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last. "Fuckin' Don Giovanni is the closest thing I got ta kids. Just as well. Two-pound piece a crap is so much aggravation, I can't imagine—"
    "Yeah," Vincente cut in. "Wit' kids there's a lotta aggravation. But more'n 'at, there's mystery. Lotta mystery."
    He paused. A skinny cloud slid across the sun, the sun seemed to be dropping through it like a shiny quarter going through a slot.
    "Like my two boys, go figure. Joey—you're right, Bert, I really loved his mother. She's the woman I shoulda spent my life with. But fuck me, I didn't. So Joey wants ta be everything different from what I am. This thing of ours, he wants no part of it— and I don't blame him, it's turned to shit. He's got a terrific wife, he's true to her, it makes him happy. What I'm sayin', everything I've done, everything I am, he wants ta be the opposite."
    Bert petted the dog that weakly quivered in his lap. Vincente had his black shoes on and he was nuzzling the beach with them, like he was secretly wiggling his toes in the coarse coral sand.
    "Then there's Gino," he went on. "Gino thinks he's doin' exactly what I want 'im to, probably thinks he's just like me. But Bert, I gotta tell ya: I look at Gino, I get a pain in my gut. I look inna mirror, wha' do I see? I'm a old man. My skin don't fit, my ears hang down. I'm ugly. Brutto. It don't bother me. I done a lot, I felt a lot, I know how I got to this. I look at Gino, I don't know what I'm lookin' at. He don't think, he don't feel, he took the life that was handed to 'im and never for a second looked outside it. Either he ain't really like me, or I been kiddin' myself a lotta years. Ya see what I'm sayin'?"
    "Yeah, Vincente, yeah," said Bert. "It's like a whaddyacallit, one a them things that cuts both ways, paragram, paragon, somethin' like that. Joey, he ain't like you onna surface, but inna bones, he is. He's got some spine, some independence to 'im. Gino, the surface is there, but you go below it— and wha'? Ya fall tru' the bottom, ya slip out his asshole, I dunno."
    "Bert, hey, he's still my son."
    "Sorry, Vincente. On'y—"
    "And the bitch of it?" the Godfather went on. "It's my fault. My fault, I mean, that my two boys, they gotta turn themselves inside out, go through contortions like, either to be like me or not be like me. If they understood better why I did the things I did—"
    "Vincente," said Bert. "Hey, fuck do I know? But sons, I'm not sure sons ever understand."
    The Godfather chose not to be soothed. "Like wit' Joey," he went on. "Deep down, probably he thinks I'm a skirt-chaser and a bully. OK, old days, he ain't far wrong. But God as my witness, Bert, that ain't the whole story. Things we did, we had reasons. Joey don't know the reasons. Gino don't know the reasons."
    Bert didn't say anything for a while, he was watching the sun go down. This was a thing with him. He cherished the moment when the flattened orange ball would squeeze onto the horizon, it always struck him as a kind of victory, an omen, though of nothing in particular, when the sky was clear and he was in the right place to confirm that the day had ended, the sun had sunk into the ocean. He watched it settle halfway in, a fat man wading belly deep; then he said, "So Vincente, tell 'em the reasons."
    The Godfather made a hissing grunt. Except for a dubiously lifted eyebrow he was motionless in his beach chair, but it seemed to Bert the Shirt that he was wriggling, writhing, like fingers, fists, were poking at him from within.
    Bert's dog had fallen asleep, was making a soft wheezing snore in his lap. "Ya wanna do it," the family friend said gently, "there's gotta be a way ta do it, Vincente. A way ta say what's on your mind but still keep the secrets secret."

6
    Ben Hawkins, the only black agent working organized crime in the New York office of the FBI, was wearing a neat conservative business suit because he always wore a neat conservative business suit to the office, but that didn't mean he was happy to be