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"He works for you."
"That's not e
xactly true, Dave. He used to work for some people I do business with. He doesn't now. I don't know where he is. I heard Florida."
"I wouldn't want a guy like that to blindside me, Tony."
"You're an up-front guy. But you got no worries on that. Not in this town."
"The people I represent like the quality of your product, they like the way you do business. They've given me a half million to work with. I want the same quality goods, same price on the key. Can we do some business today?"
"You cut right to it, don't you?"
"You're a serious man, you have a serious reputation."
"You're talking a big score."
"That's why I'm dealing with you. The word is that the Houston people are undependable."
"The problem I got sometimes is access, Dave. Or what you might call transportation. The product's out there, but there're a lot of nautical factors involved here, you know what I mean? Something happens to the product out on the salt, a lot of people lose money, a lot of people get real mad."
"That's the other thing I want to talk to you about. I grew up in the wetlands. I know every bayou and channel from Sabine Pass over to Barataria. I can get it through for you, and on a regular basis."
"I bet you can," he said.
But his attention was no longer on me. His arms were folded on top of the trough, and he was looking across the blue-green expanse of lawn and trees at the front porch of his house, where a blond woman in a red dress and a hat was counting the suitcases the houseman was bringing outside. A moment later one of the gatemen walked up the drive and backed a restored 1940s Lincoln Continental convertible out of the garage. It had wire wheels, a deep maroon finish, and an immaculate white top. The gateman and the Negro put the woman's luggage in the trunk. She never glanced in our direction.
"What do you think of my car?" he said finally.
"It looks great."
"Yeah. That's what I think." But his eyes were still concentrated on the woman. "You married?"
"Not now."
He continued to stare as she got into the Lincoln and the gateman drove her down the long driveway toward the street. Then his eyes clicked back onto mine.
"Hey, let me ask you something else. Because I like you. I like the way you talk," he said. "What's your attitude about dealing in the product?"
"I don't understand."
"You're an educated man. I want to know what an educated man thinks about dealing in the product."
"I never saw anybody chop up lines because somebody forced him to."
"I think that's an intelligent attitude. But I want you to understand something else, Dave. I got lots of businesses. Vending and video machines, a restaurant, nightclubs, half of a trucking company, real estate development out by Chalmette, some investments in Miami. This other stuff comes and goes. Five years from now the in thing might be huffing used cat litter. There's always a bunch of bozos around with money. Why fight the fashion?"
His eyes looked at the empty drive and the front gate that was closed once again.
"Excuse me," he said, and raised himself out of the pool, walked dripping to the redwood table, and punched one button on the phone. He put his little finger in one of his tiny ears and shook water out of it. At the end of the drive I saw the other gateman walk to a box that was inset in the stucco wall.
"Tommy, get some people over here, call up the catering service," he said. "I got some guests here, I want to entertain them right… Don't ask me who, I don't give a shit, get them over here."
He hung up the phone and looked at me.
"I live in a place that costs a million bucks, and half the time it's like being the only guy in the fucking Superdome," he said.
"Before your friends get here, can we agree on a deal of some kind, Tony?" I said.
