Art, as always, by Joe Applegate.

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Lobster Trap

“Call me Mac.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Charl—er, Mac.”

The stammering attendant handed me my life vest, which smelled of stale brine and whatever unpleasantness the local municipalities had failed to keep out of the harbor. I tried not to breathe as I clipped the vest around my wet-suited body. But clipping wouldn’t make the smell go away or make me need oxygen any less, so I resumed breathing.

“What kind of lobster floats in the wind?” Dwayne Schintzius asked as he towered before me. His famous mullet, known as The Lobster, long ago had fallen victim to scissors and uptight GMs. Did he speak metaphorically?

“You mean like the winds of time and memory?” I asked. I figured Dwayne would appreciate a literary flourish.

“What kind?” echoed Derrick Coleman and Benoit Benjamin, in unison.

Dwayne reached into his bag and produced a pair of goggles. He had attached his unmistakable locks to the strap in the back. When he secured the goggles to his face, the mullet was restored, a flowing prosthetic.

“This kind!” he declared. He shook his head from side to side like a shampoo model, causing the hair to sway in his wake. “I am The Lobster, proud Sea-King!”

“Aye!” shouted Derrick and Benoit. “Sea-Kings we all!”

The attendant appeared to blush as he scurried back to the office.

Schintzius smiled at me as he affixed lobster claw-shaped water wings to his thick forearms.

“Understandest thou that The Lobster is the league’s sole crustacean, now or ever? Indeed, I may be the only sea creature in league history. Certainly I am the only one at center.”

“If there were other sea creatures,” said Derrick. “And The Bear doubts that—but if there were, certainly they were not pivotous.”

“Tark the Shark coached twenty games for the Spurs last year,” I said, referring to Jerry Tarkanian.

“Doesn’t count,” said Dwayne. “He’s a coach.”

“What about The Admiral?” I asked, referring to Spurs center David Robinson, who had served in the Navy.

“Pivotous, certainly” said Dwayne. “But merely a visitor. Is a lobster a land creature when he washes ashore? Should a lobster roll the sidewalks on a tank mounted on casters—a portable sea—shall we declare his nature changed? The Admiral is confined to moving land. He puts land over sea and wishes to be called a sea creature? All sea is over land; you do not hear the fish asking to be called terraneous. The Admiral is not of the sea.”

To rewind a bit: The Sea-Kings were a not-so-secret society made up of Schintzius, Coleman, and Benjamin, all of them members of the New Jersey Nets. (Benjamin was new to both the Sea-Kings and the Nets, a preseason acquisition who had replaced Sam Bowie on the harbor and the hardwood.) They’d read a great work of literature and then dress in costumes and discuss the book in its vernacular before mounting their jet skis and cruising New York harbor “in search of truths.” Hence the name: Kings of Sea, seeking truths.

This session’s selection was Moby-Dick, one of Dwayne’s favorites. (He’d resigned from his college team via a statement calling his coach Captain Ahab.)

Dwayne had long pressed me to become a Sea-King because, in his words, “You’re paid to find truths.” Nevertheless, I’d managed to avoid participating until this day: November 21, 1993.

I was in New York as the guest of Shaquille O’Neal, to see his Orlando Magic play the Nets at the Meadowlands. When we met for a beer afterward, Shaq couldn’t stop smiling, and for good reason: he’d dropped a triple-double in the win and his album, Shaq Diesel, was a hit. “I’m 21 now, Mac,” he had beamed, as the bouncer checked his license. “I don’t have to use Stanley Roberts’ ID anymore.”

The real reason Shaq had brought me to town, I learned, was to pitch a basketball P.I. buddy comedy starring the two of us: Shaq and Mac Take Gotham Back. “No thanks,” I had told him. “I’m a basketball P.I. I don’t play one on TV. Or in the movies.”

Apparently, though, I was willing to play a Sea-King.

“Who be you, Benoit?” asked Dwayne.

I looked over at Benjamin’s 7-foot form, wrapped in spandex that failed to hide his doughy physique. Like Flava Flav, he wore a giant clock on a rope around his neck—except Benjamin’s was digital and featured a number of displays beyond the time.

“I am Big Ben-Ben,” the former Lottery pick replied. “Time-keep of the seas, compass to the Sea-Kings!”

“That’s a big clock,” I said.

“Indeed, ‘twas special made for the Sea-Kings by Casio,” said Benjamin. “A sealant serves as bulwark against the sprays and soaks of the harbor.”

“You mean it’s waterproof?” I said.

“Aye.” He removed from his bag an odd-looking helmet. I recognized it as a partial replica of Big Ben, complete with the signature spire. Big Ben-Ben fastened the chinstrap and turned to Derrick. “And who be you, brother?”

“I,” boomed Derrick, “am The Bear.”

Derrick was fitting his wet-suited mass into a bear costume.

“Why The Bear?” I asked him.

“I am fast and strong and partial to winter naps,” he said. “And you, Charles?”

“Call me Mac,” I repeated.

“Despite thy name, thou taketh great joy from almonds,” said Dwayne. “We shall call thee ‘Almond Joy.’”

He approached me and carefully duct-taped an Almond Joy candy bar—still in its wrapper—to the hood of my wet suit, just above my eyes.

“You going to eat that?” asked Derrick.

I ignored him. I had seen a lot of absurdity in my nine years of investigating in the NBA, but nothing more absurd than this.

The boathouse had just three walls and opened onto the harbor, where four jet skis bobbed on their moorings, sunlight shooting off their polished hulls.

“I shall fuel the jets,” said Derrick, grabbing a plastic canister and walking outside.

“I shall prepare the texts,” said The Lobster, cradling four thick, hardbound copies of Moby-Dick.

“I shall keep time,” said Big Ben-Ben, lifting his clock and turning it toward his face so that he could see it.

“I’ll be here,” I said, leaning my head back to stare at the long wooden boards that made the ceiling. Later on, I would wish I had paid more attention.

Dwayne gathered us and asked us to take a knee. He took a knee himself. The meeting commenced with Benoit reading a passage in which Ahab professes his need to avenge himself against the whale.

“What madness we find in Captain Ahab,” Dwayne offered afterward.

Benoit and Derrick nodded and murmured agreement.

“We must ask ourselves,” continued Dwayne, “‘Is he but a cautionary example? Might we not also gain from obsession?’”

“I have asked myself such questions, Lobster,” said Derrick. “For years, fans and columnists, coaches and teammates; all have questioned my work habits. But I shall not—I shall not—make myself a candidate to be captain. Boeheim named me co-captain my senior year. ‘Lead us, D.C.,’ he said. I told him I didn’t trust captaincy, for it makes monsters of men.”

“Aye,” said Benjamin. “The compass spins to tyranny.”

“But you were still a captain, Derrick,” I said.

“Indeed.” His stare covered a thousand yards of harbor. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Never since, though. Never since.”

“So guys,” I interjected. “Who is our White Whale?”

“Our White Whale,” responded Dwayne, “is the truth.”

“Just one?” I asked.

He reached into his bag and retrieved a hammer, a nail, and a $100 bill. He nailed the bill to the wall of the boathouse. “Whoever finds that truth on the harbor today, this bill is his. Are ye with me?”

“Aye,” said Derrick, solemnly.

“Aye,” said Benoit, even more solemnly.

“Sure,” I said. “But is that all it’s worth?”

“Lower the boats!” commanded Dwayne.

“They’re already lowered,” I said.

The sunlit harbor sparkled with the promise of a thousand truths, or one one-hundred-dollar truth. Our engines churned the waters beneath us from a deep blue to a bright, foaming green.

Dwayne led the way, with Derrick and Benoit riding side-by-side in his wake and me bringing up the rear. Once I got used to the speed and the cold spray in my face, I began to understand why the Sea-Kings enjoyed this so much. Turn one way and you were flying at the clustered towers of the Financial District. Turn the other and you zoomed toward the solo majesty of the Statue of Liberty. The truth, according to Dwayne, lay somewhere in between.

None of the Sea-Kings was known for playing hard. On the court, they were 21 feet of first-round-pick disappointment, of loafing and half-applied talent. But here, in this harbor, on these jets, beneath this sharp November sun, they rode hard. Dwayne seemed especially possessed. His hair streamed behind him like flames. He leaned into the mist to boom his moniker into the void. “LOBSTER” carried in the salty wind.

I was surprised when he slowed his speed and pulled up alongside a touring cruise boat. He stood as upright as his Sea Doo would allow and shouted, “Hast seen the White Whale?”

The tourists on deck seemed unable to hear him over the combined motors and the wind. A few smiled and waved.

“Hast seen the White Whale?” he repeated.

“She proceeds dumbly,” said Derrick. “Avast!”

Dwayne tried the same question on a tugboat and got the same result. If this was our method of search, I suspected the truth would evade us.

Shortly after the tugboat, Dwayne sputtered to a stop.

“How now, Lobster?” asked Derrick.

“How now?” replied Dwayne. “How now, Bear? I can go no further. Didst thou gudgeon me with false fuels? Didst thou siphon my jet fuel, so that The Lobster might be stranded in this bay as in the cursed waters of a seafood department’s sea-through cage? Awaiting only the hot fires of the pot, its boil-bubbles evaporating like my last tortured breaths?”

“Nay, Lobster!” said Derrick. “Thou art my brother, a fellow Sea-King. There be no Cains in this watery field, least not among us three. Nets and Sea-Kings, we all!”

“Indeed,” said Benoit. “I am Big Ben-Ben, Time-keep of the Seas, and I am your brother, both.”

They looked to me.

“I’m just along for the ride.”

“This is a great affront to The Lobster,” declared Dwayne. “To defuel a craft is a low blow on the high seas.”

“Indeed,” confirmed Derrick.

“So true,” said Benoit.

I nodded in sympathy. Technically, these were not high seas. But then, technically, Dwayne was not a lobster. I saw his point.

A swirling wind materialized, a tiny tornado in the harbor. The resulting mist obscured all things distant, so we heard the engine before we saw the boat’s long nose rushing toward us. The driver expertly curved it to a halt, though, kicking spray in our faces like sand.

He was a tall man; I could tell that much. But his balaclava and black-pajama driving suit obscured nearly everything else.

“Outta gas, Lobster?”

“Aye,” said Dwayne, warily. “Hast thou seen the white whale?”

The driver laughed. “Indeed. But I expected better from you tubs.”

I keep a trim physique, so I knew he wasn’t referring to me. And while none of the Sea-Kings was in exemplary shape, it seemed a little harsh to call them tubs.

“There is something uncommon familiar about him,” muttered Derrick.

“Need a lift?” asked the driver.

“’Tis kind,” said Dwayne. “But I knowest thou not—”

“Psych!” yelled the dude. He revved his engine, the motor nearly erasing some of his parting words. “Psych! Ye know me well, motherfuckers! A mighty foe I be.” At least that’s how it sounded.

He hurled a plastic canister in our direction. It bobbed and floated beside our jets. As he accelerated into the mist, I recognized his boat: a Scarab 38. Miami Vice.

***

Dwayne made it back to shore on the gas in the canister. If the mystery mariner had sabotaged Dwayne’s Sea Doo, he’d also been kind enough to help The Lobster back to land.

I wasn’t sure this was a basketball case, despite the driver’s height. But I accepted it out of sympathy for Dwayne, and because it’s not often I get to work a case where I was present for so much of the action.

Also, I feared I might have been the target.

In our meeting, Shaq had tossed around a number of buddy pairings as comparisons, but he kept coming back to Miami Vice’s Sonny Crockett and Rico Tubbs. The driver of the boat might have been referring not to “tubs,” but to “Tubbs.”) Shaq fancied himself a funny man, for sure, but he also wanted to be cool. Crockett and Tubbs drove Ferraris and Scarabs and bedded beautiful women, but Crockett was the jock and the guy whose name usually came first.

Could it really have been Shaquille?

On one hand, the guy didn’t sound like Shaq; on the other, Shaq likes to do voices.

On one hand, the guy looked too skinny to be Shaq; on the other, he was dressed in black, and black is slimming.

On one hand, Shaq loved ninjas, and they are frequently depicted in black garb. On the other, he was never able to get Bayou Ninja to stick as a nickname at LSU.

Something told me Shaq wouldn’t do something like this without wanting credit for it. I gave him a call.

“Mac!” he said. “You changed your mind.”

“No, Shaquille,” I said. “That’s not going to happen. Just wondering if you’re still in town or if you guys flew out last night.”

“The team flew out. I stayed.”

“Something wrong?”

“No, just a couple endorsement meetings, and wanted to spend some time with the foos.”

“What fools?”

“The Fus. Fu Schnickens. Chip Fu, Moc Fu, and Poc Fu. I had a Top 40 hit with them this summer. ‘What’s Up, Doc?’ Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember them. The Schnickens.”

“The Fus,” he huffed. It was easy to rile Shaq up. “We were out on their boat. They got that Miami Vice boat. I felt like Sonny Crockett. Coulda used a Tubbs.”

“Ah, and where were you cruising?”

“East River. Brooklyn crew, Brooklyn waters.”

“Seems to me they’re just as much Manhattan waters.”

“Whatever.”

“They’d never let you take that thing out by yourself, would they?”

“You know I got skillz,” he said. “You know I took that thing solo. All the way to the Statue of Liberty. I was like, ‘This beauty runs on Diesel!’”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, what’d you call for?”

“Was wondering if you wanted to grab a cup of coffee, but I just got a page. I’m working a case.”

“NBA?”

“College, actually,” I lied. Seton Hall’s P.J. Carlesimo had just offered me a case involving missing mustard, but I turned it down.

“You sure you don’t want to do the movie?”

“I’m sure, Shaq.”

“One day,” he said, “I’m going to make a movie where I’m a genie. You won’t be in it, and you’ll be sorry.”

He hung up the phone.

***

The Nets played the Lakers that night, and the Sea-Kings shot a combined 10 for 30, though they rebounded well. I suspected that they were playing angry, that the incident on the harbor had taken a toll.

After the game, Dwayne confirmed as much. But Derrick dismissed the notion.

“Mac, I come from The D,” he said. “And I’ll be going back when I’m done, try to build something, y’know? Right now? I’m paid millions of dollars to play basketball. I have time to read great works of literature and ride jet skis with my friends. You think I’m sweating a pit stop on the harbor?”

“Can you believe it’s 7:30 in the morning in Moscow right now?”

“I can,” I said.

I caught a cab back to my hotel.

***

That night, I dreamed about the case. Esteban Calderone rode a white whale like a true cocaine cowboy, or like Major Kong on the bomb. Crockett and Tubbs dodged the jets of leviathan spray—was that powder?—on their Scarab, while a dueling Scarab piloted by the man-in-black zipped under the arcing harpoons of Ahab and crew. The Sea-Kings zoomed wordlessly, figure-eighting through the chaos in their endless pursuit of truth, Benoit’s clock frozen on zeroes.

As for me, I was craftless, treading water. Cold, thick, heavy water. My limbs could barely cut it. I gargled salty waves.

“Help!” I shouted, sea spilling from my lips. “Someone, help!”

Crockett and Tubbs swerved hard toward me, burying me in a cascade of waves. When I cleared the water from my stinging eyes, Tubbs was leaning over the side of the boat, his hand outstretched to help me up.

“Don’t be distracted by this circus, Mac,” he said. “Remember the wound that drove Ahab mad. Follow it to the whale, who has already given you his name.”

I awoke.

***

I don’t put much stock in dreams, but I had little else to go on in this case. Especially after a phone call to Chip Fu revealed that the Schnickens’ boat was not a Scarab and that Shaquille had not taken it out himself.

I wasn’t able to reach Dwayne; I figured he was either holed up somewhere reading or out on the harbor on his jet ski. Dwayne’s therapies were no mystery.

I hired a high school kid from the local Amateur Basketball P.I. Society to check with local boat rental businesses about seven-footers renting 38-footers and got on with my end of the investigation.

It was a brilliant, sunny Monday with a mercury reading well north of 50. I left my jacket at the hotel and began the walk uptown in my sweater. The city had a festive vibe, perhaps in anticipation of Thanksgiving.

I was pleased to find I had the library’s microfilm room all to myself. I posted up with my 20-ounce coffee and pen and paper. It was going to be a long afternoon of scanning the sports pages for stories about Schintzius—particularly stories in which he was somehow defeated or humiliated. It was a long shot, but in the context of a search spurred by a dream, a few hours of research made plenty of sense.

Three hours later, I had something good. “Seikaly Humbles Schintzius,” read the headline. The gist: When he was a freshman at Florida, Dwayne talked a bunch of mess about Syracuse’s Rony Seikaly before their teams met in the NCAA tournament. “In the days leading up to the game, Schintzius had, as always, spoken highly of himself. He said he was a great center. He said he was going to take the game to Seikaly and get him in foul trouble.”

Rony finished the game with 33 points and Syracuse got the win. Rony was quoted as saying he was so mad he couldn’t sleep the night before. Dwayne finished with six, but was unrepentant, doubling down on his previous boasts and vowing to get Rony next time.

I spent another hour finding box scores, and every time the two matched up, Seikaly had a huge game, and Dwayne did not. But knowing Dwayne, I suspected he hadn’t stopped talking.

Remember the wound that drove Ahab mad. Follow it to the whale, who has already given you his name.

The guy in the boat had said, “Psych. Psych. Ye know me well, motherfuckers. A mighty foe I be.” But it had been loud when he spoke, with the wind and the motors obscuring inflection and rhythm. I played with the syllables in my head.

Could it have been “Seikaly. Seikaly. Know me well, motherfuckers. A mighty foe I be”?

Derrick had though the culprit “uncommon familiar.” He and Rony were teammates at Syracuse, an imposing duo one might liken to Crockett and Tubbs.

I checked the schedule. The Heat were playing the Knicks in town this evening. Their previous game was in Washington, two days earlier. It wouldn’t have been hard for Rony to make it up here for some fun on the harbor yesterday morning.

I hit the change machine to load up on quarters and found a payphone. It took a few calls and posing as Heat minority owner Billy Cunningham, but I finally got Rony on the phone at the team hotel.

“Rony,” I said. “Macadamia Charles here.”

“Is there a mystery I don’t know about?” he asked.

“Did you take the gas out of Dwayne’s jet ski?”

“Of course. I told you guys it was me.”

“Why?” I asked, though we both knew the answer.

Rony didn’t hesitate. “That’s what he gets for talking that skoupídia.”

***

All that was left was to tell Dwayne. I found him in the boathouse, lounging in his wet suit and drinking Hamm’s.

He didn’t seem surprised when I told him.

“I’ve yet to get the better of Seikaly. He truly is my White Whale.”

“A lot of people in college called you White Whale,” I reminded him. “You told me that yourself.”

“I wish I were that powerful,” he said. “They were just calling me fat. White and fat.”

He tossed me a beer. I sat on the damp bench and cracked it open, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. I gulped most of it in one go. It went down cold and clean. This case had been more stressful than I realized.

“One question, Dwayne,” I said. “What was the truth you were searching for out there on the harbor?”

“I’ll know when I find it, Mac,” he said. He shook his head to the side in what I could only assume was an attempt to toss his missing mullet. On instinct, he ran his fingers where the hair once lay. His eyes were sad. “I’ll know when I find it.”

]]> https://damonagnos.com/sluggerhunt-excerpt/ https://damonagnos.com/sluggerhunt-excerpt/#respond Wed, 22 Apr 2015 22:25:45 +0000 http://www.damonagnos.com/?p=561

Please enjoy this excerpt of my novelette SLUGGERHUNT, in which the New York Yankees hire the famous French hitman Sébastien to kill Alex Rodriguez. Buy the full copy on Amazon or directly from me through Paypal. If you’re not satisfied, e-mail me (damon.agnos at gmail) and I will refund your 99 cents!

Chapter One

Alex Rodriguez stares into the spinning wheels of the pitching machine. He wears fitted sweats and an Alex Rodriguez t-shirt jersey and waves his bat slightly. Behind the machine, Barry Bonds spins wheels of his own: clad in spandex, he pedals away on a stationary bike. He holds up a ball, so Alex will know it’s coming, and drops it into the machine. Alex swings and fouls it off. Barry holds up another ball and drops it in. Alex swings and misses. He steps out of the batter’s box, holding his hip.

“I guess this is forty,” he says.

Bonds whips a ball at Alex, drilling him in the hip.

“Ow!” yelps Alex.

“What are the rules?” asks Bonds.

“No complaining and no puns.”

“You’re thirty-nine.”

“I’m just not the same without the juice,” says Alex. “I’m worried that at this point in my career, I need it.”

Bonds steals a quick glance at a stack of boxes in the corner. They have “Barry” written on them in black marker. Alex notices but says nothing.

“Stop looking for elixirs,” says Bonds. “It’s your mind that’s weak. You need to look within.”

*

It’s 5 o’clock, but there’s no shadow on the faces of the two men in the secret underground temple, unless you count the shadow of worry on their brows. They shaved in the antechamber, as required by the teachings of their father. The smoke of incense fills the air.

“Have you ever noticed,” asks Hank Steinbrenner, “how when he digs into the batter’s box he kicks the dirt backward instead of forward, because that’s what a centaur would do?”

Angrily, Hank taps his ring—a tiny horse-head in a diamond-encrusted horseshoe, a souvenir from his days running the family’s horseracing business—against his other palm. It makes a light smacking sound.

“No he doesn’t,” says Hal Steinbrenner.

“And all that BS about the doctors, like we hid his injuries from him,” continues Hank. “He disrespected us.”

“I know,” says Hal, his temple pulsing at the memory.

“Goddamn, I hate him. We should just be able to fire him. This is un-American.”

“You’re the one who gave him the contract.”

“Jean said if he retires because of injury or death, insurance will reimburse us for the remainder of his salary.”

“If he tests positive,” adds Hal. “Then we don’t even need to be reimbursed.”

“You heard Randy: The testing’s too tight now, and he’s too paranoid,” says Hank. “We tried that already.”

“Victims of our own success.

“Hal,” says Hank. “We should do it.”

“If we get caught, it’s going to be a lot worse than when Dad had Howie dig up dirt on Winfield,” says Hal. “We’re talking serious repercussions.”

Hal turns to the giant oil portrait of their late father, George Steinbrenner.

“What do you think, Dad?” He sprinkles the air with Brut, George’s favorite aftershave, and turns back to his brother. “Let’s give it five minutes with dad.”

“Good idea,” says Hank.

They close their eyes.

About three minutes in, Hank whispers, “Hal, can I ask you a question.”

“Sure, Hank.”

“Does it bother you when people call Bruce Springsteen ‘The Boss’?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Me too.”

A couple minutes later, Hank breaks the silence again. “Let’s do it,” he says.

Hal takes a deep breath: slow in and slow out, very controlled.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

*

Sébastien leans into the handlebars of his rented Kawasaki Ninja, leans into the wind. There will be no recoiling from action for Sébastien, the number-one hitman in France and maybe the world. He parks the bike, removes his helmet, and walks toward the designated bench on the rusty waterfront.

He can see them waiting. Their wispy plumes of breath make him nostalgic for gun smoke.

Yankees executives Brian Cashman, Jean Afterman, and Randy Levine sip coffee from paper cups as they watch him approach.

“He sure looks the part,” says Afterman, the former thespian.

Sébastien carries a motorcycle helmet. His brow is heavy and his stubble thick. A scar runs the length of his left cheek. He walks like a boxer.

“I am Sébastien,” he confirms.

Cashman, Afterman, and Levine introduce themselves.

“We represent a powerful syndicate that is prepared to compensate you very generously for achieving this objective,” says Cashman.

The terms are simple: they’d prefer that it look like an accident. They will pay Sébastien $200,000 up front. They will pay another $200,000 upon completion of the job. An additional $500,000 if it is not ruled a homicide. Finally, nine months later, when neither the Yankees nor any of its owners, employees, or executives appear to be under investigation, they will give him $1 million. A little insurance.

“We’ll be meeting with Alex later today,” Afterman explains. “We’ll have him turn over his phone at the front desk, part of our ‘new policy of prohibiting recording devices during sensitive meetings.’ That should be enough time to install spyware so you can eavesdrop on his conversations and track his movements.”

“So you have planned some ideas for how I should go about this,” Sébastien says.

“Hardly,” says Afterman. “We’re just trying to be helpful. You make the decisions on how to approach him. This isn’t Cyrano de Bergerac.”

“A great movie,” says Sébastien. “The French one.”

“I agree,” says Afterman. “I love it.”

“So do I,” says Levine. His curly blond hair is strangely off-kilter, like a botched scalp transplant from Gene Wilder.

“We all do,” says Cashman.

He laughs. They all laugh.

“It feels so good to laugh again,” says Afterman.

Chapter Two

Alex sighs as he falls back into the cloud-soft leather of the waiting limousine, his 230 pounds giving the suspension a bounce. His lawyer, Jim Sharp, seats himself gently on the other side.

“Whew,” says Alex, theatrically loosening his tie. “It’s a relief to have that done.”

He’s just spent 90 minutes apologizing to the Yankees’ brass for everything from his steroid use to lying about his steroid use to suing the team doctor. He told them he intended to bring them three championships in the last three years of his contract. Brian Cashman asked him if he’d seen the roster.

“I need to unwind,” he declares as he surveys the well-stocked mini bar. “I’m going to have a seltzer with lime. Do you want anything?”

Sharp waves him off.

The driver, Tony, rolls down the divider.

“Where to, boss?”

“I would like to go to the Elite Mogul Day Spa.”

“Will do,” says Tony. “Mr. Sharp?”

“Just the hotel please.”

“You got it. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Could you play the new Taylor Swift?” asks Alex.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Seconds later, 1989 pumps through the limousine’s speaker system. Alex bobs his head and smiles. He gives a thumbs-up as Tony rolls up the divider.

“Did you see that, Jim?! Did you see that?!” Alex asks. “When I gave him the thumbs-up, he was rolling up the window. But it could have looked like I was going down. From Tony’s perspective, that probably looked a lot like the end of Terminator 2!”

“I’ll have a scotch,” says Jim. “Just pick one.”

As the limo cruises down the FDR, the only voice in the limo is Swift’s. Alex maintains a subdued dance, shrugging and jiggling his broad shoulders. Sharp sips his scotch and looks out the window at frozen Manhattan, where steam seems to seep off of everything. Neither notices the Kawasaki Ninja that blurs past them at a dangerous speed.

They’re halfway through 1989 when Tony pulls the limo to the curb. “Here we are, boss.”

Alex hands Tony a twenty through the divider, says goodbye to Sharp, and hands a ten to the bellman who opens his limousine door and rushes ahead to open the door to the Elite Mogul Day Spa.

A beautiful young woman in a slim-cut, EMDS-monogrammed polo shirt welcomes him.

“Mr. Rodriguez, what a treat to see you this time of year! I wish I had known you were coming; I would have set aside the HM 5000 suite.”

HM 5000 is industry shorthand for HandsomeMan 5000, a special tanning bed that doubles as a massage chair. It’s Alex’s favorite.

“Is the HM 5000 in the Tycoon Lounge available?”

She pokes at a tablet and looks up with an admiring smile. “It is,” she says. “Please follow me.”

The stone walls of the hallway double as fountains; water trickles musically on either side. I bet this is what Moses felt like, thinks Alex.

They arrive at a door with a tasteful cursive sign that reads, simply, “Tycoon Lounge.”

Alex walks through the door and then through the velvet privacy curtain. The room is as well appointed as he remembers—flat screens, fruit plates, unlimited spritzes of fine colognes—but there is one surprise, seated in a plush recliner, wearing a bathrobe and slippers and reading a newspaper:

Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots.

Alex and Kraft hit it off at a sex party in 2013 and have been friends ever since.

Alex congratulates Kraft on another Super Bowl title as they shake hands. “Don’t let Putin have this ring,” he jokes.

Kraft laughs. “Not a chance.”

Alex puts his dukes up. “If he knows what’s good for him, he won’t be Putin his hands anywhere near it.”

They laugh harder this time, Kraft so hard and long he begins to cough. Alex slips into the locker room to change. He nods at the employee folding towels, a silent man in an EMDS uniform, a large scar down his left cheek. Alex emerges in the spa’s bathrobe and slippers.

“Are you tanning today?” asks Kraft.

“You know, I was supposed to get the HM5000, but you just won the Super Bowl. I think you should have it.”

“Oh, Alex, I couldn’t.”

“I insist.”

Kraft’s smile—white teeth against orange skin—is like a cross section of Creamsicle.

Each man passes through the curtains to his respective cabin. (The beds in the Tycoon Lounge are separated by curtains rather than walls to allow the tycoons to converse.) Alex removes his robe and stands before the mirror, assessing the heft and sag of his physique. He frowns, shrugs.

“Happy tanning, Alex,” Kraft calls through the curtain.

“Happy tanning, Bob.”

Alex settles into his bed. His machine hums softly, but the HM5000 next door is not so quiet. Alex allows himself to be lulled by the vibrations and thumps that punctuate Kraft’s pleasured moans.

BZZZZT. It sounds like a bug flying into a zapper. Kraft’s moaning stops. Alex sniffs the air.

“Bob?” he calls out. “Bob? Are you okay? You smell crisper than normal.”

Kraft doesn’t respond, so Alex slips out of his bed and into his robe. Kraft’s room is filled with a thin, pungent smoke. Alex lifts the cover of the bed, looks to the heavens, and falls to his knees.

“Not Bob!” he sobs.

Elite Mogul Day Spa Staff find Alex on the floor, in a puddle of tears, whispering, “He died doing what he loved,” beside the HandsomeMan 5000 that serves as a deathbed for Robert Kenneth Kraft.

Chapter Three

Alex is despondent, and also hungry.

He gives Tony an address in the West Village.

“It’s a tony spot,” he says, trying his best to chuckle through the tears. “I’ll save you some leftovers.”

A nameless restaurant, discreet. Still, Alex isn’t taking any chances with the paparazzi. At Alex’s direction, Tony makes some evasive maneuvers with the limo, changing lanes, going around the block, signaling the opposite way he plans to turn – real high-level stuff. Meanwhile, Alex pulls his golf cap low, slides on some shades, and affixes his mustache. He hopes his dining partner will be similarly discreet.

It would cause quite a stir, Alex Rodriguez dining with Taylor Swift. Normally, he’d welcome the attention, but right now he’s gotta stay low profile, get in shape, get his swing right—get back to being A-Rod, basically.

Swift is out of his league and he knows it. But he’s newly single, and she’s beautiful and fun, and for some reason she seems to find him amusing.

The restaurant is in the basement of an old ivy-covered brownstone, accessible only through a gated alley. Alex buzzes in, whispering his name so no passing pedestrians will hear.

Swift waits undisguised, sipping a chardonnay at a candlelit table. She bursts into laughter when she sees him.

“What on earth are you wearing?”

“It’s to avoid the paparazzi,” he says. “I feel like they’re everywhere. Damn parasites.”

“Oh, Alex. We’re safe here.”

“I’ve had a terrible day,” he says, as he removes the hat, sunglasses, and mustache, the latter causing him to wince as it sticks to his skin. His eyes are red from crying. “Robert Kraft died.”

“OMG, Alex—that’s awful! What happened?”

“He got electrocuted by a HandsomeMan 5000. And I was the one who was supposed to be in it. I think I have PTSD.”

“I am so sorry. You should order a drink.”

Alex flags down their waiter and orders a gin and juice.

“What type of juice would you like, sir?”

Alex furrows his brow in contemplation. “Apple,” he says.

Alex doesn’t notice the busboy with the scar down his left cheek, or at the very least doesn’t place him as the man he saw just before Kraft got fried at the Elite Mogul Day Spa.

Despite the scar, Sébastien is a master of disguises, a smooth talker who can insinuate himself into almost any situation. However, in this case, he simply bribed the busboy to give him the uniform and a plausible story of how he was sent to fill in from a sister restaurant.

Sébastien has his special bottle, the highly pressurized one that will discharge its cork at three times the speed of the fastest store-bought champagne. Accuracy is a challenge, but that’s why he spent all those hours at the range. He’s perfect because he has to be.

Sébastien buses tables and keeps an eye on Alex and Swift as they eat their dinners—an organic quinoa salad for Alex, whole wheat spaghetti with free range meatballs for Taylor. Sébastien is waiting for the right moment to pop the cork, to aim it at the base of Alex’s skull, hit the brain stem, lights out.

Swift tries a sip of Alex’s gin and apple juice.

“That’s a fun drink,” she says. “I should’ve ordered a piña colada.”

“Do you like piña coladas?” he asks.

“And getting caught in the rain?”

Swift and Alex commence the chorus to Rupert Holmes’ “Escape”. The other diners laugh and sing along with them. That’s just how it is with the rich and famous.

Sébastien figures the general chaos of the moment is good enough. And he’s had enough of the damn song. “Sacre bleu,” he mutters, as he tilts the bottle.

Alex is really getting into his part. It’s cathartic, to cut loose like this with Taylor, and with all these other people who don’t care what he’s injected or who he’s threatened to sue, who aren’t wondering why he’s not hitting and if his hips have anything left. Like a conductor, he swings his arm to begin the chorus anew—and knocks his fork off the table. Just as he bends to pick it up…

POP!

Alex feels something graze his shoulder. The diners yelp and giggle, and then shriek. When Alex returns to upright, fork in his hand, he finds Taylor face down in her spaghetti.

“Taylor?” he says. He grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a little shake. “Taylor? Taylor?! Shake it off!”

Everyone gathers around the table. Everyone except Sébastien, who slipped out the back door.

Slowly, Taylor comes to, moaning.

“Oh, my nose.”

Chapter Four

“Goddamnit,” says Hank Steinbrenner. “He fries Bob Kraft in a tanning bed and breaks Taylor Swift’s nose? Is he working for us or the gossip rags?”

“Bob Kraft was one of us,” says Hal. “Dad respected him.”

The brothers pace back and forth in the meeting room, while Cashman, Levine, and Afterman sit and squirm.

Hank points to the mahogany imbroglio of the Yankees logo on the wall and glares at each underling, one at a time.

“You told us this guy was the best,” he says. “Where did you get him? Pierre’s List?”

“Tell him to finish the job,” says Hal. “And tell him that if this goes down within sniffing distance of Spring Training, I want Girardi in our office or box when it happens. I don’t want to risk having him anywhere near the action.”

*

“I’m losing it, Barry,” Alex is going through his pre-workout mobilization drills, the stretching and rotating that look funny to the unfamiliar eye. He wears his Yankees uniform from 2007, his last MVP year, to get himself back in the frame of mind to dominate. The fit is snug in all the wrong places, reminding him that he’s not quite in MVP shape.

“First Bob goes down in the HandsomeMan 5000, and then, when I get together with Taylor and it seems like everything’s coming up roses, the cork guns or whatever come out and we get this spaghetti incident.”

Bonds leans over from the exercise bike and double-slaps Alex, forehand and backhand. “Enough with the fucking puns!”

Alex rubs his face. “Okay, okay,” he says. “But it really feels like someone out there has it in for me.”

Barry glares at him. “You’re just realizing this now?”

Alex shrugs and looks glum.

“Of course they have it in for you,” Bonds says. “That’s what happens when you’re great. Me? They had it in for me! Jesus Christ? They had it in for him! The only ones they don’t have it in for are the fake greats like Jeter.”

Alex nods. “Good point.”

“Greatness is a decision,” says Barry, his voice now calm and measured. “Like buying a car or masturbating before bed. You have to decide to be great—whatever the cost.”

“Whatever the cost,” Alex repeats. Before they begin the session, Alex excuses himself. Stealthily, he examines those boxes in the corner with Barry’s name on them. He pries open a flap. Syringes. Loaded up and ready to use. He palms one and disappears into the bathroom.

*

“Goddammit,” says Levine, playing the heavy. “You fry Bob Kraft in a tanning bed and break Taylor Swift’s nose? Are you working for us or the gossip rags?”

Levine, Cashman, Afterman, and Sébastien stand around the same waterfront bench at which they’d met just days earlier. It’s even colder today—pushing single digits—so they stamp their feet to stay warm.

“We heard you were the best,” adds Afterman, almost pleadingly.

Sébastien sighs. This job is turning into a real headache. He takes a last drag of his Gauloises and flicks it aside.

“You said you want it to look like an accident. This increases risks. But I will complete the job.”

“It may have to wait until Tampa,” says Cashman. He gestures to the dirty snow and abandoned factories around them “I can’t imagine you’ll be disappointed to leave this.”

Sébastien actually will be disappointed to leave New York. His decade-plus of killing across continents has made him something of a cosmopolitan, and he’s enjoyed his stay in New York – perhaps a little too much. Sure, the failed attempts look like dumb luck and probably were, but maybe if he’d spent a few more hours practicing cork shots instead of browsing exhibits at MOMA or laughing at the jokes on Broadway, he’d have succeeded.

The truth is, Sébastien is getting tired of killing. Every assassin who’s lucky enough reaches this point. He just can’t believe it’s here already. It feels like it was just yesterday, he had his first kill, a clean shot in a café in Tangiers…

“Sébastien?”

There’s another possibility. In spite of himself, Sébastien is beginning to wonder if Rodriguez may be l’enfant invulnérable, the mythical, unkillable figure in French assassin lore. Sébastien has always dismissed the concept as superstitious nonsense, but Rodriguez’s luck makes him wonder.

“Sébastien?”

Sébastien snaps back to the moment. “I am a professional. I don’t care where I go.”

“One more thing,” adds Cashman. “If you do it at Spring Training, make sure Girardi is in our offices or the owner’s box when it happens.”

Sébastien raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

“Capiche?” asks Levine.

“Yes, I capiche,” says Sébastien. “Your bosses must be fond of him.”

*

Alex is back in Bonds’ workout facility, shorts pulled below his ass and syringe in hand, when his phone rings. It’s his lawyer, Jim Sharp.

“Jim,” he says, trying to sound like one of those self-possessed tycoon types, like Pat Riley. “Talk to me.”

“You need to write your apology letter to the fans,” he says.

“Oh, man, I forgot. I’m not using Jeter’s site, though.”

“No, you’re going to handwrite it.”

“What am I going to say?”

“Check your e-mail,” says Sharp. “And if the police try to talk to you about these incidents with Bob Kraft or Taylor Swift, call me right away.”

Alex jabs the needle into his ass and depresses the plunger. He moans softly.

“Alex?”

“Yeah, Jim, I’m here.”

“You ever wonder if you were the target? If someone has it in for you?”

“Of course someone has it in for me. Did you ever think otherwise?” Alex can feel it now; he’s really hitting his groove. He paces back and forth as he raises his voice, holding the phone directly in front of his face so he can shout into it. “Welcome to the top, Jim! Enjoy the view!”

Alex feels a set of eyes on him. He turns to find Bonds in the doorway, wearing workout sweats and looking disgusted. Bonds shakes his head and walks away. Alex looks down and realizes that his shorts are still hanging off his ass, from which protrudes the exhausted syringe.

Chapter Five

It’s a brilliantly sunny March day at George M. Steinbrenner Field in Tampa (address: One Steinbrenner Drive). Bats are cracking, gloves are popping, and the hopes of the faithful are as high as the midday sun. It’s too early for the armchair doctors to diagnose the Bronx Bombers with bloating of the salary and anemia of the offense. At this moment, every team is a contender, even the Yankees.

Sébastien doesn’t care about that. He just wants to finish this job—or rather to sit back and watch this job be finished. He has changed out of his Yankee staffer uniform and now wears tourist gear: khaki shorts, Hawaiian shirt, Yankees hat. Munching on peanuts in a right field box seat, he looks like just another fan.

Sébastien has already done his work, replacing Alex Rodriguez’s favorite bat with a bat that looks and weighs the same but is filled inside with explosives, rigged to go off on impact. He’s tested out several prototypes and examined the remnants; with the bat’s springs and reinforced walls, it should appear to those CSI goons that Alex was looking for a little extra pop and just got greedy.

Sébastien laments the coming fate of the umpire and the catcher. Certainly unfortunate, but c’est le mort. He laughs at his joke.

*

The Yankees brass are gathered in the owner’s box: Hank, Hal, Cashman, Afterman, and Levine each hold a glass of white wine.

“To the Yankees,” says Hal.

“To Dad,” says Hank.

“To Jeter,” says Cashman.

“To Rivera,” says Afterman.

“To A-Rod,” says Levine.

A brief pause, and they all laugh hysterically. Levine doubles over. Afterman spills some wine.

“It feels so good to laugh again,” manages Cashman.

A knock at the door interrupts their merriment. The staff should know better than to bother them right before the first pitch. Hank struts across the room and yanks the door open.

There stands a large blond man, late middle-age, with a bulbous nose. He is sloppily but expensively dressed: His silk shirt is buttoned only halfway, and strains at the bulge of his gut. He wears short pants and fine leather sandals.

Hank squints. “Who are you?”

“I’m Gerard,” says the man, smiling. He has an accent.

“Gerard?”

“That’s Gerard Depardieu,” announces Afterman. “The actor.”

“I was told to come up here,” says Depardieu.

“Who told you?” asks Hank.

“I don’t know his name, but he contacted my publicist. He paid me $15,000. He said I was to make the appearance.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Depardieu,” says Cashman. “I think there’s been a bit of a mix-up.”

Depardieu eyes the spread and rubs his belly. “Shrimp and white wine,” he mumbles. Then, louder: “May I stay here and watch the game anyway?”

“Sure,” says Hank, before the brass can confer. “Why not? We like movies.”

Depardieu pours himself a glass of wine and makes his way to the shrimp. Hank sidles up beside him.

“So,” he says. “You’re from France.”

“I am,” confirms Depardieu. “At least originally. And I love my homeland—”

“Homeland,” interrupts Hank. “Hell of a show. You know Mandy P?”

“But,” continues Depardieu. “I renounced my citizenship.”

“Why’d you do that?” asks Hank. “I mean, I’d probably have done the same thing if I was French, but still.”

“The taxes are ridiculous,” says Depardieu. “There’s always some no-good bureaucrat looking to punish the success of great men.”

“Sounds a lot like Major League Baseball,” says Hank. “Greedy communists.”

“Oh, no!” blurts Afterman. “We told him Girardi and he heard ‘Gerard D.’ Probably because of our discussion of Cyrano de Bergerac.”

“I was in Cyrano de Bergerac,” says Depardieu, through a mouthful.

The mood in the room is instantly tense, as everyone but Depardieu realizes that death is on deck.

To read the rest, buy the full copy on Amazon or directly from me through Paypal. If you’re not satisfied, e-mail me (damon.agnos at gmail) and I will refund your 99 cents!

Dwane Casey at the Bat

The outlook wasn’t good for the Raptors Ten that day;
The score was twelve to eight, and with little left to play,
Michael Jordan’s Charlotte’s Bobcats held the upper softball hand;
“Raptors, keep your chins up,” Coach Dwane Casey did command.

T’was the bottom of the seventh, in a seven inning game;
The title of league champion the Bobcats could soon claim;
Lounging in his denim shorts, Jordan chomped a cookie,
And gave the stare of death to the tall, Lithuanian rookie.

The first pitch skittered past the cleated feet of Valunciunas;
“Dance, Big Man,” yelled one loud fan, “Come on — Tommy Tune us!”
Weights had made him broader, but this Jonas brother still
Had not had much diamond time; he grounded to the hill.

Daye popped out to second and the Raps had one out left;
In softball as in hoops, their trophy shelf bereft;
But plucky Terrence Ross legged out an infield hit,
And turned and said to Casey, “Raptors never quit!”

Gray did club a double, scoring fleety Ross,
And in the on-deck circle, Rudy Gay did floss,
In the lit’ral sense, that is; there was food by his incisor,
Dwane Casey rolled his eyes beneath his golfer’s visor.

Gay deftly worked the count and on the sixth pitch earned a walk;
Michael’d seen enough; he said, “Kid, give me the rock!
Hit the showers, Josh McRoberts—a real closer’s here!”
The hot sun glinted brightly off the hoop in MJ’s ear.

One more up ‘til Casey, the Raptors faithful knew;
T’would be much warmer comfort, if the outs they’d left were two,
But the outs were only one, and the force-outs at three bases;
Johnson stopped outside the box to double-knot his laces.

He weakly hit a single; MJ looked disgusted;
Cheers came from the Raptors fans for the hitter they most trusted;
His bat, it was aluminum; his constitution steel;
His will was made of iron; his visor a bright teal.

Dwane Casey dug his back foot in and returned MJ’s glare;
When it came to the dramatic, Dwane Casey had a flair;
But the first pitch rainbowed by him, and the umpire called, “Strike One!”
Silently the Raptors feared their title hopes were done.

Casey smiled to reassure them, He was mighty; it was true,
But Jordan’s second offering was declared, “Stee-rike Two!”
With velociraptors on the ropes, with Jurassic nearly Dark,
Dwane aimed the fat end of his bat toward the far end of the park.

That third pitch hung forever, like a crop that won’t get ripe,
And Casey puffed his cheeks as he swung his gleaming pipe;
That ping did sing for miles, those who heard it say,
And that little red-laced pearl did forever fly away.

As he crossed the plate, Dwane said, “Let that be a lesson
To those who doubt and hate, to those who seek to lessen
The legacy of Caseys, maligned by weak and wack;
Today we’ve seen the truth – Mighty Casey just struck back.”

The glory that is Jersey Shore has me looking forward to Thursday nights with previously unknown fervor. I’m drawn like a moth to the flame, or, as Ronnie put it in describing the appeal of his bare torso to women, like a fly to shit.

Thus, the names, faces, and–yes–situations of the Jersey Shore roommates rattle around my head all day long. Snooki is never far from my thoughts, though if my fiancee has her way, the one they call Snickers will remain far from our wedding reception. (I maintain that $2k + travel costs is a small price to pay for the raise-the-poof back walkover.) I see Pauly D’s hair in shaving brush bristles and shrubberies. I’m never quite certain howw many ‘w’s are in a given word.

But looming above the other cast members is the one who offers a full-time position for all whose occupation is hatin’: the man, the legend, The Situation (nee Mike Sorrentino). He has so permeated my subconscious that, this evening, as I walked to the gym, I found myself singing, “I just dropped in / To see what situation The Situation is in.”*

This of course is a paraphrase of the hit by The First Edition, “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)”.  (Question: Is it only fair (given principles of nomenclature and the like) to consider New Edition the next iteration of The First Edition? If so, does that make Bobby Brown Kenny Rogers? Consequently, was Wyclef usurping when he covered “The Gambler”?)

Here’s the thing: I just now got around to watching The Situation and Snooki on Conan, and I must say, I was utterly disappointed to hear the pedestrian (no pun intended) origins of his nickname. He told Conan that the nickname came about when he was walking along the Jersey Shore a few years ago and a girlfriend remarked to her boyfriend something like, “that guy has amazing abs.” One of The Situation’s friends then said something like, “looks like they’ve got a situation over there.”

But devoted Jersey Shore viewers will recall that he explained in the first episode that he’s The Situation because his abs are the situation. When he’s in a room, his abs are the situation in that room. No offense to the faithful, but this approaches the dizzying, fearless circularity of a burning bush that declares itself “I Am That I Am.”

There’s mystery in them there abs, Situation. Let’s keep it that way.

*This new tribute ditty deserves a psychedelic, Situation-starring vid to match the Lebowski dream sequence set to the First Edition hit.

All in all, not a bad short-term scheme, and Follieri managed to drag it out for two years. It likely reminds fans of French literature of a famous forebear: Andre Gide’s The Vatican Cellars. In that novel (whose plot is partly borrowed from an actual 1892 scam), the scheming Protos poses as a priest to persuade credulous Catholics that the Freemasons and a cabal of mutinous Cardinals have imprisoned the Pope in the Vatican cellars, replacing him with an impostor. Under the utmost secrecy, Protos collects donations for a holy special forces team to free the Pontiff. Donors are warned not to mention a word of the situation to anyone, lest the plans be blown or the faith of the masses shaken.

Might Follieri have been wiser to have used such a scheme? Unlike real estate transactions, top-secret kidnappings and rescue efforts are entirely off the books. And impostor accusations are hard to disprove: we all know that Saddam Hussein had look-alikes. Perhaps Mr. Follieri now wishes he’d read his French classics. It looks like he’ll have plenty of time to catch up.

His website calls him “The Perfect 10 Model” (and even provides a recipe). He’s built like a power forward, shoots and passes like a guard, and can get off the floor when the mood strikes him. And he’s got that Miami Vice flair:

He was kicked off the Serbian national team for peeling and eating a banana while his coach yelled at him; he spent the second half in the crowd, posing for pictures and signing autographs. The new coach offered a TV or laptop to whoever could provide his phone number. He wears braids without a hint of self-consciousness, lies about his snowboarding habits to his employer, and boasts over $15 million in career earnings, with another $18 million or so on the way. He is Vladimir Radmanovic, a singular figure in the NBA.

Though I lament his departure from Seattle (for non-basketball reasons; as a GM, I would never sign him), his decision to join the Lakers has been a boon to Vladiphiles everywhere. Now he’s just a channel flip away, wearing grandpa-on-vacation knee-high black socks and poised to add a championship ring to his garish get-up. (Beware the ring as litmus test.) But most importantly, in his crusty coach, Phil Jackson, Vladi’s found his first worthy NBA foil.

Nate McMillan, a more mild-mannered member of the Scott Skiles/Avery Johnson young tough-guy school, was too no-nonsense for Vladi. Mike Dunleavy was just a quick stop on the contract-year gravy train. But Phil Jackson is as hopelessly adolescent as his new forward, if possessed of a better attention span. His Zenmaster schtick consists mainly of third-hand mystical pablum and a willingness to insult his players in the press. What better situation, then, for Vladi and the Vladiphiles?

Where once we scoured awkward translations of Serbian message boards to find the latest nugget of our dude’s apathy, it’s now front page on ESPN. Phil calls Vladi a space cadet; Vladi separates his shoulder snowboarding. Phil says Vladi should see the team psychologist; Vladi says Phil is like Jack Nicholson in Anger Management. Phil says Vladi is not playing up to his potential; Vladi says they’ll talk about it in the exit interview. And on and on it goes, Mean Girls in men’s clothes playing a child’s game.

Grab a banana, Vladi. Let’s hope that exit interview doesn’t come for a long time.

Crazy Legs because of what precedes him, and what he’s about to do. ESPN reports that Team USA has cut Durant from its Olympic-qualifying tournament squad. A precocious 18, Durant dropped 22 on America’s finest in an intense scrimmage earlier this month, but still couldn’t earn himself a spot on the roster. The stuff of stardom?

Peep this, from Jeff Chang’s hip-hop history, Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop, on the original—B-boy pioneer Richard “Crazy Legs” Colon:

“He and his cousin Lenny had battled two leaders of the original Rock Steady Crew…and lost…they had shown much heart…He was being cheated of his chance to prove himself. He was all of thirteen years old, and he ached for the past. So Crazy Legs embarked on a mission. Like a character in one of the Times Square kung-fu flicks he loved, he traveled through the city to find and challenge every remaining b-boy.”

So shall it be with Durant. I pity the fool who must guard him now, as his boundless talents shall be infused with a renewed tenacity. The man whom Blazers GM Kevin Pritchard called “an assassin” and sportswriter Bill Simmons “a cold-blooded killer” just got a little more dangerous.

Sure, he’s already been dubbed Plastic Man and Durantula, but when NBA stoppers toss and turn, twisted and cocooned in their high-thread-count sheets the night before they play the SuperSonics, it will be one name they think they hear whispered through the open window, from the darkened bathroom, through the static on that clock radio they swear they turned off:

Crazy Legs