Florida Straits Read Online Free

as those in Henry Flagler's railroad. Still, in his mind he
could see the grand sweep, the structure. He'd lay the groundwork
himself. It would be tough making the connections, mapping out the
turf, but it had to be done. That would take a month or two. After
that, his boys would handle things. Of course, he didn't know
exactly who these boys would be. But they had to be out there, they
always were. Street guys, soldiers, guys who maybe had a little
gambling action, a string of girls, some pull with the restaurants,
but who needed someone a little savvier, who thought a little
bigger, to get things organized. That's what Joey would do:
organize. And once things were set up, he'd live the genteel and
quiet life of a Boss. Guys would come to him, say Hello, Joey—no,
make that Hello, Mr. Goldman.
    He'd gesture them into a chair, and they'd
be flattered to be asked to sit. Then, discreetly but not without a
certain ceremony, they'd hand over money. This part Joey could see
quite clearly: Sometimes the money would be in neat white
envelopes, other times in rumpled paper bags. The transactions
would take place at a spotless glass table, under a palm tree, by a
swimming pool.
    "Sandra, these places have pools?"
    "Yeah, Joey." She narrowed her light green
eyes and gave a sigh that was midway between exasperated and
amused. "For thirty-five hundred a month, you get a pool."
    "Marrone," said Joey. "These are
houses?"
    "Yeah. There's also condos, but they seem to
rent by the week. About fifteen hundred."
    Joey hid his face in his Styrofoam coffee
cup. "Well, it'll be no problem once I get things going."
    "Right," said Sandra, "but it's a little bit
of a problem right now. I'll call a broker."
    "Yeah, call a broker," Joey said. He knew
how these things worked. He wiggled the earpieces of his shades and
spoke in a worldly tone. "The prices they print, Sandra, they never
expect to get 'em. We'll make 'em an offer."
    —
    "Your offer's been refused," the broker
said, hanging up the phone. "Sorry." He had a gray crew cut, capped
teeth, one small diamond earring, and an almost priestly air of
truly wanting to help. He'd shown them four houses and three
condos. They'd all been too expensive, and not one owner seemed
willing to negotiate. Now Joey and Sandra were back at the real
estate office, sitting on aluminum chairs while the broker riffled
through his box of properties. "You have to understand," he said.
"It's season. The town is really full just now."
    Joey pulled on his lip. "We seen seven empty
places in an hour," he said. "How full can it be?"
    The broker just smiled. "If a pool is a
priority for you, maybe you should consider a compound. There's a
nice little two-bedroom cottage available on Packer Street.
Eighteen hundred a month."
    "What's a compound?" Sandra asked, and in
the question was a note of dread. She was trying to choke down
panic, a fear that she'd made a terrible mistake in quitting Anchor
Bank, a terrible mistake in coming to Florida, and could easily
make the worst one yet in picking a place to live. Compound .
The word sounded military, or southern. Would it be Quonset huts
and navy brats, or tar paper shacks with door-less refrigerators
and hound dogs in the yard?
    "Oh," said the broker, "it's very Key West.
A compound is a cluster of small houses, fenced off from the
street, usually built around a pool and Jacuzzi and barbecue that
everybody shares."
    "Doesn't sound very private," Joey said. He
didn't much like the idea of the neighbors standing around roasting
wienies when the boys came to deliver cash. But of course this
first place was just temporary. Once the enterprise got rolling,
they'd move to one of the rambling, hedged-in establishments in the
pricey corner of town.
    "You give up some privacy," the broker
conceded. "But less than you might think. How long you been in Key
West?"
    "One day," Sandra said, a little sheepishly.
She seemed to understand already that Key West was one of those
places where