Atomic Lobster (19 page)

“What are we going to do?”

Tommy glanced toward a wall calendar from the Mexican Board of Tourism.

EXACTLY ONE MILE HIGH OVER THE GULF OF MEXICO

I
t was the best sex they could remember since the kids were old enough to talk.

“Oh, Martha!”

“Oh, Jim!”

“Let’s buy a plane!”

“Okay!”

Other side of the privacy partition:
“Jim? Jim Davenport? Is that you?”
The partition unsnapped. Serge poked his head through, wearing a Batman mask. “Thought I recognized your voice.”

“Jesus!” Martha covered her breasts and rolled off her husband.

Jim stared in speechless horror.

Serge stared back. “This a bad time?”

“Jim!” said Martha, grabbing the dress to cover herself further. “Who the hell is that?”

“Martha,” Jim said in a trembling voice. “This is my friend from the support group who gave us the tickets. Remember how you said I couldn’t reveal his name?”

Martha made an angry motion with her eyes for Jim to get rid of him.

“Listen,” Jim told Serge. “Don’t you think you need to get back to whoever you’re with—”

“Her name’s Rachael.”

“…back to Rachael.”

“It’s okay,” said Serge. “I’m just getting a B.J. now. I can talk.”

“What?”

“In fact, it makes me
want
to talk. Hard to believe, but Peter O. Knight used to be Tampa’s main airport. I can see it all now, silver DC-3s, alligator suitcases…. Rachael, watch the teeth…the terminal decorated with the 1930s art deco murals of George Snow depicting the history of flight, Daedalus to the Wright Brothers and Tony Janus, restored and on display at Tampa International’s Airside E, for those keeping score at home…”

“Jim!” yelled Martha.

“Where are my manners?” said Serge. “Rachael, get up here. There are some people I want you to meet.”

Catwoman stuck her head through the partition. “Meowwww!”

“What a coincidence!” said Serge. “Can’t believe you used your tickets the same night! We’ll have to go out like this more often.”

Catwoman’s tongue went in Serge’s ear. “Well, that’s the old Bat Signal. Later…” The partition closed.

Martha reclined on the bed and folded her arms rigidly.

Jim went to touch her. “Honey…” She flinched away.

Jim fell back and stared at the plane’s ceiling. They lay in frosty silence.

Not totally silent. Despite the engines’ drone, conversation began filtering through the partition.

“…You remember the Davenports,” said Serge. “I’ve mentioned them a dozen times.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Rachael. “The dorky couple.”

“They are
not
dorky,” said Serge. “Just haven’t been around the block like you and me. That’s why I got them the tickets.”

“You wasted your money,” said Rachael. “They wouldn’t know what to do if they had diagrams.”

“They’re just having a difficult time sexually.”

“He told you about it?”

“Every detail. His wife’s trying to get him into all this kinky shit, but so far nobody’s come.”

Martha covered her face in mortification.

“Why do you have such lame friends?” said Rachael.

“They are not lame.”

“Yes they are!”

“I’m warning you!”

“What are you going to do, hurt me?”

“You’ll beg for mercy.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh yeah? How about this. Does that hurt?”

“Oh, God it hurts! It hurts, you fucker!”

“And this?”

“That hurts, too! Stop! Please! Owww!…”

“And this!”

“That does it!” snarled Rachael. “Your cock’s going to get it now!”

“Owww!” yelled Serge.

“And this!”

“Yowwwwwww!”

On the other side of the curtain: Jim felt his shoulder poked. He turned.

“Jim,” said Martha. “You’re absolutely not going to believe what I’m going to say next.
I
don’t even believe it.”

“What?”

She glanced toward the partition. “They’re getting me incredibly aroused.”

“You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

She threw her dress aside and climbed on top of Jim. “Have you been listening to them?”

“Not trying to.”

“Think you remember most of it?”

“Martha, what are you asking?”

She found the right position, slid down onto him and gritted her teeth. Her voice changed to something Jim hadn’t heard before: “You wouldn’t dare hurt me!”

“What?”

“You’re hurting me! You’re hurting me!”

“I’m not doing anything! I swear!”

“Your cock’s going to get it now!”

“Martha, you’re scaring me!”

On the other side of the partition:

“I’ll fucking kill you!” shouted Rachael. “Take that, you no-good motherfucker!”

“Why you mangy cunt!” yelled Serge.

“Wait, stop.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Our sex life is in a rut,” said Rachael. “Fantasy role-playing.”

“What about it?” asked Serge.

“We should try it,” said Rachael. “We’re always just being ourselves.”

“Who do you want to play?”

She glanced toward the partition.

“You’re joking.”

“Who can explain sex? Their clumsiness is making me hot.”

Other side of the partition: Martha was bucking so wildly that Jim had to grab her hips to keep her from being thrown clear. Screaming her head off: “Oh yes! Oh yes! Oh yes!” Just about to explode, when…

“Martha,” said Jim. “Why’d you stop?”

She looked toward the partition. “Listen…”

From the other side:

“Oh, Martha!”

“Oh, Jim!”

“I don’t know how to fuck!”

“Me neither!”

“How do we do it?”

“Give me that tiny needle-dick of yours.”

“Is this the right hole?”

“Oh, Martha!”

“Oh, Jim!”

Martha rolled onto her back again. “How can this possibly get any more embarrassing?”

The partition opened. Batman pointed at the floor next to their bed. “You using that?”

Silence.

“Thanks.” Serge grabbed the broken vibrator.

The partition closed.

918
LOBSTER LANE

F
irst thing the next morning, a rusty Comet pulled up the driveway.

The home’s front door was already open. Gaylord Wainscotting wheeled a last piece of luggage down to the curb, where Mrs. Wainscotting and ten other suitcases were already assembled in descending order of height, including Mrs. Wainscotting.

A limo arrived. The driver loaded bags.

Gaylord shook Serge’s hand. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Enjoy Cape Cod.”

“Enjoy the club.”

The chauffeur placed the final item in the trunk and slammed the hood. Wainscotting climbed into the backseat. The window rolled down. “Treat the place like your own, unwind a little.”

“I’m slammed,” said Serge. “Work…”

“You can work anytime. Have some fun.”

Serge shook his head. “Way behind deadline. We’ll be quiet as mice. In fact the neighbors probably won’t even know anyone’s home.”

“Glad I hooked up with you,” said Gaylord. “All kinds of cautionary tales about hiring the wrong house-sitters. One guy from the club had his place burned to the ground.”

“She couldn’t be in better hands,” said Serge.

“Just don’t work too hard.”

“No other way.”

Gaylord laughed. The limo drove off.

Serge whistled a blissful tune and strolled toward the house. He opened the front door. Stereo blasting, Coleman filling shot glasses, Rachael…Where was Rachael? A drumroll of shattering glass from the kitchen.
“Goddammit!”

Coleman cradled a phone receiver against his shoulder and knocked back bourbon.
“…Sure you don’t need directions?…Yeah, it’s going kick out the motherfuckin’ jams. Later…”
He hung up and dialed again. “Hey, Serge…”

“What are you doing?”

“Shots.”

“No, the phone.”

Coleman put up a finger for Serge to hold a sec.
“Thumper? Coleman…No, I don’t have the money. Listen, what are you doing Saturday?…”

Coleman hung up and dialed again.

“I’m waiting,” said Serge.

“Calling people for my party…” Coleman placed his spherical black-and-white TV on the counter and slapped the side.
“
…
Psycho Sal? Coleman…You still have to wear the ankle monitor?…”

“Party?”

“Going to be killer!”

“Have you lost your mind? We can’t throw a party!”

Coleman hung up again. “Serge, it’s the ultimate party pad.” He slapped the TV.

“We’ve been entrusted with the care of this house,” said Serge. “The guy’s only been gone a minute, and you’re already sowing the seeds of destruction.”

“Relax. Just a few of my closest friends.” He dialed the phone and slapped the TV. “Serge, you know how to fix this thing?”

“Just keep slapping.”

Rachael came into the room with a giant sterling service tray. She set it on the dining table, dumped a generous pile of white powder and began cutting rails with a razor blade.

Serge stood in amazement. “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

Rachael leaned with a straw. “What the fuck’s it look like?”

“You’re scratching their tray all to hell!”

“Eat me!” Diver down.

“…Slasher? Coleman…”
Slap.

Rachael pinched her nose. “Coleman, crank the stereo!”

“It’s already up the whole way.”

“…We won’t get fooled again!…”

Coleman was about to make another call when he saw what Rachael was doing and dashed over to the table. “Can I have some?”

She shielded the tray like a protective mama bear. “Mine!”

“But you got plenty.”

“Get away!”

“Give me some!”

“Let go of me!”

“Just a little bump!…Ow!…Serge! She’s going for my balls!”

“They’re trained to do that. Directive Seven.”

The wrestling match was inelegant and vicious. They rolled across the floor and slammed into a table leg. A silver tray crashed to the ground.

They stood and stared down in mute horror. Rachael punched Coleman in the stomach. “Now look what you did!”

“Shit. Okay, we can salvage this,” said Coleman. “I’ve been here before. Stay perfectly still. Don’t create any air currents until the haze settles.”

Serge witnessed unprecedented discipline from his stationary companions.

Finally: “Now!” said Coleman. They dropped to their knees, herding dust with their hands and licking.

Serge headed up the stairs. “I wash my hands of this fiasco.”

The widow’s walks of Tampa’s waterfront mansions were perfect for telescopes and binoculars. People watching big ships or sunsets or stars at night.

Serge’s binoculars were aimed in a different direction, down the
street. Jim Davenport’s head filled the twenty-magnification view field.

Coleman came up the stairs with a bottle of Rémy Martin by the neck. “What are you doing?”

Serge adjusted the focus as Jim walked across his lawn with a ladder. “Protecting our friend. So far, so good. No sign of McGraw.”

Coleman looked toward Serge’s feet. “What’s the rifle for?”

“In case McGraw slips under my perimeter and I can’t get down there fast enough.”

Coleman turned toward the bay. “There’s a bunch of people in kayaks and canoes behind that other house….”

“Hold it! Trouble! Oh my God!”

“What is it?”

“Jim’s replacing a floodlight, but he’s a step too high on the ladder. The one with the yellow warning label of a stick figure falling off a ladder.”

“Serge, who’s that over there walking toward him?”

“Where?…Oh, no!” Serge grabbed the rifle and chambered a round. Crosshairs tracked a stranger heading toward the house. He began pulling the trigger. He stopped.

Coleman took a swig. “Why aren’t you shooting?”

Serge set the rifle down. “Just the UPS guy.” He picked up the binoculars. “Sure wish Jim would get off the top step. Doesn’t he know that’s insane?”

“The kayaks and canoes are now behind our house.”

Serge swung the binoculars toward their backyard. “Rachael’s just sunning herself naked.” The binoculars panned back the other way. “Picked up a second bogie.”

“Bogie?”

“Martha. Heading for their car…Jim’s calling to her, but she’s ignoring him. Now he’s waving for her to stop backing out of the driveway and…He fell off the ladder! Jim’s down! Jim’s down!…He’s up! Martha patches out! Jim’s running down the street after her! She’s gone.”

“What was that about?”

“They had a monster fight. Poor Jim. I know I’m being tough on myself, but I can’t help think I’m almost responsible.”

“Why’s that?”

“Martha was crying inconsolably when our plane landed last night, even though I fixed the vibrator for free. I chased her out the passenger hatch, waving it in the air to give it back, but she just wailed louder and nearly went into one of the propellers.”

“That would have sucked.”

“I need to make it up to Jim.” Serge lowered the binoculars and started downstairs.

Jim Davenport had moved his ladder to the northeast corner of his home. Just a few more twists on the floodlight.

The bushes below: “Psssst! Jim! You’re one step too high!—”

Jim looked down.

“It’s me, Serge….”

Thud.

“Jim!” Serge leaped from the shrubs and bent over his fallen neighbor. “You okay?” He tapped his cheeks. “Wake up! Come on, big boy!…”

He slowly came around. “What happened?”

“Everything’s all right. You just took a spill from the ladder. Luckily…actually, there isn’t a lucky part—”

“Holy God!” Vinny waddled across the street in silk warm-ups. “I saw what happened. Is he okay?”

Coleman brought up the rear. “Anything broken?”

Jim, tiny voice: “Please leave me alone.”

“Understand perfectly,” said Serge. “You’re having marriage issues and can’t think straight about ladder safety.”

“What kind of issues?” asked Vinny.

“She bought a vibrator,” said Serge.

“Martha?” Vinny’s head snapped back. “Doesn’t look the type. How big?”

“Like a Polaris,” said Serge.

“Jim, Jim, Jim,” said Vinny, shaking his head. “You gotta jump
on top of that. Broad gets a taste for electricity, and suddenly you’re spending entire weeks by yourself with the curtains closed and a stack of
Hustler
.”

“Yeah,” said Coleman. “It’s great.”

Serge reached for his wallet. “I need to make amends for the other night.” He handed Jim a folded-over wad of cash. “Take Martha out this evening. Great bistro on the other side of the island.”

“No. This has to stop.” Jim pushed the money back; Serge pushed harder the other way. “I insist.”

“Jim?” asked Vinny.

“What?”

Vinny was staring up the street. A brown truck at the curb. “Remember you said you were going to frame one of the pictures you took of——by the pool and mail it to him?”

“I sent it two days ago.”

“Was Mandy in the photo?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d you send it?”

“UPS.”

“Holy shit!” said Vinny.

“What’s the matter?” asked Serge.

“That’s his wife’s car in the driveway.”

“Wife,”
said Jim. “You told me he was divorced.”

“She’s not supposed to arrive for another month,” said Vinny.

“Wife?” said Jim.

“Is that her?” asked Serge.

“Where?”

“The woman at the door signing for a package…Jesus, Vinny, you’re white as a sheet.”

“You don’t understand. His wife’s fuckin’ crazy. She frightens
me.
” He dabbed perspiration off his forehead. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she also came after Jim for this.”

“Me?”

“Then we’ll just have to get the package back,” said Serge.

“But how?” asked Vinny.

“Go as a group,” said Serge. “There’s four of us. We can easily create a diversion and grab the box.”

They began walking up the street.

“I’m not kidding about his wife,” said Vinny.

“You’re worrying in advance about what’s never going to happen,” said Serge. “This’ll be child’s play.”

They reached the house and stopped at the end of the walkway.

“You’re right,” said Vinny. “I think it might work.”

“Of course it’ll work,” said Serge.

“In a few minutes we’ll all be laughing about this,” said Vinny. “I mean, how fast can she open that package?”

Bang, bang, bang.

They looked at each other. “Gunfire?”

Bang, bang, bang. Splinters exploded from the front door.

“Run!”

They scattered in various panicked directions. Except Jim, who ran in a circle in the street until Serge grabbed him by the shoulders and lined him up with his house. “Straight ahead. You can’t miss it.” Then he and Coleman dashed back to their own pad.

Coleman reached under the bar for a bottle. “I must have heard eight gunshots.”

“If it’s like my relationships, they’re already in the middle of makeup sex.” Something on the counter caught his eye. Serge picked up a flyer.

Coleman came over with a tumbler of rum. “What is it?”

“A pamphlet the police dropped off,” said Serge. “This neighborhood’s getting hit by frogmen burglars. I saw something about it in the paper.”

“Burglars?”

“And the perfect cover for attack. The most direct, undefended route to another Davenport home invasion.” He crumpled the notice. “Since these divers have made the news, I’d bet anything it’s given McGraw the idea.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It’s what I’d do.”