Live by Night

President Roosevelt signed the Cullen-Harrison Act on the morning of March 23, 1933, legalizing the manufacture and sale of beer and wine with an alcohol content no greater than 3.2 percent. By the end of the year, FDR promised, the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution would be a memory.

Joe met with Esteban at the Tropicale. Joe was uncharacteristically late, something that had been happening a lot lately because his father’s watch had started to run behind. Last week it consistently lost five minutes a day. Now it was averaging ten, sometimes fifteen. Joe kept meaning to get it fixed, but that would mean releasing it from his possession for however long the repair took and, even though he knew it was an irrational reaction, he couldn’t bear the thought of that.

When Joe entered the back office, Esteban was framing yet another photograph he’d taken on his last trip to Havana, this one of the opening night of Zoot, his new club in the Old City. He showed the photo to Joe — pretty much like all the others, drunk, well-dressed swells and their well-dressed wives or girlfriends or escorts, a dancing girl or two over by the band, everyone glassy-eyed and joyous. Joe barely glanced at it before giving the requisite whistle of appreciation and Esteban turned it facedown on the mat that awaited it on the glass. He poured them drinks and set them on the desk amid the frame pieces and set to work joining the pieces, the smell of the glue so strong it even overpowered the smell of tobacco in his study, something Joe would have assumed impossible.

“Smile,” he said at one point and raised his glass. “We are about to become extremely wealthy men.”

Joe said, “If Pescatore lets me go.”

“If he is reluctant,” Esteban said, “we will let him buy his way into a legitimate business.”

“He’ll never come back out again.”

“He’s old.”

“He has partners. Hell, he has sons.”

“I know all about his sons — one’s a pederast, one’s an opium addict, and one beats his wife and all his girlfriends because he secretly likes men.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think blackmail works on Maso. And his train gets in tomorrow.”

“That soon?”

“From what I hear.”

“Eh. I’ve been in business with his kind all my life. We’ll manage him.” Esteban raised his glass again. “You’re worth it.”

“Thank you,” Joe said, and this time he drank.

Esteban went back to work on the frame. “So smile.”

“I’m trying.”

“It’s Graciela then.”

“Yes.”

“What about her?”

They’d decided not to tell anyone until she started to show. This morning, before she left for work, she pointed at the small cannonball protruding from under her dress and told him she was pretty sure the secret was going to get out today, one way or the other.

So it was with a surprisingly large relinquishing of a hidden weight that he said to Esteban, “She’s pregnant.”

Esteban’s eyes filled and he clapped his hands together and then came around the desk and hugged Joe. He slapped Joe’s back several times and much harder than Joe would have guessed he could.

“Now,” he said, “you are a man.”

“Oh,” Joe said, “that’s what it takes?”

“Not always, but in your case…” Esteban made a back-and-forth gesture with his hand and Joe threw a mock punch at him and Esteban stepped inside it and hugged him again. “I’m very happy for you, my friend.”

“Thank you.”

“Is she glowing?”

“You know what? She is. It’s strange. I can’t describe it. But, yeah, this energy comes off her in a different way.”

They drank a toast to fatherhood, an Ybor Friday night kicking up outside Esteban’s shutters, past his lush green garden and tree lights and stone wall.

“Do you like it here?”

“What?” Joe said.

“When you arrived, you were so pale. You had that terrible prison haircut, and you talked so fast.”

Joe laughed, and Esteban laughed with him.

“Do you miss Boston?”

“I do,” Joe said because sometimes he missed it terribly.

“But this is your home now.”

Joe nodded, even though it surprised him to realize it. “I think so.”

“I know how you feel. I do not know the rest of Tampa. Even after all these years. But I know Ybor like I know Habana, and I’m not sure what I would do if I had to choose.”

“You think Machado will—?”

“Machado’s done. It may take some time. But he is finished. The Communists think they can replace him, but America would never allow it. My friends and I have a wonderful solution, a very moderate man, but I’m not sure anyone’s ready for moderation these days.” He made a face. “Makes them think too much. Gives them headaches. People like sides, not subtleties.”

He lay the picture glass on the frame and placed the cork square on the back and applied more glue. He wiped off the excess with a small towel and stepped back to appraise his work. When he was satisfied, he took their empty glasses over to the bar and poured them each another drink.

He brought Joe his glass. “You heard about Loretta Figgis.”

Joe took the glass. “Someone see her walking on the Hillsborough River?”

Esteban stared at him, his head very still. “She killed herself.”