Florida Straits Read Online Free Page A

people, for lack of much else to say, bragged about
how long they'd been there. You couldn't get much lower on the
social ladder than one day.
    "Well, you know," the broker said gently,
"one of the things you'll discover is that no one really cares what
anybody else does down here. The island's too small and the
weather's too hot to get bothered. Believe me, a more tolerant town
you're never going to find."
    —
    "Doesn't look like much from outside," Joey
said. He was standing under a scorching sun in a narrow gravel
driveway, between a rank of plastic garbage cans and a row of rusty
mailboxes with names scrawled on pieces of adhesive tape.
    "That's the whole idea," said the broker.
"Laid back. Unpretentious. Very Key West. But watch."
    He punched in a combination and pushed open
a wooden door cut into the grape-stake fence. Instantly the
temperature dropped five degrees and the baked, dusty smell of the
street disappeared. The compound was a small private jungle of
palms and ferns, jasmine bushes and banana trees, bougainvillea and
hibiscus. Right in the middle, like the old village well, was a big
sunken hot tub, and to the left of it was a free- form pool ringed
with pale blue tile. A man was standing waist-deep in the water. He
had his elbows propped on the edge and was reading a paperback. In
front of him were three cans of Bud in foam rubber sleeves and an
ashtray full of butts.
    " 'Lo, Steve," the broker said to him.
"Whatcha reading?"
    Steve turned the book over, as if he had to
look at the cover to remind himself. "Nazis," he said. "Buzz
bombs."
    "Ah," said the broker. "Well, this is Joey
and Sandra. They'd like to see the place."
    "Help yourselves," said Steve. Then he
smiled. "If you're interested, we'll talk. This is where I do most
of my business." Then he smiled. He never smiled while he was
talking, only after. You could count the beat, waiting for the
teeth to come out from under the wiry red mustache.
    The house was small but bright and airy.
Sisal rugs. Ceiling fans. A Florida room with louvered windows. Bad
paintings of seashells and water birds.
    "And it's got an outdoor shower," said the
broker.
    "I usually shower inside," said Joey. "I'm
funny that way. Whaddya think, Sandra?"
    Her answer was without excitement but very
definite. "It's by far the best for the money. I think we should
take it."
    "You think he'll come down on the rent?"
Joey asked the broker.
    The broker shrugged. "Compounds cater to,
well, it's a special market. Ask him."
    Outside, Steve had lit another cigarette and
moved on to the next beer down the line. "How d'ya like it?" he
asked. Then he smiled.
    "It's charming," Sandra said.
    "Yeah," said Joey; "lotta charm. Very Key
West. But about the rent..." He paused, hoping Steve would take
over. Steve just sipped some beer. "I mean, it's a little
small."
    "Cozy," Steve said. "But you've got the
grounds and the pool. And we've got a nice group of folks here.
Over there"—he turned and pointed to a trellised cottage half
hidden by vines—"that's where Peter and Claude live. They're
bartenders. Work nights at a place called Cheeks. Over here"—he
gestured toward a bungalow tucked away behind the hot tub— "that's
Wendy and Marsha's place. They have an antique store. And back
there"—he did a little pirouette—"that's Luke and Lucy. He's a
reggae musician and she's a mailman. Nice people. Considerate."
    It was only at this point, when Steve was
maneuvering around the swimming pool, that Joey realized he was
naked. Dwarfed by his big, stretched belly, his submerged private
parts looked like baby birds left home in a nest beneath an
overhanging cliff. Of buttocks he had virtually none.
    "And whadda you guys do?" Steve asked. Then
he smiled.
    Joey hesitated. This was not a question that
was asked among his circle of acquaintances, nor was he accustomed
to chatting with naked guys in mixed company. "Well," he said,
"Sandra here is in banking. And me, well, I do this and that."
    "This and