Trolls in the Hamptons

by Celia Jerome

  “Yeah, yeah. Well, I’ll need a car at the airport in East Hampton. See to it.”

  See to it? Now here was a moral dilemma. I wasn’t getting paid by the man, or anyone yet. So technically I did not work for him, but for my mother’s cousin, my mother, or the Rosehill estate, unless I’d been drafted as a volunteer. Either way, I felt no obligation to take orders from any pompous ass. Granted his boat had imploded for no reason that anyone could explain. Granted he ought to come look at the damage himself and sign papers so his insurance people could get to work. Granted I’d been driving his car, taking baths in his Jacuzzi, and swimming in his pool. But he was only renting Rosehill; none of the stuff belonged to him.

  And I did not take orders kindly. Writers seldom did. That’s why they worked at home, for themselves, at their own speed, instead of in an office, listening to some Curtis Parker clone telling them what to do and when to do it.

  Being treated like a servant was worse. Not that there was anything wrong with cleaning houses, chauffeuring millionaires, serving them meals. Hell, I’d made lunch for the cleaning people when they came. What rubbed me wrong was the attitude that if you work for me, you aren’t as good as me, so I can treat you like shit because there’s always someone else to take my money. Kind of like publishing, only less polite.

  Maybe that was it. I appreciated good manners. Mr. Parker had none.

  On the other hand, I liked his dogs. I didn’t want to just walk away from them without knowing that he was going to feed them on time, see that they had their nightly treats, or take them back with him when he left Paumanok Harbor. For all I knew, he intended to keep the chartered plane or helicopter—which the airport’s neighbors despised because of the noise—waiting for him at the airport. That way he could play potentate for the marina masses and still get back to whatever big deal he had to make tomorrow.

  In which case, was I still expected to be the dog sitter?

  So I waited for the message to tell me what time to pick him up at the airport. It never came, only a furious call asking where the fuck his car was? The asswipes at the rental counter had no more cars available and were closing up for the night.

  I said I’d be there in twenty minutes.

  It was more like forty, because I had to pack up my stuff and Red’s. I wasn’t staying in the house with the foulmouthed movie mogul.

  I called the guesthouse from my cell phone to notify my bodyguards and sped through the back roads to avoid Montauk Highway with its lights and traffic.

  Parker was pacing outside the single terminal, swatting at flies with his cigarette. I guessed him to be nearing sixty, trying for forty, looking like a foolish fifty with his tanned skin and surgically smooth face. The paunch gave him away. His jacket was rumpled, his tie loose around his neck.

  The dark-haired woman on a bench beside him was young and beautiful, if you liked that hard pouty look. She wore stiletto heels and a short, tight, black spandex dress—and diamonds. She might as well have “Bimbo” written across her impressive bosom. I wish I could remember what Pauline said her name was, or what movie she was in so I could avoid it.

  No one introduced me. I was a better person than that, so I held up the Pomeranian and said, “This is Red. He bites.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Parker threw a suitcase in the backseat, but made to get in the driver’s door, so I stepped out. The female got in the passenger side, clutching her tote bag.

  He put the car in gear.

  “Hey, what about me?”

  “Lily always left the car here.”

  “Well, I am not Lily, and I need a ride home.” That was a lie, but I hadn’t found out how long he was staying, or if he knew how to tell which of his own dogs was Ben, which was Jerry. Besides, I wouldn’t give puff-gut Parker the satisfaction of dismissing me so easily.

  “But you promised me dinner at The Palm in East Hampton,” the bimbo whined. “We never got to eat.”

  She was so skinny she most likely never ate anyway, so I didn’t feel sorry for her. Besides, my macaroni and cheese was still in Rosehill’s kitchen. Ha ha.

  Parker looked undecided.

  I held up Red again. “In case you didn’t notice, I have my dog with me. I also have my suitcases and laptop in the trunk. It’s getting dark, and this place is miles away from anywhere, and deserted at night. You cannot just leave me here.”

  Parker threw his cigarette—still lit—onto the pavement. “Get in.” He lit another cigarette while I shoved his valise over to make room for Red and me, then he put his other hand on the starlet’s knee. “We’ll go to the new place in the Harbor, sugar.”

  I didn’t bother to tell them that the new place was still closed on Tuesdays.

  Red growled. He didn’t like the backseat or the cigarette smoke or maybe the animosity in the car.

  “This car stinks of dog,” Sugar complained, with a snarky glance at Red.

  I couldn’t see how she could smell dog over tobacco, but I said, “I’ve been taking the poodles places with me. They don’t get so lonely that way, or so anxious that they get destructive.”

  Parker turned the AC on high. “Some bitch was supposed to come straighten them out.”

  I held Red closer to me to keep him warm, and to keep me from throwing Parker’s suitcase at his hair-woven head. “That bitch is my mother.”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s only an expression.”

  And Fafhrd was only a troll.

  Snark-face complained some more. “There’s sand on my seat.”

  What did they expect, when they had a beach house? “The cleaning ladies don’t do cars.”

  He went through a red light at Newtown Lane in East Hampton. “So what happened to my boat?”

  He didn’t care about the pedestrians trying to cross the street, or the car trying to make a left turn, so I didn’t care what I said. “A really big, heavy troll jumped on board.”

  He laughed. “I like you, honey. You’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you.”

  The actress didn’t say anything, but she did give me another look, then stared out the window, sulking.

  “So what really happened?”

  “I’m not certain. They’re looking for whatever hit it, junk from space maybe.”

  “Come on, doll, that’s the plot of one of my movies. Stuff like that doesn’t happen in real life.”

  Now I remembered why I never saw his movies. “They have to wait to haul out the debris to see if the engines blew up, but there wasn’t any fire. I know that.”

  “The insurance will cover it.”

  Not if it was declared an act of God, but I didn’t say that. Maybe boats were insured differently.

  With his sweet young thing turning sour on him, Parker looked in the rearview mirror, taking stock of me for the first time. I felt dirty.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Tate, Willy Tate. I write books.”

  “Everyone does, doll, everyone does. That’s why there are so many house sitters and dog-walkers out there.”

  “Gee, I thought those were unemployed actresses.”

  That got me a glare from the skinny starlet, but another laugh from Parker, who tossed another burning butt out the window. Thank God we’d had so much rain the other night or he’d set the Hamptons on fire.

  After a few minutes of silence, while I made sure my seat belt was tight, the female turned around. “Willy is short for Willow, isn’t it? I’ve heard of you.”

  I doubted she could read, but I smiled graciously and said, “A lot of people have my books, mostly kids.” I couldn’t help bragging, after the insults. “I won a GRABYA award last year. That’s Graphic Arts Books for Young Adults.”

  Parker laughed. “Grabya, heh?”

  The arm candy wasn’t amused. Or impressed. She waved a hand in the smoke, showing off long nails with red polish and rhinestones. “No, not that. Your mother is the one who’s good with dogs, you said, and your grandmother is some kind of witch.”

 
; “She’s a master gardener and an herbalist. Being good at what you do is not unusual for the residents of Paumanok Harbor.”

  Parker patted her knee again, and left his hand there. “I told you, sugar, lots of local color at the Harbor. Besides, you were the one who wanted me to rent a place out here. I would have gone somewhere with more . . . ”

  “Celebrities?” I offered. “Stars? Cachet?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Cachet. That’s it. Now you do sound like a writer, doesn’t she, Vonna?

  Ah, sugar had a name. Now I remembered, she was Vonna Ormand, who once dated Brad Pitt, according to Pauline the manicurist. I asked why she picked little Paumanok Harbor instead of the flossier Hamptons. I’d have thought a busty—that is, budding—actress would want the chance to meet influential people, get the publicity, be seen. “Have you been here before?”

  “Oh, I always heard it was pretty.” She went back to sulking out the window.

  Parker wore smoke rings over his head, like a demonic angel. The image got worse when he said, “I’m thinking of making a documentary movie out here.”

  Just what we needed. Make Paumanok Harbor a tourist trap like Salem, Mass. Have every UFO-junkie, ghost-hunter, and cult-worshiper land on the beach.

  Since we were already coming into Amagansett, the town before the turn for the Harbor, I quickly proceeded to tell them how to care for Ben and Jerry. She yawned; he took out his cell phone and barked into it at someone. He was driving with one hand again, the hand that held a cigarette.

  “I’ll be leaving town in a day or so,” I told them, “if you don’t need me anymore.” I really, really hoped not. Sugar and her daddy were not my kind of people.

  “Who’ll cook, Curtis?”

  Obviously that wasn’t one of Vonna’s talents. I recommended takeout from the deli, or dinner at Uncle Bernie’s. Then I handed her one of my mother’s cards, where I’d be staying, and told them to drop me off at the train station past the Amagansett Farmer’s Market. I said I could call a friend from here.

  I didn’t want to listen to the bitching if I made them go down rutted Garland Drive, out of their way. Something about the way Vonna was staring at Mom’s card made me not eager to show them where I lived, either. Not that everyone in town didn’t know the way, but I was getting spooked by how angry she looked. Just because she’d have to turn on the coffeemaker herself? Or because Parker called me doll? Who wanted to be a rich old man’s plaything?

  The fresh air felt good, even if no one got out to help me unload my bags from the back. Parker revved the engine, in my face. Sugar did not say good-bye.

  I slammed the trunk, walked in front of the Escalade so he couldn’t drive off without running me down, and said, “By the way, the passcodes have been changed at Rosehill. Talk to the guys at the guesthouse.”

  I thought he’d explode, he turned so red under his fake tan. “I pay a fortune for that place, and what do I get? Uppity help and squatters? I’ll call the cops if your friends aren’t out of there when I turn the corner.”

  I wondered how he thought he’d get in if Colin and Kenneth didn’t open the gates and the house for him. All I said was, “They’re not my friends. That is, they are now, but they’re also Federal agents, with warrants, and weapons. A lot of weapons. I’d be real careful how I spoke to them.”

  I stepped back and he peeled away, sending gravel flying in my direction. I shouted after him, “Oh, and your dogs have worms.”

  I waited for the black sedan that followed us into the railroad station parking lot to pull up next to me.

  “You let that twit drop you here, in a dark, empty parking lot? Are you crazy?”

  “I’m happy to see you, too.”

  Grant got out of the car and folded me in his arms, after I put Little Red down. The man wasn’t stupid. He felt good, too, solid, strong, safe.

  “I saw the car at the airport, and I knew Colin or Kenneth wouldn’t let me down. I was in more danger in the car with the turkey who thinks he owns the roads just because he’s rich.”

  “I should have left you to walk home,” Grant said when he let go of me to pick up my baggage. “By the way, which home are we going to?”

  I opened the window so Red could clear his lungs of the smoke. “Mom’s.”

  “Too bad. I was looking forward to that Jacuzzi.”

  The smoke must have reached my lungs, too, because suddenly I couldn’t breathe. “Mom has a bathtub.”

  “Yes, but is it big enough for two of us?”

  Who needed to breathe? “If we sit close.”

  “Oh, I think we can manage that. I missed you, Willy.”

  “Me, too. Did you really meet with all those important people?”

  “No, the Vice President wasn’t there. And none of them are as important as the big guy you talked to.”

  “Parker?”

  He chuckled. “The really big guy.”

  “Did you tell the VIPs about Fafhrd?”

  “Not exactly. I did not want to get you too involved. Who knows how the big shots think? Politicians and military types are known for expediency.”

  “Like getting rid of me so no one can use me. I told you that in the beginning.”

  He kept his eyes on the road as we made the Devon turn to Paumanok Harbor over the railroad tracks, but I knew he was thinking about me. “No one is going to hurt you. I tried to keep your part minimum because I didn’t want anyone thinking I was too involved personally. They might have tried to pull me off the case.”

  “Can they do that?”

  “No, but it wouldn’t have been pretty or polite, or good for foreign diplomacy. I’m staying, Willy. No matter what. Do you believe me?”

  I tried to show him how far my trust went by almost drowning in Mom’s bathtub.

  I was wrong. The tub really wasn’t big enough for two people, especially when they were intent on wild, acrobatic, energetic, I-missed-you sex.

  After we mopped up the bathroom floor before the kitchen ceiling beneath it started to leak, I led Grant to the bedroom I’d always used. It was pretty much the same as when I was a kid, with its jars of seashells and beach glass, a painting of a sandpiper on driftwood from the craft shows held every summer, a photograph of the beach from one of the art shows. Mom had left everything alone, except she’d changed the old bunk beds to a queen, so I forgave her a lot.

  Red didn’t like being locked out of the bedroom, but he knew this house and had his favorite chair in the living room. I’d forgotten his crate, damn it, so I’d have to go collect it tomorrow, along with a check, I hoped. I also hoped Parker didn’t notice the broken pitcher in the bathroom or the bill for the diving board repairs that would go against his security deposit. He could afford it.

  We talked in bed about Borsack for a while, letting the salty breeze from the open window cool us after the bath. Then we discussed plans and precautions for the upcoming time of the new moon.

  I wondered how we could make love when the world might end in a couple of days. Grant wondered how we could not. What better way to spend the time than finding our bliss, making each other happy?

  Oh, I was happy. Three more times, but who was counting?

  CHAPTER 31

  THIS TIME I FOUND A pink rose on the pillow next to me when I woke up. Okay, it was from my mother’s heirloom bush outside the front door, and there was an ant crawling on it, but the man had class.

  And company. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, threw on a pair of shorts and a tee, and went down to find Lou, Colin, Kenneth, and Grant all seated at the dining room table, all on computers and other machines that did God knew what that they must have brought over from the guesthouse. Grant handed me a cup of coffee, pointed to a box of pastries, and said he liked my hair. It reminded him of the hedgehogs back home; I’d have to go see them when this was over.

  “I hate planes.”

  “We’ll take a boat,” was all he said, going back to work.

  Since I was the one with the most need to k
now, they let me stay. By now they had pictures of Turley Borsack when he was young, when he was arrested a few times, when he had a passport as Boris Turlinskya, another as an African Tufu Borsa, one in a turban, one as a Hasidic Israeli. There might be more as the central computers searched for face recognition. He was always listed as a chemist. He was always suspected of dealing in designer drugs in high places that paid well and helped him hide his identity. He’d been on Interpol’s list for decades, the wily bastard, and on Scotland Yard’s since his wife died at the Royce Institute Hospital.

  Her death had been declared a drug overdose, unknown compound, unknown source, but now the labs found the same traces in the blood of both of the dead nannies. The survivor had been shot. Unknown gun, unknown shooter.

  “And he wants me?” My voice was none too steady. My knees, either.

  “He will not hurt you,” Grant swore.

  “At least not until you get him what he wants,” Lou added cheerfully.

  They had no information whatsoever about Borsack’s daughter, Vinnie, likely because he was already wealthy and connected enough to get her identity erased when she was young.

  The day was going straight downhill. Especially when two phone messages made no sense, warning about colors and rainbows.

  Kenneth looked up from his notes. “We’re getting that from our own precogs, too. It’s like static coming over a radio. Maybe a psi-blocker.”

  “Borsack can do that?”

  Kenneth shrugged. “Who knows what he’s picked up in his travels?”

  My dad didn’t help any, either. He called from the hospital to tell me not to drink coffee. It was bad for me.

  I set my cup down. “I think I’ll just go back to bed, pull the covers over my head, and let you guys work this out.”

  I would have, too, but the phone rang again. At Colin’s headshake I let the answering machine pick up, to hear Vonna Ormand, from Rosehill. I answered out of curiosity, and because I really needed to get Red’s crate back.