk, rested his chin on his folded hands, and waited.
    "Ya know," Gino went on, shuffling his feet, "I been seein' you, visitin', I figured, Hey, lemme do some business, get somethin' taken care of, make a few dollahs. So what I'm saying--"
    He broke off, scratched his neck, felt a brute frustration that in his rough mouth language shredded up, scraps of it peeled worthlessly away like when you start a roll of off-brand tape.
    "So this Miami business," he labored on. "Pop, I think you'll be proud a me, I was doin' a right thing, standin' up for the family—"
    Vincente did not look proud. "Gino," he said, "fuck kinda business ya doin' in Miami?"
    The son stared at his father, saw the bristly brows roll down to shade the sunken eyes, and a hint of panic now chopped his speech into even more shapeless pieces. "Miami. Ya know. Cholly Ponte."
    The Godfather's voice grew no louder but it rumbled, seemed to soak into the walls and work its way under the tile floor. "Cholly Ponte's a boss. Ya talk ta Cholly Ponte wit'out ya ask me?"
    Gino's face caved in a little more, lost its luster and went cockeyed like a dented hubcap. "Pop, I knew ya got a lot on your mind, I didn't wanna bother ya."
    "Well, y'are botherin' me. You're botherin' me a lot."
    Gino swigged his bourbon, paced a step in one direction, a half-step in another, measuring the box he was building for himself. Suddenly he was mad.
    "Pop," he said, "it ain't fair I should get grief from you on top a the shit I been takin' for the family. Miami, I been insulted, jerked around, I'm gettin' like zero satisfaction—"
    "Gino," said Vincente, "stop bitching, slow down, put the drink away, and tell me what the fuck is going on. Joey, bring a chair over for your brother."
    The recessed lamps threw disks of light, broke the room into sectors a little bit like circus rings with arcs of shadow in between. Joey slid a chair into the bright circle opposite his father, then made a point of slipping back into the darker place himself.
    "OK," said Gino as he sat. "OK." He took a deep breath, glanced over at his whiskey glass. It glowed a tasty amber. He told himself if he got through this conversation he could have it. "Cholly Ponte, he's got this racket, he runs stolen cars, rent-a-cars mostly, ta South America."
    "I know that," said Vincente.
    "Well, ta get the cars onto the ships, he needs the Miami longshoremen."
    "I know that too," the Godfather said.
    "So I figure," said Gino, "hey, if he's usin' those guys, we oughta get—"
    "Gino, that's a Miami local, that's not our union anymore."
    The bulky man tugged at the collar of his shirt; the cloth bit into the rolled flesh of his neck. He looked longingly at his bourbon. "Since