Atomic Lobster (10 page)

Up in the window, Jim had a nagging sensation that he recognized the wiry man down on the street. Must be mistaken.

Rachael finally stopped rolling around and walked back to Serge and Coleman.

“Hope you’re happy,” said Serge. “You disturbed a citizen.”

“Where?” asked Rachael.

Serge indicated by raising his chin toward a second-story silhouette backlit by his wife’s reading lamp. “That guy on the next block. Probably just trying to sleep in peace.”

Rachael shook a fist at the distant window. “What are you looking at, motherfucker?”

Jim then noticed the outline of Coleman’s nonwarrior constitution and it all snapped into place.

“Oh, no.”

THE NEXT DAY

T
hrough the front window of a 1923 bungalow, two people sat facing each other in frosty silence.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” said Serge.

“
You
don’t understand why I’m upset?”

“I went to the meeting just like you said.”

“I’ve been getting calls for three days. The moderator never wants to see you again.”

“I said I’d pay for the broken desks.”

“What a mistake!”

“Didn’t I warn you?”

“And yet you still claim you have no problems.”

“Right. They started it. Never seen so much hostility in one room.”

“So you just beat everyone up?”

“No, I didn’t
just
beat everyone up. At first I was consummately polite, but what do I get in return? You should have heard those potty mouths. Everything was ‘blow me,’ ‘bite me’…”

“Serge…”

“…Eat shit and die—”

“Serge!”

“What?”

“Now you’re just repeating yourself.”

“No, they each said something different. Suck my asshole. Lick my balls…”

“Serge!”

“What?”

“I’ve got the theme.”

“So you see I’m in the right?”

“Your anger’s far worse than I ever imagined.”

“
My
anger? I was the happiest person in the room. At least when I arrived.”

She got out a piece of notepaper and began writing. “I don’t know why I’m still bothering with you.”

Serge pumped his eyebrows. “We have that magic.”

“I’m going to try something. Very experimental. And risky. But you’re an extreme case. That’s why you have to make me a promise.”

“Name it.”

“No more fighting at meetings, especially this one.”

He didn’t answer.

“Well?”

“I didn’t realize it would be
that
promise.”

“Promise!”

“Okay, I promise. What kind of meeting?”

She handed him the slip of paper. He read it and looked up. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I couldn’t be more serious. It seems counter-intuitive, but empathizing with these people might be a constructive experience. If you feel you’re about to lose control, just get up and leave.”

“Fair enough.”

TAMPA

The real estate agent was so cheerful you wanted to beat her to death.

“Jim! Martha! Wonderful to finally meet!”

“Me too,” said Jim. “Listen, I tried getting the price from you on the phone….”

The agent was also a hugger. Big squeezes for both Davenports.
She had a ruby-red blazer with an azalea scarf. A gold metal name tag on the right breast pocket:
STEPHANIE
. Beneath:
TEN-MILLION-DOLLAR ASSOCIATE
.

Jim looked up the driveway. “How much?”

“Martha, I absolutely adore what you’re wearing!”

Martha glanced down at her warm-up suit from the gym.

Stephanie walked ambitiously toward the Spanish Mission house. “You’re going to just love living on Royal Palm Island.”

“I thought this was Davis Islands,” said Jim.

“Technicality,” said Steph. “We have a motion before the city council.”

“Why?”

“Money,” said the agent. “Like when they changed spider crab to Alaskan king crab. Plus the plural Davis
Islands
confuses everyone. Looks like a single key from the air, but a tiny, more exclusive islet was carved into the side when they dug the sailboat canal. That’s where we are now.”

“What about whoever this Davis guy was?”

“Dead. You need to get in before the name change,” said Steph. “Make a killing.”

“We just started looking,” said Jim. “We’re not even sure we can afford—”

“And the neighbors!” said Stephanie, arms springing out in both directions up the street. “You can’t put a price!”

“Speaking of price…” said Jim.

Stephanie solemnly raised a hand. “You can’t put one.” She turned toward the front door. “Shall we peek inside?”

Martha took a single step into the foyer and gasped. Sunlight streamed through two-story-high vertical glass windows. “Oh, Jim!…”

“It’s got to be too much.”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“How will we ever know?”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because I don’t want her to hear me.”

“Maybe she
should
hear you.”

“I don’t want her getting upset with me.”

“Jim, this is what I keep talking about. You have to act more assertive.”

“But she’s working for us,” Jim whispered. “I shouldn’t be put through this kind of discomfort.”

“That’s why you need to say something.”

“Can we talk about this later?”

They resumed walking. Martha crossed the living room and lovingly ran her hand along the mantel. “This would be a great spot to display my antiquities.”

“You collect antiquities?” said Steph. “Me too!”

“They’re not much,” said Martha. “I just dabble.”

Steph pointed at the mantel. “That’s the perfect place.”

“Jim, it’s the perfect place…. Where’d Steph go?”

“Over here!” echoed the Realtor’s voice. “You’re going to be knocked out!”

Martha followed the agent across glazed terra-cotta tiles with cerulean-blue diamond accents. “Stephanie, what are they asking?”

“And the kitchen!…”

Martha turned the corner. Her hand went over her heart. “Jim! The kitchen!”

“Honey, the countertops are worth more than my car.”

Steph gestured at the glistening Corian surface. “Countertops are the second most important consideration in real estate, right after location.” She turned to Jim. “Whatever’s spent on them, you get back triple in resale value.”

“So we’ll be paying for three countertops?”

“Think resale.”

“We haven’t bought it yet.”

“It’s never too soon,” said Steph. “You want to sell this place?”

“This isn’t our house.”

“I see you need to discuss it with Martha. But don’t take too long: It’s a red-hot seller’s market!”

“I thought you said it was a buyer’s market.”

“It is.”

“I don’t understand.”

Steph winked. “I’ll play with the numbers.”

“Speaking of numbers…”

Steph walked over to the jumbo, brushed-steel refrigerator and changed channels.

“The fridge has a TV?”

“Liquid crystal,” said Steph. “It can also be programmed to run a slide show of children’s drawings.”

“I used to just tape ’em to the front,” said Jim.

Steph shook her head.

“That’s not good?”

“And this stove comes Internet-ready.”

“Why?”

“To control it from your cell phone.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Jim told the agent. “But we might be wasting your time. We really need to know the price.”

Since the kitchen had already put the hooks in Martha, it was okay. She told them.

Jim’s turn to gasp. “That’s everything we have! More!”

“Honey,” said Martha. “I think we can do it.”

“But we’ll be stretched,” said Jim. “What if the market goes south? All the financial shows say existing homes are getting bubbly.”

“You know what kind of shows those are?” said Steph. “Stock market shows. They want the money to come back.” She led them into the master bedroom. “The market’s a shell game. Real estate, on the other hand, never goes down.”

“When did they develop this island?” asked Jim.

“Just before the 1925 Florida land bust. Here’s your bathroom….”

“Jim!” said Martha. “His and hers sinks!”

“Saved many a marriage,” said Steph. She pointed at a wall-mounted TV aimed at the toilet. “Jim, you like sports?”

Martha gazed into the romantic, two-person Jacuzzi. “It’s everything we’ve ever wanted.”

“Know who else lives on this side of the island?” said Steph, leading them to the rear of the house. “One of the Bucs, a hockey
player, and a local TV anchor.” She invaded personal space and lowered her voice. “Plus two city councilmen, which is why we get extra police patrols, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Jim…”

“Martha…”

“Your backyard…” Steph opened the curtains and slid a glass door.

Sailboats, sun, seagulls.

Martha’s heart skipped. The patio featured the ceramic mosaic of a loggerhead turtle made from colorful broken pottery. The swimming pool was the kind that perpetually spilled over the top and into a recirculation trough, creating the illusion that it extended into the bay.

“I’ve always wanted a pool like that,” said Martha. “Ever since I saw it in an architecture magazine.”

“This is the house,” said Steph.

“What house?”

“In the magazine. The photographer was standing right where you are.” Steph dipped a hand into the cool, azure water and ran it along her neck. “Makes you want to dive right in!”

A splash off the seawall.

“What was that?”

“Pod of dolphins lives along this side of the island,” said Steph. “You could sit out here at sunset and watch them for hours.”

“Jim, I’ve never felt so sure of anything in my life.”

“Martha, we discussed our maximum price on the way over.”

“But we didn’t know it would be like
this
.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you,” said Steph. “It’s a divorce sale. That’s why we have to move quickly before others swoop.”

“Jim!” said Martha. “We have to swoop!”

“No offense,” Jim told Steph. “But I don’t like to be rushed into big decisions.”

“You have no choice,” said the agent. “It’s going to hit the papers Monday.”

“What is?”

“Indictments. That’s why the divorce.”

“It’s going to hit the papers!” said Martha.

“What are we dealing with?” said Jim. “A drug kingpin?”

“No,” said Steph. “Big cheese at the zoning department. Got lots of the work on this place comped for favorable rulings. Like that incredible barrel-tile roof!”

“Jim, the roof!”

“Let’s start the paperwork!”

They walked through the house and out the front door. Jim pointed back over his shoulder. “I thought we were going to do paperwork.”

Steph closed the front door and secured the lock box. “In the car.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“No.”

“Why not sign at the dining room table?”

“It’s better in the car.”

They headed for the curb. A ’73 Mercury Comet sped by.

Serge looked out his driver’s window at mailbox numbers. “Coleman, you sure those apartments are over here?”

“That’s what this map says.”

“You idiot! You’re holding it upside down. The apartments are on the other side of the island.”

The Davenports turned quickly at the sound of screeching tires. The Comet made a left and disappeared at the end of the block.

“What the heck was that?” asked Jim.

“Probably someone’s kids,” said Steph. “They tend to be a little spoiled around here. Nothing to worry about.”

The ’73 Comet reached the east side of the island, made a left on Danube and pulled into the parking lot of a dingy apartment building. Serge got out and stood perfectly still.

Coleman walked around the car and popped a Pabst. “What is it?”

“Shhhh!” Serge stared up the street. “I’m having a moment. It hasn’t changed a bit after all these years. An oasis of old Florida
revivalist architecture and generous public green spaces. Most of the streets are named for bodies of water. Fuckers tore down the coliseum.”

“Didn’t you used to have an apartment here?”

“How could I not? It’s venerable Davis Islands, created by the visionary D. P. Davis, who seawalled and dredged this eight-hundred-acre paradise atop Big and Little Grassy Keys at the mouth of the Hillsborough River. Of course I’d murder anyone who raped an ecosystem like that today. But this was eighty years ago, so it was a historic rape.”

“Is this Davis dude still around?”

“Fell overboard during a cruise in 1926.”

“I thought they only started doing that lately.”

“He was a visionary.” Serge turned slowly. “I remember this place from the movie.”

“Movie?”

“The FBI Murders: In the Line of Duty
.” He stepped to the side of the road. “Climactic scene was filmed right under my feet.” He took a plastic tube from his pocket and bent down for a soil sample.

“Must have missed it,” said Coleman

“Made-for-TV docudrama on the biggest shootout in the history of the Bureau. Happened during Florida’s Wild West cocaine-cowboy eighties.”

“Now I remember,” said Coleman. “But wasn’t that Miami?”

Serge nodded. “Cheaper to film in Tampa. Here’s the cool part: If you were watching closely, which was me, the real-life firefight followed a stakeout on South Dixie Highway. But in the movie, they’re actually driving on Armenia Avenue in West Tampa, then they make a right turn and suddenly they’re ten miles away on this island. The cars crashed into that Dumpster, where David Soul and Michael Gross got shot to pieces. This is a happy place.”

From the Comet: “Give me my fucking money!”

They turned around. Rachael. Her head dropped below window level, then reappeared with frosted upper lip. “You stole it while I was sleeping!”

“I didn’t steal anything. It’s a short-term loan.”

“Gimme my money!” Head back down.

“We need it for first month’s rent,” said Serge. “And the new computer for my big plan.”

Head came up. “I worked hard on those Internet photos! You didn’t sell a single vegetable, and now you’re just playing with stupid dirt.”

Serge looked sideways at Coleman. “I knew that was coming. There’s often tension in a relationship when the woman’s career is going better.”

They walked toward the apartment building. Coleman climbed over a broken box spring in the breezeway. “What a dump.”

“But it’s quiet. The landlord said four old ladies live next door, and they’re almost never home.”

An hour later, Serge and Coleman were locked in the bathroom.

Banging on the door. “My money!”

“You’re just making it take longer,” Serge yelled back, hands in thin latex gloves.

The regular lightbulb over the sink had been replaced by a red one. A small table stood in the bathtub. It held four photographic developing pans. A clothesline stretched from the towel bar to the showerhead, where Coleman had mounted his beer bong. Twenty small, white rectangular pieces of paper hung from clothespins. More white rectangles sat in the developing pans. Serge fed a handful of one-dollar bills into the empty fourth tray.