knew a commercial boat named Lulu. Nothing Then I called marina guys I know in Sag Harbor, Orient, Shinnecock, Mattituck, Jamesport. More nothing. Now, there’s a lot more marinas than that around here, but I don’t know all those guys.” He took a box of black Napoli cigars out of his shirt pocket, shook one out and lit it, cupping his hands around the flame of the match. He took a big drag and let the pungent smoke out, making me regret I was standing near him in the still air. “One thing, though.”
“And that is?”
“There is a Lulu. But this Lulu isn’t the boat you’re looking for, it’s an actual live woman, Lulu Lumpkin.”
“Really? Lulu Lumpkin? Unfortunate name.”
“She’s been around for years. Everybody knows about her. Owns a bar on the South Fork, in Shinnecock. Runs the place herself. Kind of a shit-hole where the commercial salts hang out for their shots and beers. I stopped in for a drink with a guy one time, asked for a martini. She made it for me, said it was the first martini’d been ordered there in nine years. Gives you an idea. Es muy colorful, I suppose, but you have to be pretty desperate for some sauce to belly up to Lulu’s bar. Anyhow, she’s not a boat, is she?”
“Maybe somebody likes her enough to name a boat after her,” I said.
“I already talked to Bill Evans at the Shinnecock marina. If there’s a commercial boat called Lulu anyplace around there, he’d know. I’m not so sure Lulu Lumpkin’s the kind of woman somebody’d name their boat after. She’s not a great beauty, and no kid, either. Tough old broad.”
“Could be you’re right,” I said. “But Lulu’s such a curious name these days. Kind of old-time stuff, right? I mean, did you ever know anybody else actually named Lulu?”
“No. So?”
“Such an offbeat name. I know it’s a stretch, but what the hell. It’s a place to start. Only one I have,” I said. “What time does she open, you think?”
“First thing in the morning. Her customers, some of ‘em, their breakfast is a cup of coffee and a shot of Seagrams Seven.” He looked at his watch, raising up his cigar hand and giving me another whiff that distinctive Napoli aroma. “She’s been serving for a couple hours already.”
“You know where her place is, right? Come along and show me.”
“Got work.”
“It’s October, Prager. The season is over. Whatever’s left to do, your people are doing. Not only don’t you, personally, have anything to do, you won’t until March.”
“Just shows what you know about running a business. Now I understand why that Teague guy in New York has you by the balls.”
“I’ll buy your lunch,” I said. “Hell of an offer, I think.”
“A McDonald’s Value Meal in Riverhead, you mean? Not likely. I do this, I want to come back on the North Road and get a lobster roll and a slice of that chocolate mud pie. Cost you twenty-five bucks, with the tip, mi compadre. More, if you eat, too. But what the hell, it’s not your money, right? You’re going to put in for it, anyway.”
“We leave in fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Why not right now?”
“Because it’ll take you that long to smoke up that hideous cigar. You’re not getting into my car with that thing.”
It hardly mattered that Wally’d finished his smoke and disposed of the butt in the approved GI fashion, pulling it apart and scattering the tobacco. The smell of cigar smoke still clung faintly to him as he sat next to me in the car. “I still smell that cigar,” I told him.
“Tough shit.” His quick reflex answer. “It goes away. Two hours, tops.”
I swung onto Route 27 and headed west toward Shinnecock. There was barely any fog now, because we were away from the water. I said, “What can you tell me about this Lulu?”
Wally thought for a moment, staring ahead at the road. “Every bayman, dock hand and rummy out here seems to know her. Story is, she just showed up one day and bought herself a
“And that is?”
“There is a Lulu. But this Lulu isn’t the boat you’re looking for, it’s an actual live woman, Lulu Lumpkin.”
“Really? Lulu Lumpkin? Unfortunate name.”
“She’s been around for years. Everybody knows about her. Owns a bar on the South Fork, in Shinnecock. Runs the place herself. Kind of a shit-hole where the commercial salts hang out for their shots and beers. I stopped in for a drink with a guy one time, asked for a martini. She made it for me, said it was the first martini’d been ordered there in nine years. Gives you an idea. Es muy colorful, I suppose, but you have to be pretty desperate for some sauce to belly up to Lulu’s bar. Anyhow, she’s not a boat, is she?”
“Maybe somebody likes her enough to name a boat after her,” I said.
“I already talked to Bill Evans at the Shinnecock marina. If there’s a commercial boat called Lulu anyplace around there, he’d know. I’m not so sure Lulu Lumpkin’s the kind of woman somebody’d name their boat after. She’s not a great beauty, and no kid, either. Tough old broad.”
“Could be you’re right,” I said. “But Lulu’s such a curious name these days. Kind of old-time stuff, right? I mean, did you ever know anybody else actually named Lulu?”
“No. So?”
“Such an offbeat name. I know it’s a stretch, but what the hell. It’s a place to start. Only one I have,” I said. “What time does she open, you think?”
“First thing in the morning. Her customers, some of ‘em, their breakfast is a cup of coffee and a shot of Seagrams Seven.” He looked at his watch, raising up his cigar hand and giving me another whiff that distinctive Napoli aroma. “She’s been serving for a couple hours already.”
“You know where her place is, right? Come along and show me.”
“Got work.”
“It’s October, Prager. The season is over. Whatever’s left to do, your people are doing. Not only don’t you, personally, have anything to do, you won’t until March.”
“Just shows what you know about running a business. Now I understand why that Teague guy in New York has you by the balls.”
“I’ll buy your lunch,” I said. “Hell of an offer, I think.”
“A McDonald’s Value Meal in Riverhead, you mean? Not likely. I do this, I want to come back on the North Road and get a lobster roll and a slice of that chocolate mud pie. Cost you twenty-five bucks, with the tip, mi compadre. More, if you eat, too. But what the hell, it’s not your money, right? You’re going to put in for it, anyway.”
“We leave in fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Why not right now?”
“Because it’ll take you that long to smoke up that hideous cigar. You’re not getting into my car with that thing.”
It hardly mattered that Wally’d finished his smoke and disposed of the butt in the approved GI fashion, pulling it apart and scattering the tobacco. The smell of cigar smoke still clung faintly to him as he sat next to me in the car. “I still smell that cigar,” I told him.
“Tough shit.” His quick reflex answer. “It goes away. Two hours, tops.”
I swung onto Route 27 and headed west toward Shinnecock. There was barely any fog now, because we were away from the water. I said, “What can you tell me about this Lulu?”
Wally thought for a moment, staring ahead at the road. “Every bayman, dock hand and rummy out here seems to know her. Story is, she just showed up one day and bought herself a
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