Welcome to Paradise Read online

  Squid Berman, his eyeballs almost on the asphalt, looked steeply up and thought, Christ, he's huge.

  Al Tuschman kicked one leg out, then the other. Hitched his pants up, sailor-style, with his forearms. The shih tzu jumped down from the car, sniffed around a moment, and squatted underneath a fender.

  Squid Berman slipped back into the Jag as the furniture salesman, searching for a men's room, went into the convenience store. Chop Parilla said, "Fucker looks really tough. D'ya see the fuckin' wrists on the guy?"

  Fear and excitement made moisture pool beneath Squid Berman's tongue. Damply he said, "Ya don't get the New York fish market lookin' like a wuss."

  "Wuss?" Chop said, with a slightly nervous laugh. "Hey, I asked around about this guy, shit he did to convince Tony Eggs he's the guy to run the market."

  "Like what?"

  "Cut a deadbeat's nose off. Hand-fed it to his dog."

  Squid stared at the shih tzu. It didn't seem the sort of creature that would eat pieces of a person's face, but with animals you never knew.

  " 'Nother guy," said Chop, "he had a problem using Tony Eggs' trucks. Big Al shipped 'im back from Montauk packed in ice between two tunas." He paused, had a sudden misgiving. "Mighta been swordfish. He catches us, we're fucked."

  Squid hotly rubbed his hands together, yanked on each of his thumbs. "He ain't gonna catch us. I brought disguises."

  Chop nodded absently, then turned his attention toward the Lexus. "Lives in Jersey. Figures. Needs a place to chill. Bet he has a huge house, big gate, doctors and dentists all around. What a fuckin' world, huh?"

  A moment passed. Dusk was deepening, the lavender of sunset being elbowed aside by the orange of streetlamps. Squid stared off at the shih tzu, who was investigating shallow pools of transmission fluid, windshield detergent. Then he said, "Hey, wait a second. Didn't you tell me the guy was little and the dog was big?"

  Parilla scratched his stomach. Detail was not his long suit except when it came to cars, and he didn't like admitting that maybe he was wrong. "Nah," he said, gesturing vaguely. "The dog is little. The guy is big."

  Al Tuschman appeared once again in the doorway of the store. His shoulders blocked the light and he towered above a clerk who was gesturing directions. Squid quibbled, "I coulda swore you said—" Chop Parilla cut him off, slipping the Jag into gear as his quarry moved back toward the Lexus. "Squid, hey— can ya argue with a license plate?"

  4

  Big Al Marracotta, fortunate and lusty, had arrived in time to stash his queasy rottweiler in the Conch House kennel, to lose his Lincoln in the hotel's dark garage, then to enjoy the sunset from the rooftop bar, seven stories above the middle of Duval Street.

  He and Katy sipped champagne and nibbled the obligatory fritters as a lounge pianist labored bravely, and the sun was doused in the pan-flat water out behind Tank Island. Al was happy. Key West. The air felt great and there were cocktail waitresses in fishnet hose, and some of them were female. New York was far enough away that he could forget about the headaches, the arguments, and remember only the good things. Rolling trucks. Tons of ice. Lobsters, crabs, and money. Seafood was a beautiful commodity. Delicious and perishable. Like life itself, but more so.

  Al had timing. He was draining the last of the bubbly as the last of the red leached out of the clouds, leaving behind a blanket of slate gray. Without lowering his upturned flute, still hoping that a final drop might sizzle on his tongue, he said to his companion, "Nice, huh?"

  "Very nice," said Katy. "Maybe we'll go out now, see the town?"

  Al said, "First let's go downstairs awhile."

  Katy dabbed her lips on a napkin to hide the pout.

  They rose, and thereby became a spectacle. Katy had her high-heeled sandals on; they boosted her like afterburners. A high-tech bra made architecture of her bosom; Big Al could have worn her boobs as a cure for whiplash. Her waist came to his armpits, her spiky raven hair drew attention to his quarter inch salt-and-pepper helmet.

  People watched as the two of them went by.

  Big Al knew they did. Let 'em look, he figured. He liked it. Let 'em eat their hearts out.

  *

  Chop Parilla kept his gaze locked on Alan Tuschman's vanity plate as the short convoy continued down Truman Avenue.

  At Elizabeth Street, the Lexus took a right and headed toward the Gulf. After eight or ten uncertain blocks, with a narrow slice of the waterfront coming into view, the salesman found, on the left side of the street, the sign that he'd been searching for. It was made of cypress wood, discreetly lit by soft floods bedded in shrubbery below. Immodestly, the sign proclaimed a single word: PARADISE.

  Squid Berman could not let that slide. "His own little corner of hell is gonna be more like it," he said.

  They watched Big Al pull into the parking area that was open to the street and paved in gravel. Then, unnoticed in the twilight, they slowly drove away.

  Al Tuschman, weary from the road, switched off his ignition, picked up his suitcase and his dog, and trudged toward the office.

  While he was filling out the registration card, the desk clerk asked him cheerfully, "And how did you find us, Mr. Tuschman?"

  Without looking up, Al said, "I won you."

  "Won us?"

  The tall man glanced up now, smiled winningly. The imminent mention of sales made him act the salesman. "Contest where I work. Selling furniture. Dinettes."

  "Ah," said the clerk, and he tried not to frown. He had a shaved head and a row of ruby studs along one eyebrow. He'd worked at Paradise for five years, and derived a large part of his self-image from his job. It was important to him that the place was classy, that its clientele were of a certain standing. Promotional junkets for salesmen in shiny shirts and pinky rings—that didn't sit so well with him. He changed the subject, gestured toward the shih tzu sniffing quietly around the small but airy office. "The dog's okay as long as he's leashed—"

  "She. Fifi."

  "—as long as she's leashed in public areas."

  "No problem," said Al.

  "Breakfast is from seven-thirty till eleven, and clothing is optional at poolside."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Mr. Tuschman," said the clerk, allowing himself a note of condescension. "We try to give our guests a totally natural and relaxing experience. There are no televisions and no phones. No entertainment other than the sun and the beauty of the gardens."

  "Any single women?"

  The row of rubies quivered on the desk clerk's eyebrow. "Our guests are very mixed," he said. "We're proud of that. We don't believe in segregation. God forbid a straight person should witness two men kissing, two women giving each other back rubs. Here at Paradise we don't think that way."

  Al Tuschman pursed his lips and blinked, put the pen down softly on the registration card. "Bear with me," he said. "I'm a little tired. Are you telling me that I broke my ass from the Fourth right through Columbus Day, worked extra Saturdays plus Thursday evenings to win a free trip to a gay nudist colony?"

  Contemptuous of categories, the desk clerk held his ground. "We get a lot of Europeans," he said. "Now and then celebrities who just want to be left alone. This place exists so that people can be happy. That's our only mission."

  "Mission?"

  "May I help you with your bag?"

  *

  Big Al Marracotta's suite was on the top guest floor. It had a king-sized bed with canopy, two bathrooms, a slice of harbor view, and a giant television set.

  As soon as he and Katy had trundled down from the rooftop bar, Big Al called the desk to rent a VCR. He suggested to Katy that she might like to put an outfit on.

  "Which one?" she asked.

  Big Al put a finger on his chin and a twinkle in his eye. "The calico, I think. Maybe we'll go Western."

  She went to the bathroom to change. Big Al went to the satchel of porno tapes he'd brought down from New York.

  The bellman hooked up the VCR, and when he'd left, Katy reemerged. Her outfit was a thong a
nd a tiny bra that looked like they'd been cut out of a tablecloth from a rib joint. A frilly garter cinched one thigh, and she wore a big felt hat like Dale Evans.

  Big Al got naked and they watched the movie, which prominently featured a horse. Katy was impressed, maybe even aroused, but she wasn't having that good a time, and after a while even Big Al noticed.

  "Whatsa matter?" he asked as the horse and the heroine were contemplating something hard to believe.

  "Oh, I don't know," said Katy, pushing back the wide brim of her hat. She pushed it with her knuckles, and the chin strap moved against her jaw, and for a second she looked like a real cowgirl. "Vacation. Ya know. I thought we'd see the town."

  This hinted at a basic philosophical difference. Some people thought vacation was about the place they went. Others viewed it as respite, pure and simple, from the place they'd left behind. "We'll get to that," he said. "We'll see the town."

  "When?"

  Al's eyes were on the screen. Either it was trick photography or he hoped to shake that woman's hand someday. "Little while later."

  Katy had been seeing Al around eight months now. Their average date lasted three, four hours. Usually it was dinner and bed. Sometimes it was drinks in places where everyone knew Al, came over in waves to say hello, to hold impromptu meetings, sometimes argue. Once in a while they spent a whole night together; very rarely, when he could concoct a story to tell his wife, a weekend. This was the first time they were traveling together. "Al," she said, "I know you're like, high-spirited, but I never realized you're an out-and-out sex fiend."

  Big Al took this as a compliment. It showed. "And not just sex!" he said. "Food. Excitement. Going fast. Gambling. It's got juice in it, baby, I'm there!"

  From the TV came a chorus of whinnying and human moans.

  "Later?" Katy said. "Later can we see the town?"

  "Sure we can. 'Course. Crab claws, beach, a little jazz, anything ya like."

  The girlfriend pursed her lips. She knew that was as well as she was going to do. First what he wanted. Later what she wanted. Maybe.

  Big Al's eyes were on the screen. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips. He said, "Next year, maybe, I can get away, we'll go out West."

  "Next year; Al?" said Katy. It seemed improbable to her.

  Above the moaning and the horse sounds, Al said vaguely, "Arizona. Colorado. Looks nice, no?"

  5

  A bewildered, Al Tuschman, already wondering how to tell Moe Kleiman to fire his fancy new travel agent, followed the clerk out of the office, through the deserted courtyard, and around the pool, whose water glowed an unearthly blue from the soft lights beneath the surface. A mild breeze moved the shrubbery, drew forth dusty, scratching sounds and the melancholy smell of used-up flowers. Fifi stopped to investigate, wiggled her nose at the tang of iodine, the sharpness of salt. Her master barely noticed. Uncharacteristically, his mind was still sniffing around something the clerk had said. That happiness was a mission.

  This was not the kind of thing Alan Tuschman generally thought about. At home, schmoozing, doing business, obeying habits and following routines, who had time? But here, now, on vacation and by himself, the notion somehow tweaked him. Probably because he thought it was ridiculous. Missions were about active things, challenges, dangers. Catching a pass in heavy traffic on third- and-six—that was a mission. Making the layup and drawing the foul when your team was down by three— that was a mission. But happiness? That was . . . what? An accident? A by-product? A prize? No—prizes, he'd won plenty. Prizes, trophies—cobwebs made bridges between the heads and elbows of his trophies; trophies were a different thing from happiness. He gave an audible harrumph that made the desk clerk turn around and look at him a second.

  They continued down a path lined with philodendrons so enormous that a dog the size of Fifi could have hid beneath each leaf. At the end of the path was a whitewashed bungalow.

  The clerk unlocked the door, turned on a dimmered light switch to reveal a tropically tasteful suite. Wicker this and rattan that and bamboo the other. Al the furniture maven knew it was cheap stuff, borax, from the Philippines, from Thailand, but in this room it worked. A huge ceiling fan turned lazily enough to slow the pulse. A cozy alcove held a fluffy sofa with rain-forest upholstery. There was an outdoor shower framed in thatch. On the bureau, a platter of ripe fruits. On the raw wood walls a passable print of greenish women with greenish breasts, and a couple of flower paintings, coyly lewd.

  The desk clerk left, smugly declining to be tipped, and Al, exhausted, lay down on the bed, his heel against the mattress seam. He thought he'd rest awhile, then go out. Margaritaville. Sloppy Joe's. He'd never been to Key West before, but he'd heard about those places. Fabled joints where inhibitions melted down and fell away, and bad behavior was applauded. Where women sucked cigars and cakewalked in wet T-shirts. Rubbed strangers with their bare knees, showed off intimate tattoos. Bartenders poured liqueurs down chutes of ice, and mouths became acquainted as they shared the sticky stuff. Every day was Mardi Gras, and the neighbors back at home would never know.

  Al Tuschman lay there, resting, thinking, imagining the noise and the crush and the smoke, and gradually he realized that he wasn't going out. Not tonight. Didn't have the strength, the will. Arriving someplace new, alone—it wasn't all that easy. Smiling, being friendly, looking for a pickup or only a smile in return—a lot of the time it just seemed like one more game to win, one more sales pitch to deliver.

  He kicked off his shoes. The dog, understanding that he was now down for the count, jumped up and joined him on the bed. Happiness, Al Tuschman caught himself thinking once again. A mission? Well, maybe. Who knew?

  He looked up at the ceiling fan. If he squinted very hard he could stop the motion of the blades. The effort made him deliciously sleepy, and he didn't fight it. A week in Key West, he thought. Contentment, relaxation, pleasure. He'd get with the program. Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow, in daylight. After a long and peaceful and refreshing sleep …

  *

  While he slept, sometime after midnight, Squid Berman and Chop Parilla wreaked havoc on the Lexus, whose lease had two years, three months still to go, and which assessed stiff penalties for excessive or abnormal wear.

  The attack was Squid's idea, and bore the stamp of his malicious artistry.

  It began with fifty pounds of calamari, purchased at deep discount because it was getting old and turning faintly blue. The calamari was packed in ten-pound plastic bags that had the sodden lumpiness of the internal organs of someone who was very, very ill. When the bags were opened, there issued forth an ocean smell that, at first whiff, was not unpleasant, but soon grew tinged with unwholesome odors of metal and ammonia.

  With the seafood stashed in Chop Parilla's trunk, they drove back to Paradise, using the Jag to block the view of Alan Tuschman's car. The street was quiet but for the humming of the streetlamps, and it took Squid Berman about half a minute to pick the lock of the target vehicle. The alarm wailed for three seconds before Chop disarmed it, and, as usual, no one paid attention anyway. Then Squid slipped into the driver's seat and got down to business.

  Most guys, of course, would simply have dumped the calamari in the car and bolted. This would have been adequate to achieve the minimum goal of stinking up the car. But such slipshod workmanship would have appalled Squid Berman. He was there to make a statement, feverish to create. His eyes were rolling and his knuckly hands were twitching as he opened the first sack of seafood.

  He started with the passenger seat. Carefully, he laid out a squid, tentacles forward. Next to it he placed another tentacles behind. The two squids interlocked like tiles, and their own slime grouted them nicely to the leather. He pressed down row on row of calamari, making an upholstery of seafood, a rank mosaic gleaming opalescent in the streetlight. When the passenger side was finished, he stood up to do the driver's seat. Calamari forward, calamari back. The gummy creatures seemed to wriggle like paisleys, and the morning sun would bake them on for g
ood. Calamari on the seat back. Calamari on the headrest. Teach this scumbag to serve rotten seafood to his friends.

  Sid Berman lavished so much time on his creation that even Chop was getting nervous. Two guys spreading calamari in someone else's car in the middle of the night; this would be a hard thing to explain. Although one bag of goods was still unopened, he said at last, "Enough already, Squid."

  Squid was too intent to look up. With too much moisture underneath his tongue, he said, "I've got enough left to spell out 'Fuck You' on the dashboard."

  "I think he'll read that on the seats," Parilla said. "Come on, we're outa here."

  Berman hesitated, sighed. In this life nothing was ever quite perfect. Never enough time, enough resources. That's just how it was. Shaking his head, he dumped the last ten pounds of calamari on the gas pedal, the brake.

  He rose and closed the door. He took a moment to admire his macabre and slithery work. The tubes of calamari looked somehow like ranks of condoms dancing the samba.

  Moving toward the Jag, he sniffed his hands and said to Chop, "D'ya bring the whaddyacallit, Wash'n Dri?"

  "Ah, shit," Parilla said. "Forgot."

  "Bummer," said Squid, and wiped his slimy fingers on his pants.

  6

  Big Al Marracotta, a little lost inside his one-size hotel bathrobe, rang down for extra salsa for his scrambled eggs.

  It was pretty early for extra salsa, but he was eager to get that spice thing going, that burn. He slathered butter on his toast, slurped coffee, and watched Katy pout. Today she had a right to pout, he admitted to himself. He'd promised that they'd see the town last night, and then he'd fallen immovably asleep. Well, what the hell. It had been a long day. Lotta driving. Lotta drinking. Lotta sex. A man was entitled to get tired. He'd make it up to her today.