Atomic Lobster

by Tim Dorsey

  “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?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  848 LOBSTER LANE

  Ding-dong!

  Two men stood on a welcome mat.

  Jim looked up in awe at the building. “I can’t believe this is his second home.”

  Vinny pressed the bell again. “You should see the Pennsylvania compound.”

  The door opened. Jim’s mouth fell. A steamy blonde with black roots in a thong.

  “Vinny!”

  “Mandy!”

  Big hug.

  Vinny turned. “I’d like you to meet my friend, Jim. He’s faithful, so don’t blow him.”

  Mandy smiled and shook his hand. “Pay no attention to Vin. He’s always joking. Nice to meet you.”

  Jim opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  She looked at Vinny. “Cat got his tongue?”

  “The strong silent type.” Vinny stepped through the door without invitation. “Is——here?”

  “Game room. You know the way.”

  Jim followed Vinny through the living room, another hot babe on the couch. She looked up from a mirror and offered Jim a straw. “Booger sugar?”

  “What?”

  They turned the corner. A long, dark-paneled hallway led to the inner sanctum. Jim checked out the rows of framed Sports Illustrated covers that seemed to go on forever. Finally they were standing right in front of it. The Door.

  “Here we are,” said Vinny. “Holy of Holies.”

  “——is on the other side?” said Jim.

  Vinny knocked hard.

  Through the wood: “Shit, who the hell is it?”

  “Me, Vinny.”

  The still-closed door: “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me! Anyone with you?”

  “My friend, Jim.”

  “Who the fuck’s Jim?”

  “My friend,” Vinny whispered sideways: “Don’t make any sudden moves until he gets used to you. I think he’s been basing.”

  “What?”

  Vinny pounded the door again. “Open up. I’m getting old out here.”

  The door: “Vinny?…”

  “What?”

  “Is that you?”

  “Open the fuckin’ door!”

  Jim heard fumbling with a variety of locks, bolts and chains. The door opened a slit. A single eyeball scanned back and forth. “You sure it’s cool?”

  “Let us in, you cocksucke
r!”

  The door opened the rest of the way.

  “Vinny!”

  “——!”

  Hugging time again.

  “Got the stuff?”

  Vinny reached in the hip pocket of his warm-up suit and tossed a Baggie of light-blue tablets. “Those should bring you down.”

  The player tossed back a handful of pills and headed for the liquor cabinet.

  Vinny gave Jim the all-clear wink. Jim was only two steps inside when his legs stopped working, the same reaction for every first-time visitor to Guy Heaven. The game room was bigger than most banquet halls. Pool table, card table, slot machine in one corner, pinball in another. Full-service bar. Refrigerator with keg tap through the door. Overpadded black leather sofas and La-Z-Boys aimed variously at nine TVs, including the centerpiece eighty-four-inch high-def, currently showing a replay of the ’79 Super Bowl, Pittsburgh driving in the red zone. The eighteen speaker surround-sound with subwoofer and ceiling flush-mounts made Jim feel like he was in the middle of the tackle. The smaller televisions featured pornography and live satellite feeds from Vegas sports books.

  Then Jim saw it. Vinny could tell his new pal was stricken. “Go ahead and look. Just don’t break anything.”

  Jim walked across an Astroturf putting green until he was standing in front of the trophy wall: built-in shelves and soft recessed spotlights, one for each of the hundred-odd gold statues and plaques and old footballs on tees, dated with stats. Jim could recall every game represented by each of the balls, and even the games represented by little brass plates where football tees were curiously empty. He reached the next wall, the one with sliding glass doors overlooking the football-shaped pool. Thick vertical blinds were drawn tight, keeping the room grotto dark.

  Jim peeked outside. His eyes went first to the exquisite sight of Mandy sunning herself next to the diving board. Then he noticed more people. They were on the other side of the seawall, down in the bay, dozens of ’em: canoes and kayaks and rafts and some just treading water in life vests, all quietly staring at the house. They seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Jim slowly pulled a cord for a better look….

  “Close those fucking blinds!”

  Jim jumped. Vinny rushed over and made the room dark again. “Sudden light overstimulates him.”

  Serge gritted his teeth and glared out the glass front door at Coleman and Rachael. “Those are my…business associates.”

  Gaylord stared dubiously at the beaten-up vehicle and, for the first time, gave Serge a disappointed look.

  “I’m into vintage cars,” said Serge. “Haven’t had a chance to restore that one yet.”

  “Ohhh,” said Gaylord. “Read an article. Lot of money in that. Why don’t you invite your associates in?”

  “We’re on a tight schedule.”

  “I insist.” He went to the front door and made a big inviting wave. “Don’t be strangers.”

  Two minutes later, Coleman was lining up shot glasses, and Gaylord couldn’t pull his eyes off the chick.

  “Take a picture,” said Rachael. “It’ll last longer.”

  Coleman snapped his fingers. “Over here, moneybags. We’re on the clock. Those eight shots are yours; these are mine. One every sixty seconds or until we lose somebody. Go!”

  Serge covered his face. “This can’t be happening.”

  Two empty shot glasses slammed on the wet bar. “So, Coleman, what do you do?”

  “What do you mean, ‘What do I do?’” He grabbed Gaylord’s wrist, monitoring the Rolex’s second hand. “I hang with Serge.”

  “Business loyalty. I respect that.”

  “Now!” said Coleman. Shots went back. Gaylord turned to Rachael. “And what do you do?”

  She looked at Serge. “What’s with this fuckin’ guy? What do I do?”

  “Gaylord,” said Serge. “She runs a profitable website.”

  “Really? I’d like to see it. We can pull it up in my study.”

  Serge’s arms flew out in alarm. “No! You can’t! It’s down for repairs!”

  “Fuck you!” Rachael shoved Serge in the chest. “Don’t ever interfere with my business…. Come on, Gayboy.”

  “Gaylord.”

  “Whatever.” She led him around the corner.

  “Hey!” Coleman yelled after him. “You’ll lose the game. I’ll get your shots.”

  A door closed.

  Coleman grabbed a glass for each hand. “Serge, what a sweet deal! I checked when he wasn’t looking. There’s all kinds of bottles back here.”

  Serge pounded a fist on the bar. “Don’t you dare screw this up on me!”

  “Relax,” said Coleman. “The dude parties! Plus he digs Rachael. He may be rich, but he still likes to get his freak on.”

  A half hour later, shot glasses lay scattered everywhere. Coleman was passed out in the middle of the floor, limbs bent unnaturally like he’d fallen from a balcony. Serge sat on the edge of the sofa, rocking nervously. Rachael came back into the living room, thumbing a thick wad of currency.

  Serge stood quickly. “You killed him?”

  “Hell no,” said Rachael. “He paid me in cash. Didn’t want a credit card trail.”

  Gaylord emerged. “Have to be somewhere. Why don’t you familiarize yourself with the place?” He jingled something. “Here are the keys. We leave next Monday.”

  Before Serge could respond, Gaylord stepped over Coleman and was out the door. A Jag sped off.

  The ex-Steelers player was on the main couch, working with a glass bulb. He finished his business and slid the paraphernalia tray under the sofa. “Vinny, let’s throw it around.”

  “You got it, big guy.”

  The player went to The Wall and grabbed a game ball off a tee.

  Jim raced over to Vinny. “Oh my God! We’re actually going to play catch?”

  “Don’t cream your pants.”

  They exited the sliding doors and walked past the diving board. Vinny nudged Jim. “Mandy’s a dish, eh?”

  “Who is she?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “Thought he was married.”

  “Divorced.”

  Jim looked back at the house. “Who was that other woman with the cocaine?”

  “There’s always a million chicks hanging around. But Mandy’s his girl.”

  “Vinny!” yelled the player, smacking the football in his throwing hand. “Go long!”

  Vinny began trotting around the far side of the pool. Not a pretty sight. Then he turned and ran backward, waving an arm. “I’m open! I’m open!”

  The ball sailed through the air…and over the seawall. Pandemonium in the water. Someone floating on a swim noodle raised his prize. “I got it!” The others grumbled, paddling canoes and kayaks back into position.

  The player jogged toward the sliding glass door. “I’ll get another.”

  He came back out with a ball from an overtime divisional playoff.

  Then Jim couldn’t believe his eyes. The player patted the ball and pointed at him. “Post route!”

  Jim ran along the near side of the pool and watched the ball take flight. It was a timing pattern. Jim kept his eyes skyward as he curled around the shallow end. It seemed to hang forever. Perfect spiral, laces, Wilson. Jim heard heavenly music. Then he saw the ball land in his hands. Unbelievable. He’d just caught a pass from——! He could now die in peace.

  But other business first. Jim found himself teetering on the edge of the seawall, twirling his free arm for balance, hopeful eyes below in the water. Then he found equilibrium. The canoe people sagged. Jim strolled back and casually tossed the ball to his hero like he did this every day.

  “Nice catch, sport.”

  Jim fought the urge to weep: He called me “sport”!

  Vinny’s turn again. He ran like a sack of tomatoes. Another ball splashed into the bay, another trip back inside to the trophy shelf.

  Jim’s turn. Buttonhook pattern, another circus catch. Growing discontent in the water. “
Who is that guy?”

  On it went. For five minutes. Vinny and the player got bored and wanted to call their bookies. They headed toward the house.

  For the last hour, Jim had been rehearsing how he would, with the utmost dignity, broach the topic of his interest in the player’s career. Not like all the other idiots who claimed to be his number one fan. Jim dashed up to the player. “I’m your number one fan!…” He became verbally incontinent, babbling statistics and big games.

  Vinny grabbed his shoulder. “Down, puppy.”

  “No, it’s okay.” The player’s ego inflated. “What’s your name, sport?”

  He called me “sport” again! “Uh…”

  The player smiled at Vinny. “He forget his own name?”

  “It’s Jim,” said Vinny. “Hey, Jim. Go get your camera, and I’ll take a picture of you two.”

  “I’ll be right back! Don’t go anywhere!”

  Jim returned with his Pentax and handed it to Vinny. Click, click, click.

  Mandy rose from the lounger. “Why don’t I get a shot of the three of you?”

  Click, click, click. The whole time, Jim: “…Remember the Cowboys blizzard game at Three Rivers, when you played the second half with two broken ribs?…Or the famous ‘drive’ against the Dolphins? Ninety-six yards from scrimmage with two to go?…”

  The player beamed. “Ninety-seven.”

  “…The next year you led the league in all-purpose yards….”

  “Jim,” said Vinny. “Settle down.”

  “He’s fine,” said the player, postponing that call to his bookie and grabbing a patio lounger. He slapped the one next to him. “Jim, have a seat…. Mandy, baby, can you get some drinks out here?”

  It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship: Jim, intricately reciting an entire career and taking more photos; the player, staring up from behind Bulgari sunglasses, envisioning Jim’s play-by-plays in the sky and knocking back cocktails strong enough to strip furniture.

  “…You practically invented the press conference no-show!…”

  The player was in excellent spirits. “Let’s barbecue!”

  Vinny took over the grill and flipped rib eyes. He insisted on wearing the chef ’s hat. Jim’s inner child grew younger. He followed the player around like a pet, taking copious photos of his every mundane action.