The Whack Job
An Eamonn Shute Short Story
Tony McFadden
Copyright Tony McFadden 2011
The door slammed shut behind Eamonn and Steve, leaving the over-amped bass, the tanned bleached blonde bunnies and the umbrella drinks in the techno-pop dance club.
Eamonn pulled the shoulders of his cotton shirt away from his skin. “Dammit, I’m sticky.” He grabbed Steve by the upper arm. “Let’s us skip this bit the next time, Steve. Dinner was fine. But this,” he hitched a thumb over his shoulder, “has taken it from me.”
Steve Sheppard laughed. “This is my life, pal.” He ran his fingers through his hair, streaked blond by his regular hairdresser on Flagler, although he told people it was the constant exposure to the sun and sea that did it. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his silk shirt. “But I agree. I could do without seeing you dance again.”
Steve was decked out for a single’s Saturday night; light cream dress slacks, white silk shirt, jade signet pinkie ring, a couple of gold chains, Rolex watch and Blues Brothers style Ray Bans perched in that tinted hair. He fit right in.
“It’s a little early for me though, Eamonn.”
“Mate, you told me that you wanted to leave at 11:00. It’s a wee bit after 11:30.” Eamonn shook his head. “And you were really hammering them back tonight. As an Irishman, I’m impressed, but you’re a small man. Unless you have an extraordinarily large liver, you’re putting yourself in grave danger.”
“No, no. Not tonight buddy. Soda water and lime all night.” He smiled and tapped his temple. “Gotta keep the pumpkin clear tonight.” He noted the skeptical look on Eamonn’s face. “On my mother, I haven’t had a drop all night.”
“Miracles never cease to amaze.” The warm Miami night air was still a wonder for Eamonn, even after a couple of years away from Ireland. He unbuttoned the next button on his shirt and pulled the tails from his trousers, trying to cool off. “Listen old pal, it was good to catch up again, although next time it’s just dinner and no dance halls, if it’s not too much trouble. Can I give you a lift home?”
Steve smiled, perfect white teeth (laminates) gleaming in the light of the streetlights. “Plans, Eam. Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got business still tonight, and I’m running a bit late.”
Eamonn cocked an eyebrow. “That Astrid girl? She’s stunning, I’ll give you that.” He smiled. “You sure love living dangerously, mate. Her husband is almost as big as I am with much less of this,” he grabbed a piece of his expanding waist. “You best watch yourself.”
Steve laughed and slapped Eamonn on the shoulder. “Meeting an old friend of the family, as it were. You want to join me?”
“Do you really want me to join you?” Eamonn held both hands up in surrender. “No, no, no. Don’t answer that. I’ve got to be going anyway. Breakfast date with Nicky at 8:00. Eight! Can you believe it? That early? She’ll never learn.”
Steve checked his watch. “Yeah, okay. For the best. Maybe next time. My love to Nicky.” He jogged across the street and disappeared down a small side road off Collins.
Eamonn didn’t realize it at the time, obviously, but that would be the last time he saw Steve alive.
~~~
A bright and sunny Sunday morning, 8:00 a.m., and Eamonn is sitting under an umbrella at a café on the beach. He’d been there early enough to be on his second cup of coffee, and deep into a story in the Miami Herald, when Nicky showed up.
“Morning sweetie. Thanks for getting here so early.” She pulled out a chair opposite him and sat.
He continued to read. “Hmmpf?”
She flicked the paper. “Hello? Earth to Shute.”
He folded the paper and put it down on the chair between them and poured her a coffee from the carafe. “This is too early. I’d prefer if my world didn’t really exist this early. One of the advantages of being stinking rich,” he took a sip of the beautifully rich and aromatic Jamaican bean and smiled at her, “is not getting up until you really want to.” He was laying on the Irish lilt a little strong, just for her.
“Oh bullshit, big guy. It’s a beautiful day. No point wasting it in bed.”
“Well…” He smiled.
She slapped his arm. “Behave and order me breakfast.”
The Whack Job - An Eamonn Shute Short Story Page 1
