One Big Joke Page 5

  9

  At Bayview Park, the slanting shadows were getting longer and the court surface was giving back the sunshine it had absorbed in the height of afternoon; waves of heat shimmered upward and tickled the players’ legs.

  Lenny, after hanging around the bleachers for a while and looking sort of lonely and pathetic, had finally been recruited into a doubles game with three of Bayview’s regulars. One of them was wearing a diaper sort of get-up that wrapped around his loins and tied over one shoulder; he looked a great deal like Mahatma Gandhi would have looked if he ever wore high-top sneakers. Another kept a lit cigarette in his mouth and a spare behind his ear the whole time they were playing. The third resembled a Gilligan’s Island castaway in flower-patterned clamdiggers and a polka-dot shirt with big buttons down the front.

  They were deep into a set that was far from pretty but at least it was close. The score was 4-5 and the teams were changing ends when Lenny’s phone rang.

  He knew he shouldn’t answer it in the middle of a match. He knew that, if he hoped to keep his focus, he shouldn’t even look to see who was calling. But he did look, and when he saw it was his agent, Morty Feingold, he gave his court-mates an apologetic shrug and took the call. An out-of-work writer will always take the call.

  “Morty,” he said, trying to keep a naïve and needy hopefulness out of his voice, trying to sound like the unflappable veteran he wished he was, “what’s up?”

  “What’s up? Nothing’s up. Phone’s not ringing. Just thought I’d check in, let you know I’ve been trying at least.”

  “Ah.”

  “Tough out there,” said the agent, and Lenny could picture him saying it, sitting in his midtown office that always smelled of burnt coffee, pulling his heavy brows together, seeming to chomp on a phantom cigar even though he’d given up smoking years before. “Maybe tougher than I’ve ever seen it. But different tough. Ten years ago, problem was nobody wanted scripted shows. Everyone wanted reality bullshit. Now it’s swung back, but there’s too goddamn many writers.”

  “Some of them with agents who find gigs.”

  Morty let that pass. “They’re flooding in like roaches. Guys who used to think TV was beneath them. Feature film guys, book guys. Suddenly everyone’s got a series idea. Fuckin’ irony is we were right there in the sweet spot with Dog Groomer. Right there in the sweet spot before we even knew it was the sweet spot. Damn shame it fell apart.”

  Lenny had put down his racquet, drifted away from his tennis partners, and was now clawing at the chain-link fence that ringed the court. Trying and failing to hold back the words, he said, “You think there’d still be interest?”

  “You mean next year when Ricky’s available? Who knows? Whole trend could be over by next year.”

  “No, I mean this year.”

  “Lenny, why even think about it? Why torment yourself? Our star wigged out and the schedule is the schedule.”

  “Morty, listen, I’m in Key West.”

  To the agent the segue made no sense. “So?”

  “Staying with Pat Coates.”

  “Ah. You two cooking on a new idea? That’s probably best. Forget this one and move on to something new.”

  “No, we’re not working. I’m just sulking and brooding. On the outs with my wife.”

  Without undue sentimentality, the agent said, “Happens all the time. Classic.”

  “What? What’s classic?”

  “Writer hits the skids, gets bitter, self-esteem plummets, the marriage suffers. I’m sorry. Unless it was a shitty marriage to begin with. Then I’m not.”

  “It’s not a shitty marriage,” said Lenny, with a firmness and even defiance that surprised him. “It happens to be a terrific marriage. Mostly. But that’s not what we were talking about. Morty, listen, are we in strict confidence here?”

  “Of course we are. Who else gives a shit?”

  “What would you say if I told you there’s a pretty good chance that Ricky Reed isn’t really in rehab and that he’s here in Key West and that maybe, just maybe, we can get him to New York in time to shoot the pilot? What would you say?”

  “I’d say you’re delusional and should change your meds.”

  “And Pat? Is she delusional too? She’s pretty sure she’s seen him here in town and I’m starting to believe her.”

  “But why would he—?”

  “Be here? Morty, I have no idea. I have no idea about anything. But in the meantime, do you think there’d still be interest for this year?”

  “Yeah, I think there would be. The suits loved this thing.”

  “Can you please find out exactly how much time we have?”

  “Without telling them anything? Without sounding like a lunatic?”

  “Find a way, Morty. But listen, I gotta go. I’m in the middle of a very high-level tennis match. Practically the Open. Call me when you find out something, okay?”

  He wandered back to the court. The other guys grumbled a bit about the delay but seemed to have kept their concentration. Lenny hadn’t. On set point, a short lob came his way. He muffed the easy overhead and that was that. Everyone shook hands. The guy who smoked the whole way through had totally yellow fingers.

  10

  At the Paradiso condo, a complex of once deluxe, now outmoded buildings just across A1A from the green Atlantic Ocean, the old man Bert “the Shirt” d’Ambrosia was preparing his chihuahua’s dinner. The process took a long time, and not only because Bert was a long-retired widower who needed to stretch out the routines with which he filled his days. It took a long time because the dog’s dinner had to be prepared just so.

  Not that the dog was finicky. It would’ve eaten and processed anything—raw hamburger, leftover broccoli, cheese ravioli straight from the can. But Bert was finicky on the dog’s behalf. He wanted to believe that the dog was a connoisseur with a delicate digestion. So he measured out the kibble with a tablespoon and dosed out the water from a beaker. He put the mixture in the microwave for twenty-seven seconds, then he cut a half-inch slice from a gray and glutinous guts-and-rice loaf that promised to provide complete nutrition for dogs of all sizes and ages. He was just crumbling the greasy slice into the lukewarm kibble porridge when the old landline telephone on the kitchen wall started ringing.

  This was very inconvenient and somewhat rattling, as Bert now had to deviate from his usual procedure and figure out what order things should be done in. There were problems either way. At Bert’s age, it took a while to bend down while moving the dog’s food from the counter to the floor; and of course it took him even longer to stand up again. So if he served the dog food first, he might miss the phone call, and a phone call was a pretty rare event in his life these days. If, on the other hand, he took the phone call and made the dog wait for its dinner, the dog would probably be miffed with him, plus the food would have to be reheated and the texture might come out all wrong. Precious seconds ticked away—the phone ringing, the dog quivering with excitement and staring with its bulging, glassy eyes—while Bert wrestled with his options. Finally, unable to decide, he reached for both the dog bowl and the phone at once.

  This turned out to be a far from perfect solution, because the phone cord didn’t stretch quite far enough for Bert to reach the little scrap of rug where the dog bowl needed to be placed. To make the geometry work, he had to set his feet wide apart, which cost him some of the leverage he would need for straightening up again. He also had to spread his arms as far as they could go, which somehow, as he swooped to bend, gave him the aspect of a minstrel singing Mammy. On top of that, his hands were greasy from the dog food loaf, and he had squeeze hard to keep the food bowl and the phone from slipping out of his grasp. In all, it called for a terrific effort, and by the time the old man was getting close to presenting the chihuahua’s dinner while simultaneously rasping out a hello in the direction of the telephone mouthpiece, he was unconsciously grunting and a little out of breath.

  A voice on the other end of the line said, “Christ, Bert,
you okay? Ya sound like you’re takin’ a shit or somethin’.”

  “I’m not takin’ a shit. I’m feedin’ the dog. Who is this?”

  “Who is it? It’s Lou. Christ, Bert, you don’t even recognize my voice no more?

  “I’m kinda all stretched out here is the problem. Hol’ onna a sec, lemme put the fucking dog bowl down before I rupture myself.”

  Carefully, he centered the bowl on the little mat that also held some water and a squeak toy. The chihuahua polished off the meal before its master had managed to get fully vertical again.

  “Okay, Lou, that’s better. So, to what do I owe the honor of hearing from you?”

  “What, an old friend can’t call an old friend just to say hello?”

  “Yeah, an old friend can, but since an old friend hasn’t in, oh, say the last fifteen years or so, I would tend to guess or let’s say surmise that there is a motive for this phone call beyond the simple wish to renew acquaintances.”

  “Ah,” said Luigi Benedetti, “same old Bert. Always suspicious.”

  He didn’t deny it. He just waited for his former colleague to go on. While he waited, he pictured Fat Lou picking at his teeth, which he’d often seen him do in Brooklyn in the old days, even in the middle of a sitdown. It was a habit that Bert and a lot of other people found disgusting, but Lou was the boss and no one ever complained to him about it. He’d pick his teeth for hours after a meal. Sometimes it seemed like his whole fist was in his mouth when he went poking way back in the molars. But the worst part was that the toothpick would always come out with tiny bits of food on the end of it, and Lou would dab these samples—fractions of parsley leaves, fibers of veal, curls of tomato skin—onto a napkin in front of him. By the time he was through, the napkin would look like a miniature painting of the meal he’d most recently eaten.

  Finally the New York boss went on. “Okay. Actually, I do have a small favor I’d like to ask.”

  “Big surprise. So ask it.”

  “I may be gettin’ involved in a certain business arrangement down your way.”

  “Like what kinda business arrangement?”

  “I’d rather not say for now.”

  “You’d rather not say, but I’m supposed to do you a favor anyway?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why?” said Benedetti, who may have had appalling table manners but was certainly no fool when it came to human nature. “Because you like to stick your nose in things. In fact, let’s face it, Bert, you’re about the nosiest sonofabitch I’ve ever known. No offense. You always were. I’m guessin’ you’re even more so now that you’re retired and don’t have much to do ‘cept feed the dog.”

  “I manage to keep busy. In a Florida kinda way.”

  “Yeah, I bet your schedule’s packed down there. Shuffleboard, gin rummy. S’okay, if you’re too busy, no hard feelings. I just don’t want ya to feel left out when the news breaks and you read it inna paper like all the other outsider nobodies, when ya coulda been someone who was in the know.”

  “Except I ain’t in the know,” Bert pointed out. “You ain’t told me squat.”

  “Correct,” Fat Lou admitted. Annoyingly, he said nothing more.

  Bert wavered and got more curious. He hated to admit it, but Fat Lou had found his soft spot. “This business you might be gettin’ into. ‘Zit legal?”

  “Up to a point.”

  “Anyone gonna get hurt?”

  “I’m hoping not. Course, ya never know.”

  “Why here, Lou? Why Key West?”

  “Joint venture. Well-connected local partner.”

  “Who?”

  “You’re out of questions, Bert. Will ya do this favor for me, yes or no?”

  “What’s the favor?”

  Dropping his voice a notch, Benedetti said, “I’m sending a coupla guys down there. They’re not what you might call the fluffiest pillows onna bed. But what can you do? The talent pool, it ain’t like it was in the old days.”

  “I got news for ya,” Bert put in. “It wasn’t like it was in the old days in the old days either. I mean, come on, we didn’t exactly have a buncha Einsteins.”

  Fat Lou let that slide. “Anyway, the one guy, name of Carmine, he’s mainly for show. Muscle guy. Doesn’t think. Better if he doesn’t even try. But he’s loyal.”

  “So’s my dog. That doesn’t mean I’d want him representin’ me in a business matter.”

  Lou let that slide too. “The other guy, called Peppers, can think a little bit. Has some initiative. But a world-beater he’s not.”

  “S’okay, you’re sendin’ these geniuses down. What is it you’d like me to do?”

  “Ya know, just kinda show ‘em the ropes, give ‘em some local knowledge. Help ‘em not fuck things up. Just kinda keep an eye on ‘em.”

  “Keep an eye as in babysitting, or keep an eye as in spying for you?”

  “Some a both. Ya know, keep me advised of their progress. Like I said, it’s a favor. For you, maybe it’s a front row seat on somethin’ you might find interesting.”

  Bert looked down at his dog. The dog looked back at him through glassy eyes, then over at its food bowl as if it had no idea how the bowl had so quickly gotten empty. Bert knew he should say no to Lou. If he didn’t say no, he’d be opening himself to aggravation and disruption and responsibility and maybe even violence; to all the things he’d told himself a dozen times he’d had enough of for a lifetime.

  So he meant to say no; he really did.

  What came out instead, was, “You got my number, Lou. Have your Abbott and Costello call me. I’ll buy ‘em a drink when they get to town. No promises beyond that.”

  PART TWO

  11

  “How’s business, Doll?” said Ted Clifton as he lowered his prosperously spreading backside onto an empty stool, one of many, at Titters.

  Pat Coates forced herself to smile at him. He had a smooth chubby face that was almost handsome except for the strangely pink eyelids and pale lashes that made his narrow and light-colored eyes look piggy. He wore expensive pants that bunched up on him anyway, and the sleeves of a powder-blue sweater were casually tied around his soft pink neck. Pat detested him, as did nearly everyone in Key West, though few people could afford to show it, given the extent of his business holdings and his reputation for petty revenges. She’d learned that smiling sweetly at Ted Clifton was probably the wisest tactic. Anything else would just egg him on.

  Not that he seemed to need much encouragement to be annoying, insulting, and manipulative. It was actually impressive—almost charming, in a perverse sort of manner—how offensive he’d managed to be with a mere three words, spoken, as ever, in a calm and pseudo-friendly voice. He knew damn well that business was lousy; he knew damn well that Pat cringed at cutesy little endearments from men. He’d managed to needle her twice in one short sentence. Pat had to give him credit for economy, at least.

  “Great. Fine. Terrific,” she answered breezily. “What’cha drinking?”

  He asked for a vodka martini with rocks and a twist, and while she was making it he looked around the place. He counted seven other customers thinly spread around a room that could seat maybe ninety or a hundred.

  She delivered the drink, and he said, “Cheers. You know, I was just down on Duval Street. Sloppy’s, Rick’s—places were slammed.”

  “Well, it’s early yet. What’s it—barely seven? Entertainment doesn’t start till nine.”

  “Yeah, same time as at Margaritaville. They were already packed, though.”

  “So glad to hear it. I was really worried Jimmy Buffett was running out of money.”

  He sipped his drink and she took the opportunity to slide away from him. His voice pursued her as she moved toward the sink and started to wash some glasses. “This place,” he said. “You know why it isn’t working? Why it’ll never work? You’re just too far from Duval.”

  “Am I?” she said, hanging the glasses up
side down in their overhead racks. “Gee, Ted, I never noticed that. Then again, girls don’t tend to be that good at geography.”

  “Half a block from Duval is too far,” he said. “Half a block is death. You’ve seen how many places come and go there. The karaoke joint. The kebab place. Half a block. And you’re, what, half a mile? How’s anyone supposed to find you?”

  “Some people do,” she said.

  He swiveled plumply on his stool and looked more closely at his fellow patrons. He guessed that a few of them were knuckleheads off the houseboats and the others were clueless tourists who didn’t realize they hadn’t reached downtown yet. He shrugged, rattled his ice, then, out of the blue, he said, “Your girlfriend. She subsidizing this place?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I see her out on the court all hours. Works her tail off. Can’t be easy. Broiling sun. So much skin cancer going around. Basal cell. Melanoma. Hate to think she’s doing all that to support a place that just can’t work.”

  “The place pays for itself,” said Pat. “Almost.”

  “You signed a lousy lease. Too long. Too much money for such a crummy spot.”

  Pat picked up a rag and started dusting bottles on the back bar. The bottles weren’t dusty but she preferred keeping busy to giving Ted her full attention and getting angry. “Do we really need to go through this again?” she said. “It’s not a great lease. I know that. I committed to it and I’m going to see it through.”

  “Foolish,” he said. “When you could sell it to me, get out from under, come away with a few bucks even, and be free to spend these balmy romantic evenings with your pretty tennis teacher.”

  She stopped dusting and put the cloth down. She said, “Ted, enough about my pretty tennis teacher. And if it’s such a bad lease and such a bad location, why are you so hot to buy it from me?”

  “Why? Simple. Because I can make it work in a way you can’t. Any time I like, I can re-route the Choo-Choo so it stops right at the gangplank. I can bring hundreds of people right here every day and every night.”