by Dave Barry
Joe had also once serviced a pool containing the business wardrobe of a prominent, and well-dressed, Miami attorney. When Joe arrived, the attorney was in the deep end, wearing a dive mask and flippers, going down to the bottom and coming back up with a silk tie, a suit jacket, a wingtipped shoe, a dress shirt. He’d fling it onto the pool deck, take a breath, then go down for a new article of clothing.
“You need help with that, Mr. B?” Joe asked.
“No, thanks, Joe,” the attorney said. “I’m fine.”
The patio door opened, and a hand-stitched Italian loafer came sailing out, just missing the attorney’s head, splashing into the water.
“VERY MATURE,” said the attorney. “THAT’S VERY MATURE.”
“DON’T TELL ME ABOUT MATURE, YOU BASTARD,” said a woman’s voice from inside the house. “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE WORD MATURE MEANS.” The other loafer came sailing out.
“Maybe I come back another time,” said Joe.
“No, no,” said the attorney. “Do what you have to do.” He dove back under, came back up with a belt, holding it up like he’d caught an eel. Joe started around the pool, cleaning the basket filters. Something came flying out the patio door, splashing into the shallow end. As it settled on the bottom, Joe saw that it was a golf club. He didn’t play, but sometimes on Sundays, on the sofa, he’d nap while watching the PGA on TV. This looked to him like a five iron.
“OH, THAT’S INTELLIGENT,” said the attorney. “THAT’S GOING TO ACCOMPLISH A LOT.”
“INTELLIGENT?” said the voice from the house. Another club came sailing out. Driver. “YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT INTELLIGENT? HOW INTELLIGENT IS IT TO COME HOME WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S PANTIES IN YOUR FUCKING GLOVE COMPARTMENT ? Oh, hello, Joe.”
“Hi, Mrs. B,” said Joe. “I think maybe I come back later.”
“No, no,” she said. “You go right ahead.” Another club splashed into the water, a putter, with one of those offset shafts. The attorney, treading water, watched it sink to the bottom.
“YOU WONDER WHY WE HAVE INTIMACY ISSUES,” he said. “YOU SHOULD LISTEN TO THE TONE OF YOUR VOICE.”
Joe told this story to Fay deadpan, polishing the bar. Fay shook her head.
“Intimacy issues,” she said.
“Next week I go back there,” he said, “they on the patio together, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, like nothing happen.”
“Just like that,” said Fay.
“But I bet he have to buy some new shoes,” said Joe.
Tonight on the Extravaganza, there wasn’t time for long conversation, just a few minutes here and there while Fay waited for Joe to fill her drink orders. Mounted over the bar was a TV set, usually tuned to ESPN, but tonight tuned to NewsPlex Nine. On the screen a reporter was in a supermarket, interviewing panicked shoppers lined up with their overflowing carts, then showing bare shelves, the reporter explaining that the store was running out of certain emergency supplies—water, batteries, bleach.
“Let me ask you something,” said Fay. “What’s the deal with the bleach?”
“The bleach?” said Joe.
“Yeah,” said Fay. “In a hurricane, people always buy bleach, but I don’t get what they do with it.”
Joe paused for a moment from pouring margarita mix, pondering. Then he said: “I don’t know, but they tell you to buy it, the bleach.”
On the screen, the supermarket reporter had been replaced with a blob of red that whirled around in the center of the screen, counterclockwise, like a hurricane, and then turned into the words NEWSPLEX NINE BREAKING STORM NEWS BULLETIN. These words then whirled around and got smaller and went to the upper right corner of the screen, which now showed the NewsPlex Nine NewsCenter, where the male and female anchors/lovers were looking even more frowny than usual, indicating that something bad, and therefore exciting, had happened.
“I’m afraid we have had a tragic development in connection with Tropical Storm Hector,” said the female, who then looked to the man to continue the story, because NewsPlex Nine anchors generally did not say more than a sentence at a time.
“We have had an apparent electrocution caused by a power line down in some flooding in the Westchester area,” said the male anchor.
“Westchester, I used to live there,” said Joe Sarmino. “They getting flooding every time a dog take a leak.”
The female anchor was saying, “. . . to NewsPlex Nine Storm Specialist Todd Ford, on the scene of this tragic development.”
On the screen was a blond young man in a yellow NewsPlex Nine rain poncho, standing at the middle of a flooded residential street, the water coming up to his mid-shins.
“Bill and Jill,” he said, “police are telling us the tragedy occurred about forty-five minutes ago, when a young boy was electrocuted while playing with some friends in the street about two blocks behind me. As you can see, there’s about a foot and a half of water here, and there are power lines down, so police and fire rescue are warning the public that they must not, I repeat not, go into this flood water, because it is extremely dangerous.”
“Why is HE in the water?” said Fay.
“That’s what I’m wondering,” said Joe.
Now NewsPlex Nine was doing a picture-in-picture effect, with the reporter in the main picture and the anchors frowning in a smaller picture on the upper left. The upper right still said NEWSPLEX NINE BREAKING STORM NEWS BULLETIN.
“Todd,” said the male anchor, “do we have any identification yet on the victim?”
“As of now,” said the reporter, “police are saying only that—”
The larger picture went dark. In the smaller picture, the two anchors continued frowning for a second. The male said: “Todd?”
Nothing.
The female said: “Apparently, we’re having some technical difficulties from that location.”
Joe Sarmino said to Fay, “Maybe we safer out here.”
AT A THREE-DOLLAR BLACKJACK TABLE ON THE first deck, Arnie was staring at his cards, a six and a three. He tapped the table for another card; the dealer flipped him a two. He tapped again; another six. Seventeen.
“I should stand on this,” he announced to the other players—two Latin guys—and the dealer. “That’s the smart strategy, stand on seventeen. But I’m not gonna stand, and you know why?”
Nobody said anything.
“Because I been following the smart strategy all night, and you know what I won?”
Nobody said anything.
“I won bupkis,” said Arnie. He looked at the Latin guys. “You familiar with bupkis? They got bupkis in Cuba?”
“Not Cuba,” said one of the Latin guys. “El Salvador.”
“You got bupkis down there?” said Arnie.
“What is it?” said the guy.
“It’s nothing,” said Arnie. “Nada.”
“Oh yeah,” said the guy. “We got a lot of that.”
“You want a card?” the dealer asked Arnie.
“Isn’t that what I’m saying?” said Arnie.
“I got no idea what you’re saying,” said the dealer.
“I’ m saying hit me,” said Arnie.
“Then tap the table,” said the dealer. “So they know what you’re saying.” He pointed up at the surveillance camera.
Arnie waved to the camera, then tapped the table. The dealer flipped over another card. The queen of clubs.
“NOW the smart strategy works,” said Arnie, as the dealer took his chips.
“How you doing?” said Phil, coming up to the table.
“If the object of blackjack was to get twenty-two or more,” said Arnie, “I would own this boat. You?”
“Tell you the truth, I did pretty good at the roulette,” said Phil. “Playing my grandchildren’s birthdays. I hit three times, you believe that?”
“I can’t remember my grandchildren’s birthdays,” said Arnie.
“Neither can I,” said Phil. “But from now on, they’re on the twelfth, sixteenth, and twenty-seventh.”
“Of course,” said Arnie, putting three one-dollar chips in the circle. “Lady Luck is gonna change her mind. I feel it.”
The dealer dealt one card, two cards. The first El Salvadoran had blackjack. The second took a card, stood on eighteen.
“So how come you left, if you were winning?” Arnie said to Phil.
“There was a smell,” said Phil.
“A smell?” said Arnie.
“Like somebody took a dump.”
The El Salvadorans laughed. Phil turned to them.
“What?” he said.
“You playing roulette upstairs?” the closer one said. “With the lady?” He made the international hand gesture for large bosoms.
“Yes,” said Phil. “Why?”
The El Salvadorans laughed again. The dealer snickered.
“What?” said Phil.
“You want a card?” the dealer asked Arnie. Arnie had a king and a three. He tapped the table.
“Come on, Lady Luck,” he said.
The dealer flipped him a nine.
“Bupkis,” said the El Salvadorans.
“Lady Luck is a bitch, you know that?” said Arnie.
“THAT’S GOOD,” SAID LOU TARANT. “RIGHT there.”
Tarant was sitting, naked, on a leather sofa in the living room of his 4,200-square-foot North Miami Beach penthouse condominium with ocean view, in front of his $8,000 42-inch, flat-screen plasma-monitor TV. In his right hand, he held the remote control. His left hand was on the neck of Dee Dee Holdscomb, Bobby Kemp’s former secretary, who was kneeling between Tarant’s thick hairy thighs.
“That’s real good,” Tarant said.
“Mmmmwmf,” said Dee Dee.
“What?” said Tarant.
Dee Dee lifted her head. “Don’t squeeze my neck so hard,” she said. “I tole you that a hunnert times.”
“Sorry,” said Tarant. “You’re doing real good, baby.”
“Mmmmwmf,” said Dee Dee, back at work.
Tarant clicked over to ESPN, now showing video of John Daly hitting a tee shot. Christ, that guy could rip it. That thing had to go half a mile. Tarant had a titanium driver, took lessons, worked on his stance, practiced his swing every chance he got, went to the driving range every week, and he couldn’t come within a hundred yards of this guy’s tee shots, this fat slob who wouldn’t last five seconds against Tarant in a fight. It pissed Tarant off, the way this guy could hit the ball.
“Dammit Lou,” said Dee Dee, lifting her head again, yanking his hand away from her neck. “I just tole you, don’t do that.”
“Sorry, baby,” he said, putting his hand back, pushing her head back down. “It just feels so good, what you’re doing there, is all.”
“Mmmmwmf,” said Dee Dee, her tone a little hurt.
Tarant clicked through some more channels, stopping on one with a big whirling red blob on the screen, which turned into NEWSPLEX NINE BREAKING STORM NEWS BULLETIN, which whirled again and went to the upper-right corner of the screen, which was now showing a man and a woman, the man older, gray around the temples, the woman younger, blond, lots of lipstick. Tarant wondered if he was banging her. They were both looking sad, the man saying something, the woman shaking her head. Tarant had the mute on, but he could read the headline crawling across the bottom of the screen: NEWSPLEX NINE TRAGEDY: REPORTER, CAMERAMAN ELECTROCUTED.
“Morons,” said Tarant.
“Mmmmwmf?” said Dee Dee.
“Nothing, baby,” said Tarant, patting her neck. “Keep doing that.”
The phone rang, the business line, which meant it was a call he should take, as opposed to a call from his wife, off shopping in Spain or Sweden, some fucking place in Europe.
“Shit,” said Tarant. It was getting so a man couldn’t get a simple blow job in his own home from his secretary anymore. He picked up the phone.
“What,” he said.
“Lou, I hate to bother you,” said a voice, which Tarant recognized as belonging to Gene Shroder, the guy he had handling the books for Bobby Kemp’s businesses. Shroder would not call without a reason.
“What,” said Tarant.
“Our boy, he’s been making some moves I think you should know about. I should have found out about this earlier, but I was home from work the last two days, my wife is having that chemo.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” said Tarant. “What kind of moves?”
“OK, one thing, today he went around to most of the restaurants and collected the cash receipts.”
“He ever do that before?”
“No, and that’s not the way it’s supposed to work, but if the owner of the restaurant chain walks in and says he wants his money, the managers aren’t gonna say no.”
“What else?”
“When I heard about that, I called our bank guy, and turns out our boy also cleaned out his personal bank accounts, plus his money market. He didn’t touch the Bobby Kemp Enterprises checking account, but there’s not much in there, and he’d know I’d hear about that right away.”
“Anything else?”
“I called his broker, who didn’t want to talk about it, said it was confidential, so I had the Wookie go see him.”
Tarant had an image flash into his mind here, of an incident a few years ago involving the Wookie. This was the name they called a very large individual they sometimes sent out to talk to people who needed to grasp the urgency of a situation. In this one incident, the Wookie had gone to see a member of the Miami-Dade County School Board, who had been paid, fair and square, to vote in favor of the district buying a certain tract of land to build a school on, but who now was making noises about opposing the deal because some fuckknuckle newspaper reporter had found out that the land was, half the year, more what you would classify as a lake.
So the Wookie goes out to see this guy and finds him on his patio, grilling some steaks on his Weber gas grill. The guy, figuring out right away what the situation is, says he’s not going to keep the money, he’s going to give the money back, all of it, every dime. And the Wookie nods, not saying anything, meaning either the refund concept is OK with him, or just that he hears what the guy is saying, the guy doesn’t know which. So the guy keeps talking talking talking, waving his long-handled barbecue spatula around, telling the Wookie that he’s not about to charge for a service he can’t deliver, but he can definitely be counted on in the future, and in fact he will probably be even more valuable in the future, because this vote will establish that he has integrity, so it’s really better this way, for all parties concerned, blah blah blah. All this time the Wookie is nodding, nodding, and finally the guy figures, OK, this is gonna work out, and he thanks the Wookie for his understanding and steps forward to shake the Wookie’s hand. Which is when the Wookie picks him up by his arms and puts his ass down on the grill, holds him there for maybe five seconds, which is a long time under these particular circumstances.
Two weeks later, the guy voted in favor of the land deal. He stood up throughout the school board meeting, because of what he said was a medical problem. People assumed it was hemorrhoids.
“And?” said Tarant.
“And,” said Shroder, “the broker said he cashed out, everything, stocks, bonds, mutual funds.”
“Where is he right now?” said Tarant.
“That’s the thing. I been calling his numbers, leaving messages, nothing. I had people check his house, other places he could be, but nobody’s seen him.”
“Fuck,” said Tarant.
“Mmmmwmf,” said Dee Dee, shoving his hand away from her neck.
“Sorry,” said Tarant.
“What?” said Shroder.
“Nothing,” said Tarant. “Listen, I want you to find him, OK? Get some guys on this. And stay by the phone, OK?”
“OK,” said Shroder. “Listen, I feel bad about this. I should’ve found out sooner, but I was home when it started and I didn’t check in until this afternoon because, I don�
�t mean this as an excuse, but my wife is having a pretty rough time of it right now.”
“OK,” said Tarant. “You tell Laurie I’m thinking about her.”
“OK,” said Shroder, whose wife’s name was Linda.
“And find that little prick,” said Tarant.
Eight
ON THE THIRD DECK, JOHNNY AND THE CONTUSIONS were on cruise control, drifting through a mellow set, EZ-listening music. Strom Thurmond was still on the floor, dancing whether the band was playing or not, his eyes focused intently on his feet, as though they were performing brain surgery down there. The only other customers were two elderly women, ship regulars, who were waiting for the song to stop so they could request, as was their usual practice, an old standard song that the band either did not know or hated. Lately, they had been pushing for “My Funny Valentine.”
At the moment, the band was doing “Desperado,” the sad and soulful Eagles song. Ted was singing lead, doing a nice job, sounding as though it was coming straight from his heart . . .
You better let somebody love you
. . . although in fact Ted was thinking about his 1989 Mazda, whether he should try to get the a/c fixed again or just accept that it would never work right and he was doomed to drive around hot, his pants soaked with sweat and permanently wedged into his butt crack. Maybe he should sell the car, but what would he get for it? Nothing. Maybe he should just push the goddamn thing into a canal. That’s what he wanted to do, push it into the canal and collect the insurance. Except that he had not had insurance on the car since 1994.
