Atomic Lobster (15 page)

DAVIS ISLANDS

J
im hadn’t slept so late since college. He’d climbed into bed just before daybreak and was out before getting the second shoe off. His final thought before nodding: Bury that damn statue in a ten-foot hole or throw it in the sea before the police find out about the mobile home invasion.

Martha had awoken when her husband arrived all sweaty, and she was conflicted. What kind of support group meets in the middle of the night? On the other hand, it showed Jim’s commitment. Questions would be saved for the morning, which became afternoon….

Jim finally raised his head and shielded his eyes against sunlight. The bedside alarm said one o’clock. He yawned and entered the dining room to the steaming aroma of blueberries. Martha came out of the kitchen with potholders. “I made you muffins.”

“Thanks, hon.” He grabbed one. “Ow.”

“They’re still hot.”

He juggled. “I haven’t slept like that in I don’t know.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like a million. Maybe I just need more rest.”

“Oh!” said Martha. “Almost forgot! Let me show you where I put it.”

“Put what?”

“Can’t believe you were so thoughtful.” She waved him over and pointed at the mantel.

Jim became dizzy.

“I set the statue right between that mask from Puerto Rico and those Guatemalan fertility dolls.” Martha gave him a big, neck-wringing hug. “Of course it’s just a replica—there’s no way you could afford the real thing—but still so sweet of you!”

The doorbell.

Jim jumped.

Martha walked toward the front of the house, glancing back. “You okay?” She opened the door.

Gladys Plant jogged on the mat. “Did you see the noon newscast?”

“I was baking.”

“Oh my God! This dirtball got decapitated at the railroad tracks! The bloody head smashed into this train’s windshield, and an eyeball got squished on the glass. Do I smell muffins?”

Martha led her neighbor over to the table. “That’s terrible…. Careful, those are still hot.”

“I haven’t even told you the best part.” Gladys blew on a muffin. “The victim worked for Moving Dudes. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it was the same guy who ripped you off?”

“Jim, you’re white as a sheet,” said Martha.

“Get him a chair!” said Gladys.

They slipped it under him just before he went down.

“Want us to call a doctor?”

He shook his head and slapped his chest. “Gas.”

“TV talked to a witness,” said Gladys. “Bunch of guys in dwarf masks—”

The doorbell again.

Jim jumped again. “What the hell was that?”

“You sure you’re okay?” Martha answered.

“Who is it?” asked Gladys.

“Just the police.”

Jim grabbed the edge of the table. The room began to spin.

“Honey, come over here,” said Martha. “The officer wants to talk to you.”

Jim pushed himself up and walked to the gallows.

“We’re handing out these flyers,” said the patrolman. “Seen anything suspicious lately?”

“No!” said Jim. “Why? Anything look suspicious?”

Gladys arrived and stuck her head between the couple. “What’s going on? Did I miss anything good?”

Martha read the pamphlet. “Three recent burglaries on this side of the island.”

“Thought the island didn’t have that kind of problem,” said Jim.

“You don’t,” said the officer. “That’s what’s so odd. They got sloppy at one house and tripped the alarm. We roadblocked the bridge, but nothing.”

“You mean it’s one of our neighbors?” said Gladys. “I have some ideas.”

The officer shook his head. “We thought that at first, but the common denominator was a bunch of puddles in kitchens. Sent samples to the lab. Came back
salt
water.”

“I’m not following,” said Martha.

“Scuba divers. They’re coming and going over the seawall.”

“I knew it,” said Gladys. “It’s a
straight
seawall.”

“I’m still confused,” said Jim.

The officer began walking away. “Apparently there’s enough to steal over here to justify the effort.”

“So what are we supposed to do?”

“I was just told to hand out pamphlets.”

THAT AFTERNOON

A newspaper lay on the dashboard of a ’73 Mercury Comet. It was folded to the article Serge had just discovered about McGraw’s prison release. The Comet sat next to a phone booth outside a convenience store in downtown Tampa. Serge examined the frayed end of a metal
cable where the phone book used to be. “Trotskyists.” He went inside the convenience store. He ran out.

“Hey, you! Come back here with my phone book!”

Serge sped off in the Comet, flipping through yellow pages. Rachael lay in the backseat, taking self-portraits with Serge’s digital camera. Coleman was up front rolling numbers. “What are you looking for?”

Serge clicked a pen and made a circle. “If McGraw makes a move on Jim, our apartment’s too far away to respond in time. I picked up something about his street.”

They stopped at a red light. People in other cars stared.

“How’s the phone book fit in?” asked Coleman.

Two bare legs cocked up in the Comet’s backseat, feet out the window. A camera flashed. The light turned green. Cars followed.

“You have to read social classes,” said Serge. “The more expensive the homes, the more likely the owners have
other
homes.”

Ten minutes later, the Comet was parked in the section of south Tampa called Palma Ceia. The car’s occupants sat in a row of three chairs in front of a desk. The desk was in a small office of a faux-Mediterranean strip mall featuring four-dollar coffee and five-dollar ice cream cones.

Serge studied a six-page list of addresses. The person behind the desk studied the trio. Not a good vibe. He would have already shown them the door, but he wanted to leer at Rachael a little longer.

Serge turned another page. At the top:
TAMPA BAY HOUSE SITTERS
.

“Do you have references?” asked the man behind the desk.

“No,” said Serge. “Asking someone for references is demeaning. I
give
references.”

“Then I’m sorry,” the man said distractedly. “Afraid we won’t be able—”

“What the fuck are you looking at?” yelled Rachael, rubbing her gums. Heads in the lobby turned.

The man made an urgent, pushing-down motion with his hands. “Please lower your voice.”

“Hey, everybody!” Rachael shouted. “Perv-man here was checking out my tits.” She faced the desk again. “You look, you pay!” She grabbed a pen and wrote something on the edge of the man’s calendar. “That’s my website. You look like a gag-ball fiend.”

The trio left. The man copied the website onto a scrap of paper and slipped it into his wallet. Then: Where’d my address list go?

DAVIS ISLANDS

M
artha Davenport hummed merrily as she dusted the living room mantel around her favorite statue.

Jim stood in the background. How was he going to pull this off? Maybe wait till she was out of the house and say he broke it. No, he’d get in trouble. Maybe say scuba divers stole it. No, she’d file a police report. Maybe—

“Jim, what are you doing over there staring at me?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re up to something.”

“No, I’m not.” He ran out the door.

The weekend street was alive. Skateboards, pruning shears, cars getting Turtle-Waxed, the air heavy with that great Saturday morning Florida smell of freshly cut St. Augustine grass.

Jim grabbed a garden hose and began watering so he wouldn’t look like he was up to something. Across the street, a riding lawnmower made circles around a date palm. The driver wore a gold silk warm-up suit and matching gold chains. He waved at Jim. Jim returned the greeting timidly, at stomach level. It was the only riding mower Jim had ever seen with a sun umbrella, cocktail holder and TV set. His neighbor’s bottom spilled over the sides of the seat, and the mower appeared to labor under the weight like a swaybacked donkey.

The mower stopped. Uh-oh. He was coming over. Jim froze. Noman’s-land. Too far to sprint to the house without looking obvious.

“Yo!”

“Hi.”

“Jim, right? My name’s Vinny. Or Vinny No-Neck. But not Masturbating Vinny. That’s another guy, even if they say he looks exactly like me.”

They shook hands.

“Nice lawn you got there. I’m in the witness-protection program.”

Jim went over to turn off the hose. Vinny followed and pointed at a dry patch. “You missed a spot.”

“I wasn’t really watering.”

“So Moving Dudes stole some stuff.” Vinny leaned closer and covered his mouth in case lip-readers were watching with binoculars. “I can take care of that thing.”

“No!…I mean, no, I’m sure we just misplaced it.”

“Next time, let them know you’re with me.” Vinny deliberately fiddled with his pinkie ring. “Nothing will disappear. In fact, extra stuff will show up.”

“Listen…” Jim turned toward his house. “I have to—”

“What are you doing right now?”

“My wife and I—”

“Got an idea!” Vinny pointed up the street. “I was just about to go up to——’s place. Watch the big game. Why don’t you join us?”

“Can’t. We have to…Wait, did you say——?”

Vinny nodded. “Played for the Bucs. At least at the end, after he was washed up with the Steelers. Tampa grabbed him off waivers, but he only lasted half a season. Liked the climate so much he kept the second home here.”

Jim became a child. “This is incredible. I heard a player lived on the street, but I didn’t know it was——. Growing up in Indiana, we didn’t have the Colts yet, so Pittsburgh was my team! And he was my favorite player!”

Vinny slapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go have a couple of pops.”

“You mean I can actually meet him?”

“Meet him, shmeet him. If he has a few too many, you might even wrestle on the floor.”

“I can’t believe this! I’ll have to tell my wife!”

“Jesus, Jim, you’re bouncing all over the place. You really must be a fan.”

“You have no idea!”

“Bring a camera. I’ll get a picture of you two.”

Jim burst through the front door, his voice echoing across the tiles: “Honey! I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

A disembodied voice from the kitchen: “Who is it?”

“Just come out here.”

Martha entered the living room, drying hands with a towel. She stutter-stepped when she recognized the neighbor, then regained composure. She set the towel down and manufactured a smile. “You must be Mr. Carbello.” She extended a hand.

“Vinny.” He leaned and kissed it.

Martha gave her husband a non-idle look.

Jim jerked a thumb sideways. “Me and Vinny were going to go watch a game…. There’s my camera!” He grabbed it from the top of an opened moving box.

“But we have those plans,” said Martha.

“What plans?”

Her eyes transmitted gamma rays. “Jim!”

“What?”

Another false smile at Vinny. “Would you excuse us a moment?…Jim, I’d like to talk to you in the kitchen.”

Jim followed. “What is it?”

Vinny worked his way around the living room, studying family photos.

Martha was using one of those angry whispers that is louder than actual talking.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Honey—”

“He’s a gangster!”

“Shhhh! He’ll hear you.”

“The guy’s a hood! You’re not going!”

“But honey, he knows——.”

“Who’s that? Another killer?”

“No, one of my favorite sports heroes of all time. I must have mentioned him a hundred times.”

“You’re not going, and that’s it!”

Jim’s head popped out of the kitchen. “Vinny, just be a second.”

Vinny nodded. Jim’s head disappeared.

“Honey, he said I might be able to get my picture taken.”

“Listen to yourself. You want to hang out with the mob?”

“He’s retired.”

“Jim!”

Vinny moved to another photo. Jim, nine, holding a fish. Dang, the kid was skinny.

“But—”

“That’s final!”

Jim reappeared from the kitchen, camera hanging sadly from his shoulder. “I’m awfully sorry, but something’s come up.”

“Forget about it,” said Vinny. “But mind if I ask you a question?”

“No.”

“Who wears the pants?”

“What?”

Vinny angled his head toward the kitchen. “Couldn’t help but overhear.”

“Sorry about that. She doesn’t mean it.”

“Not worried about me. Worried about
you
.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dames will be dames. That’s why they make aspirin. But there’s a certain point when a guy’s got to do what he’s got to do.”

“What are you saying?”

“You just want to watch a little game on TV, not to mention meet a Hall of Famer. Where’s the sin in that? It’s not like you’re going over there to bang some broad, although I can set you up.”

“Vinny!”

“Say no more. Some guys are faithful. I got respect for that. But
you
also deserve respect. Am I not right?”

“No, I mean yes, I mean what was the question?”

“I kept this floozy in Brooklyn. Regular tiger in the sack. Toilet got so clogged with Coney Island whitefish we had the plumber on speed-dial. But she also had a mouth on her. Nothing a little rap in the teeth couldn’t fix.”

Jim jumped back. “I’d never hit Martha! I think you better leave.”

“You got me all wrong.”

“I do?”

Vinny nodded hard. “I can tell you’re not the hitting type. She should be grateful. Compared to getting smacked around, you watching a game with the guys is practically romantic.” He grabbed Jim by the arm. “Let’s go.”

“Shouldn’t I tell Martha?”

“Definitely not. I know women. She’ll respect you much more for standing up to her. Probably let you cum on her face tonight.”

“My wife…”

“We’re missing kickoff.”

They left and headed up the sidewalk. A Comet passed them the other way.

“We’re in luck.” Serge tapped a circled address on the last page. “They have a house on Jim’s street.”

The Comet stopped in front of a place near the end of Lobster Lane. Serge gasped. “Oh, baby! Will you look at her!”

Rising before them: a three-story contemporary waterfront manse. All white, vertical wall of translucent glass blocks illuminating the foyer and a collection of oversized, abstract art spiraling up behind a staircase that poked through the roof and onto a widow’s walk of curved, tubular steel rails. In the yard, sea grapes, bird-of-paradise, azaleas and the centerpiece: a manicured twenty-foot traveler’s palm fanning out across the gleaming facade.

Serge placed the back of a hand to his forehead. “It’s everything I’ve always wanted. Did you know there was a strict rule on
Miami Vice
? All bad guys had to live in postmodern homes. True. Watch the reruns.”

Yelling erupted from the front steps. A stocky, bald man with boardroom suspenders berated undocumented yard help.

The Comet sped away.

“Serge,” said Coleman. “If that’s the house, where are you going?”

“Can’t let him see this car. Or you two, no offense.” He parked at the end of the block. “Stay here with the car. I’ll be right back.”

Yelling grew louder as Serge neared on the sidewalk.

“…What am I paying you people for? All you do is take water breaks….” The man sipped a frosty mint julep.

Serge reached the front of the house and turned up the walkway toward the porch. He fashioned his most convincing smile. “Beautiful place you have here!”

“Thanks. Who the hell are you?”

“Serge Storms.”

The man warily shook his hand. “Gaylord Wainscotting. What do you want?”

“The same thing you do. House-sitting.”

“
You’re
the house-sitter? Agency didn’t say you were coming.”

“Agency didn’t send me. I’m in business for myself.”

Gaylord looked Serge over. “I’ll need references.”

“References? Sure.” Serge pointed up the street. “Jim.”

“Jim?”

“Your new neighbor. Three houses up.”

“Oh, the Davenports.” He nodded. “Nice people. Only talked a couple times. Jim’s a little on the quiet side, but Martha seems like a wonderful woman.”

“She is.”

“Where do you know Jim from?”

“Uh…we meet each week. We’re in the same
club
.”

“You and Jim belong to the club?” said Wainscotting. “
I
belong to the club. Living on this side of the island, I should have known Jim was a member. Wonder why he didn’t tell me?”

“Are you serious?” said Serge. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you talk about.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Wainscotting. “Can’t stand this new wealth that puts on the dog.”

“Those fuckers!”

Gaylord laughed. “No shit…Say, I like you. If they accepted you in the club, no need for any background checks. Their membership committee’s worse than the FBI.” He finished his plantation drink and smacked Serge on the shoulder. “Let’s go inside.”

They entered through a front door with a giant heron etched into the glass. “What are you drinking?”

“White grapefruit,” said Serge. “Chilled, not iced.”

“Loosen up. I got Chivas, Stoli, Johnny Walker Blue.”

“I drink
after
business.”

“Good for you. Luckily I’m finished with business for life.” Gaylord poured himself a generous Belvedere vodka martini. “Made most of mine in the stock market. Good broker, if you know what I mean.”

“A little Martha Stewart birdie in your ear?”

Gaylord winked. “How’d you make yours?”

“Currency conversion.”

“Now you
really
got my respect. I don’t have the stones for that kind of action. The least little fluctuation in the dollar and you’re ruined.”

“That’s why I only work with great big fluctuations.”

“Bet you made a lot of money.”

“Literally.”

Gaylord finished his first martini and began fixing another. “We’re a lot alike—have to do the club together sometime.”

“Just say the word.”

Gaylord dumped ice in a sterling cylinder, capped it and began shaking. “I
love
the club. Why haven’t I seen you there? Or Jim?”

“We go Tuesdays.”

“You should try Wednesdays. The most tender prime rib in town.”

“We just get stale coffee and doughnuts.”

“But they’re supposed to have stone crab on Tuesday.”

“You sure we’re talking about the same club?”

“I know, I know. But last year was an exception.” Gaylord uncapped the shaker. “With all the staff turnover, you never knew which club you were going to get. Guess they still have some kinks to
iron out. I’ll talk to Remington. Meantime, switch to Wednesdays. Nothing like a big steak after a round of golf.”

“Golf?” said Serge. “I hate the fucking game!”

“What?”

“You’d have to be a complete idiot to play that stupid shit.”

“Tell me about it,” said Gaylord. “I could murder the guy who invented the elevated green. But it’s an addiction worse than any drug. What are you going to do?”

“Feed the monkey.”

Gaylord speared an olive. “Why’d
you
join the club?”

“Deal with aggression.”

“Feels like I’m talking to a mirror.” Gaylord refilled his martini glass to the brim. “That’s why I joined. It’s like therapy.”

“What do you mean
like
? It
is
therapy.”

“No shit. Eighteen holes and I’m a new man.” He took a large sip. “Just one question. If you belong to the club and all, why do you need to house-sit?”

“Sold my place on Bayshore a few days ago. Broke my heart, but local prices were beginning to bubble. Rule number one…”

“…Never get emotionally attached to an asset.”

“Now I just have the Hamptons spread.”

“Cape Cod here.”

“But I couldn’t give up the club,” said Serge. “Figured I’d house-sit until my Realtor finds something else.”

Gaylord raised his glass. “To the club.”

“The club.”

A horn honked.

They looked through the glass front door. Another honk. A rust-eaten Comet at the curb. Rachael behind the wheel. Then she really laid into it for one of those ten-second blasts that got every dog barking for five blocks. Serge slapped himself on the forehead. Gaylord pointed with his cocktail. “Who the hell are those jackasses?”