Atomic Lobster (23 page)

WAINSCOTTING’S PAD

J
im Davenport sprayed Cheez-Whiz on a Ritz. Someone came over. A peck on the cheek.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi, Debbie. Having fun?”

She nodded. “Great party. And your friend’s real nice, although I think he’s a little drunk. What did you call him? Wainscotting?”

“You talked to Wainscotting again? I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s right over there.” She pointed at Coleman.

“Oh, no.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Jim looked around. “Where’s Trevor?”

“Out by the pool.”

Jim looked through sliding glass doors at his future son-in-law chatting up two bikini bunnies. “Debbie, I wanted to talk to you about Trevor. Are you sure—?”

“Isn’t he wonderful?”

Jim smiled. “Yes, he is.”

Another peck on the cheek. “Love you, Daddy.”

“Love you, too.”

She trotted off. Jim grabbed another Ritz. He stopped and stared at something on the counter. A round black-and-white TV. He pressed the power button. Nothing. He slapped the side.

“Jim!” said Serge. “Great to see you!”

A cracker went into the ceiling fan.

“What’s the matter?”

Jim’s eyes shot around. “Martha can’t see you!”

“She’s still mad about the propeller?”

Davenport grabbed Serge by the arm and jerked him into a hallway.

“What is it?”

“Over here…” Jim darted into a bathroom with a five-hundred-dollar aqueduct faucet.

“You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Serge, I’m begging! Please leave my family alone!”

“No can do. My code of friendship: I’ll always be there for you.”

Jim whined with pursed lips.

“Okay, spill it,” said Serge.

“What?”

“Something else is bothering you. Serge can always tell.”

Jim looked at the ground. Serge bent way over and turned his head so he was staring up at Jim. “You can trust me, buddy.”

“It’s…Debbie…”

“No!” yelled Serge, springing up and reaching under his shirt for the bulge in his waistband. “She in some kind of danger?”

“Getting married.”

Serge’s expression changed, and he shook Jim’s hand vigorously. “Father of the bride! That’s fabulous! Caterers, a big hall, DJs, florists, twenty grand just for openers unless you want dickheads to gossip. Plus Melvin’s in college, and you got a new jumbo mortgage, so count on at least five years of skull-cracking financial pressure, which means even more tension with the wife. Congratulations!”

“That’s not it,” said Jim. “It’s Trevor.”

“Who’s Trevor?”

“Big athletic type wearing the Yale bathing suit.”

“You mean that guy out by the pool sticking dollars in Rachael’s boobs? What about him?”

“It’s probably just me. Martha thinks I’m overreacting….” And Jim told him everything, blow by blow.

When he finished, Serge looked at him thoughtfully. “You aren’t overreacting. Kid’s got no respect. Luckily, you told me in time.”

“Serge! No! Not this!
Especially
not this!”

“Exactly. I won’t do a thing.” He winked. “That way you can deny whatever happens with a clear conscience.”

“Serge!…”

He ran off.

PORT OF TAMPA

A taxi screamed up to the cruise terminal. The driver jumped out and unloaded luggage. Edith opened her wallet. “And here’s a little extra for your speeding.”

Ethel extended the telescoping handle on her Samsonite. “Can’t believe we got everything done and still made it back in time.”

“Haven’t made it yet,” said Edith. “Need to see what kind of line at Customs.”

They pushed through double doors. Luggage wheels squeaked across a largely vacant terminal. “In luck. Only a few deep at each station.”

The woman joined a trickle of early-bird vacationers who wanted to avoid the last-second crush that always came with the Sunday evening departure for Cozumel. They placed suitcases on the table.

An inspector smiled at Edith. “Anything to declare?”

“You’re a hottie.”

While the terminal was quiet on the customer side, that couldn’t be said for the administrative offices on the other. Agents from conflicting jurisdictions stepped on each other’s toes. Overlapping cell phone conversations. Doors opened and slammed.

Edna started up the gangway. “Wonder what all that commotion’s about.”

“Someone must have gotten busted.”

“Welcome aboard!”

Back in the terminal, the flurry of official activity centered on
one highly secured room. Inside, armed guards and a long steel table. Forensic cameras flashed. Small, L-shaped rulers lay on the table to provide scale. At one end were carefully arranged pieces of a shattered Mayan statue. At the other, small plastic packages of white powder sealed with wax.

“Vasconia,” said an agent sitting at a bank of surveillance monitors. “Check this out.”

“Got something?”

The seated agent replayed an eight-hour-old security tape. “Take a look in the bottom corner at Customs line D.” He slowed the video frame-by-frame. “See the statue in that person’s hand?”

“But it’s an old lady.”

“Probably an unwitting mule. Check the ship’s registry.”

Deeper into the pathology of the party. Wilder and louder. Stereo on Three Dog Night. Public groping, wall damage. A surly group of clowns and mimes pushed their way to the patio. All the bedroom doors were locked, and all the bathrooms had blood trails. The garbage disposal ground to a calamitous halt from a dropped corkscrew. Sangria stains, cigarette butts, mashed food. The throw rugs would have to be thrown out. A GHB overdose was iced down in a bathtub; others applied pressure to a diving-board head wound sustained moments after someone yelled, “Hey everybody, watch this!”

Good times.

“…Mama told me not to come!…”

And the weather! Couldn’t have dialed up a finer day. Not a cloud, the early-afternoon sun tanning the faithful on patio loungers, and filling the entire, open-layout house with warm energetic light.

Except one room.

Debbie and her fiancé followed Coleman up a futuristic set of free-floating Plexiglas stairs suspended from the ceiling by steel cables.

“What’s this about?” asked Trevor.

“Someone wants to meet you.”

“Who?”

“We’re almost there.”

They reached the top step. Coleman opened the door and gestured for them to enter.

The couple stepped inside the ultra-dark office. The door closed. Their eyes slowly adjusted, and they began making out a form sitting behind a large desk. The person turned on a dim, jade banker’s lamp and nodded toward a pair of chairs in the middle of the room.

“What’s this about?” Trevor asked as he slowly sat. “Who the hell are you?”

“A close personal friend of Jim.”

“Friend of Jim’s?” Trevor chuckled. “That figures.”

“Excuse me?” said Serge. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Never mind.” Trevor leaned back smugly. “What’s Jim’s
friend
want?”

Serge turned to the other chair. “Debbie, you are not to marry this man. I want you to come and live at home with the family. Tell him. He’ll understand.”

Debbie reached over and held Trevor’s hand. “We’re getting married.”

“Debbie, you disappoint me.”

“Honey,” said Trevor. “Your father must be behind this joker. I told you he doesn’t like me.”

“Debbie, I’ll ask you one more time. Please do not marry this man.”

“But Serge,” said Coleman. “He seems like a nice enough guy.”

Serge slapped the top of the desk. “Coleman! Never take sides against the family!”

Trevor stood. “Enough of this stupidness. Debbie, let’s go—”

“Sit back down.”

“Screw you. We’re out of here.”

“I said, sit.” Serge placed a shiny .45 automatic on top of the desk.

Debbie’s eyes bulged. “What’s the gun for?”

“It’s not a real gun,” said Trevor. “It’s a starter pistol or some toy.”

She gripped the arms of her chair. “How do you know?”

“Because any friend of your father is a wimp.”

Serge ejected the magazine from the pistol’s handle, adding unmistakably genuine bullets. He slammed the clip back home.

Trevor’s behavior improved.

“What an incredible sense of humor!” Serge stood and casually waved the pistol. “Kidding like that about a dear friend whom you so clearly respect.” He came out from behind the desk and placed a chummy arm around the young man’s shoulders. “I was completely wrong: You’re perfect for Debbie! Come with me, I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“A gift for your special day.” Serge led him to the back of the office. “It’s right in there.” He opened the door.

Trevor looked inside, then back at Serge. “It’s just a closet.”

Serge shoved him into a shoe rack. “Coleman, the stereo on that shelf. Crank it.”

Coleman twisted a knob all the way to the right.

“‘…Woke up this morning, got yourself a gun…’”

Serge went inside and shut the door.

A minute later, the door flew open. Trevor rushed past Debbie, hands clutching the center of his face. “He’s fucking crazy!”

“But baby—”

“Wedding’s off!” He ran down the stairs.

Debbie doubled over in her chair, crying louder than an ambulance.

“You’ll get over him,” said Serge. “Come look at my ants.”

SS
SERENDIPITY

T
hey’re late,” said Edna.

“Your watch must be slow.” Edith flagged down a waiter.

“What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen.”

“They’re late.”

Eunice looked out one of the portholes of the Jules Verne Dining Room. “That’s funny. The ship’s not going.”

“Might as well order.”

The women stretched it out as long as they could. Appetizers, salads, three courses and dessert. “Wonder what happened to them?”

“They stood us up is what happened,” said Edith.

“I’m sure there’s a good explanation,” said Ethel. “You’re not going to get mad at them after all they’ve done for us.”

“But something’s hinky. First, no-shows in the ballroom, then out of the blue they appear on our doorstep, now this.”

Eunice pushed back an empty plate. “Let’s not dwell.”

The women wound their way down through the ship. Ethel fished in her purse for the magnetic room card.

The next cabin: A man in headphones tuned a small, odd-looking TV monitor. Two others stood behind him. “Camera working?”

“Almost there.”

Diagonal interference lines cleared from the screen. Another adjustment, and a grainy black-and-white view of four old women came into focus.

Jim Davenport opened his mouth for a Triscuit with spinach dip.

Someone ran toward him.

“Debbie, you’re crying! What’s the matter?”

“Daddy! How could you?”

She ran out of the house, sobbing hysterically.

“Debbie, come back…”

From another direction: “Jim, how could you?”

“Martha, what’s going on?”

“You know!”

“I don’t.”

“The wedding’s off.”

“Honey, come back…”

Martha stormed out the front door as Coleman and Lenny came in.

“Two-liter Pepsi bottle,” said Coleman.

“Got you beat,” said Lenny. “Gallon milk jug.”

They walked past Jim and reached the bar. “Hey, Serge.”

“Coleman. Lenny. But I thought you guys…I mean, you’re actually getting along?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Coleman. “At first I thought he was a real loser.”

“Me too,” said Lenny, making an L with a thumb and index finger.

“What changed your minds?”

“He’s really ambitious,” said Coleman.

“So is he,” said Lenny.

“We were just comparing the biggest things we ever made bongs out of.”

“And we’re going to top it!”

“Maybe set a world record!”

“Let’s go, Coleman!”

“Okay, Lenny!”

They disappeared into the crowd as Rachael emerged. Serge grabbed her as she went by.

“Let go of me!”

“Rachael, you can’t keep walking around topless.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need the heat. Look at the commotion you’re creating.” He pointed out the back windows at an armada of canoes and kayaks beyond the seawall.

“They’re not here to watch me.”

“What are they there for?”

“Souvenir footballs.——’s been throwing them around, but he’s pretty fucked up.”

“The ex-Steeler? I thought he was in the hospital.”

“Just got out.”

Serge checked the patio again. “I don’t see him.”

“He’s inside now taking a free-basing break.”

“Jesus, where?”

“The den.”

Serge rushed over and jiggled a locked knob. He pounded the door. “Open up!”

Urgent whispers inside. He banged again. “Open this door!”

Pause. “Who is it?”

“Let me in right now!”

The door opened a slit. Fumes knocked Serge back. A single eyeball rotated in the one-inch gap. “You cool?”

“Open this door!”

Pause. “Who sent you?”

“Stop free-basing!”

The eyeball didn’t blink. “I’m not free-basing.”

“I’m practically passing out from ether!”

Pause. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Open the door or I’ll knock it in!”

The eyeball stared. “Want an autograph?”

Rachael walked up from behind with a tall glass. “Hey,——.”

“Rachael!” The door opened wide. “Come on in, baby!”

She handed——the glass. “Brought you something.”

“Thanks.” He guzzled.

“Rachael!” said Serge.

“Something the matter?”

“Look!”

Rachael peered through a thick haze of smoke. Spilled drinks, dumped pot, cigarette ashes, spent matches, bent spoons, stray lines of coke, broken vodka bottle, condoms, chewed squares of paper, eyedropper of hash oil, two-foot bong, six-stem hookah, glass pipes, scattered Oxy tabs, Edgar Winter at full volume, dozen people draped over furniture, more on the floor, moaning, hallucinating, spit stringing from lips, including two hot babes from a chicken-wing franchise kneeling in front of the hundred-gallon aquarium, where they’d been for the last hour, palms pressed to the glass, tripping their brains out on fish gills opening and closing.

Rachael looked back at Serge. “I don’t see a problem.”

“Your friend has to stop free-basing!…”

“…Come on and take a free ride!…”

“…And we need to get this room aired out before a spark blows the whole—” Serge snatched a lighter out of Rachael’s hand.

She pulled the Marlboro from her mouth. “Hey!”

Serge opened the sliding doors to the patio and began flapping a towel.