16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ALFONSO’S

S
erge tucked Roger and Jansen snugly into their beds and made it back to the warehouse just as truck traffic cleared off the charcoal-black industrial road.

He moved the hostage outside, in back by the scrapyard, and made him change his clothes at gunpoint.

Now the captive was all shiny.

The tape remained over his mouth. In front of him, a giant aquarium with a lobster. The captive watched as Serge placed the lobster in a temporary bucket while he removed the iron pellets and replaced them with regular sea gravel “to establish the control element for my test results.” Then Serge attached something to the side of the lobster with several wrappings of water-resistant tape.

The prisoner observed Serge walk backward with a giant spool, laying down wire like a demolition team, from the aquarium all the way out of sight around the corner and through the front door of the warehouse.

Serge ran back in joy. “Almost done. Barely any waiting left. Just one more thing . . .” He reached in a bag and hung a jumbo magnet over the far end of the aquarium. The hostage looked straight up and saw a much bigger magnet.

“And that’s it!” said Serge. “Isn’t this great? . . . Ah, you don’t know what’s going on?”

Coleman exhaled a cloud toward the moon. “I don’t know either.”

“This is one of my all-time favorites!” said Serge. “But to truly appreciate it, you must first understand a lobster’s orientation mechanism . . .” And he laid out the whole scene, the internal sac and the little rock, blah, blah, blah. “You follow me? You have a grasp? Good! Then I taped this little gizmo to the side of Shelly. That’s his name; you might need it later. The thing I taped is a ball-bearing tilt switch. The little ball stays at one end of the plastic tube unless it’s tilted, and then it rolls to the other, where it simultaneously touches two metal contacts and completes the circuit. Very easy to come by, used in pinball machines and thermostats and car-trunk lids to turn the light off, and bombs—don’t worry, this isn’t a bomb—and some vending machines that now have alarms because people keep rocking them to get the bag of Cheez-Its hung up on the corkscrew.” Serge walked over and patted the man on the shoulder. “Next, you’re probably wondering about that spiffy new getup you’re wearing. It’s a shark suit, used to protect divers from nasty bites, and composed of a thin titanium mesh called chain mail. The only opening is the top part of the face where the scuba mask goes.”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “Can we get some Cheez-Its?”

“Not now.” Serge crouched down in front of the chair like a baseball catcher. “Here’s the deal: I always give my students a way out. So all you have to do is keep the lobster entertained and at your end of the aquarium until dawn, when Alfonso and the crew arrive and will set you free. Shelly likes music, so you might try humming. Or wiggling around. Any kind of motion, because it’s probably pretty boring in the tank.”

Coleman tossed a roach on the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe. “What if Shelly decides to explore?”

“That’s what they call a game changer,” said Serge. “If he reaches the spot under the magnet, it’ll flip him over, tripping the ball-bearing switch . . .” His eyes followed the wire into the warehouse. “From there it’s all computerized. Alfonso has an automated program to run the scrapyard.”

“What’s it do?” asked Coleman.

“Creates more irony.” Serge pointed straight up. “The big magnet that lifts the junked vehicles will come down and grab him by the shark suit, and then it’s a wacky ride over there, when the power to the electromagnet is cut off, dropping him into the car-crusher. Which, of course, turns on.”

“What’s the irony?”

Serge pointed up again. “See the big crane claws surrounding the magnet? It’s like the reverse of the lobster game at the restaurant. This time the lobster captures the human.”

“Cool.”

Serge smiled a last time at his contestant. “I’ll leave you and Shelly alone now so you can get to know each other.”

The pair began walking away.

Coleman grabbed another joint from over his ear. “What kind of music do you think Shelly likes?”

“I’m guessing the B-52’s.”

The hostage watching in terror as Serge and Coleman climbed into the car on the other side of the yard, singing two-part harmony in the distance.

“It wasn’t a rock . . .”

“ . . . It was a rock lobster!”

The Firebird drove out the gate. It was quiet again except for bullfrogs in a stagnant storm ditch.

The hostage looked at the lobster. The lobster looked back.

The lobster wasn’t moving. Maybe it was asleep. So far, so good.

An hour went by. Since Shelly seemed quite inert at the moment, the hostage didn’t dare move or make a peep, lest he disturb the status quo.

Another hour. Still an indolent lobster. This might be easier than he thought.

Suddenly his eyes flew open. The lobster’s antennae began twitching more than usual. It backed up from the glass a couple of inches and stopped.

The man hummed as loud as he could.

The lobster began turning. The captive thrashed side to side to get its attention, but apparently the lobster had seen more interesting days. It completed the turn and began scooting through gravel toward the other end of the tank.

Humming went to max volume with no song in mind.

The lobster was almost under the magnet.

Now just hysterical screaming under the duct tape.

For some unexplained reason, the lobster simply stopped.

The man held his breath. Could he believe his eyes? The lobster began slowly turning around to face him again.

The burglar sagged with a huge sigh.

Then the lobster took a step backward . . .

. . . And flipped over.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!”

There was a loud
ker-chunk
sound followed by mechanical whizzing.

The captive looked up. This was no slow-motion, dramatic magnet. It came down with haste and was so powerful that the victim actually leaped off the ground with the magnet still a good foot away.

His face was mashed against it as the claw tongs closed underneath, carrying him into the night sky, legs wiggling like a detached lizard’s tail.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

THE NEXT MORNING

P
olice cars with lights ablaze continued streaming through the entrance of Alfonso’s Scrap Metal. More were already on the scene, taking notes and photos.

Alfonso had called them immediately to avoid an accessory charge. He played dumb. Not hard given the evidence.

The head detective sat on the other side of Alfonso’s desk in the warehouse office. He crossed his legs and noticed something in the sole of his shoe. He picked out an iron pellet, looked at it a moment and flicked it over his shoulder. “You’re telling me you have absolutely no idea who did this?”

“I don’t even know
what
they did,” said Alfonso.

“Our people just pulled a guy in a shark suit out of the crusher,” said the investigator. “Was your lounge open last night?”

Alfonso shook his head. “And I made sure everything was turned off before I left.”

“Our captain doesn’t like headlines. If there’s anything at all you can think of—”

A uniformed officer appeared panting in the doorway. “Sir, I just found something that might be important.”

“What is it?”

“The lobster’s upside down.”

The detective quickly stood. “Not again.”

FORT LAUDERDALE

Noon. The kitchen of an eighth-floor condo sat quiet. A laptop was logged on to a chat room, but the person in the kitchen wasn’t paying attention to the online exchange.

Brook Campanella stood at the counter, pressing her left hand down firmly. Her right hand grabbed a molded rubber grip. The silence was broken by a rhythmic grinding noise.

Choco-holic: “What’s the word from that private eye?”

Shitless in Seattle: “He’s narrowed on the address.”

Pirate Fan: “I’ve got my plane ticket.”

Mets Fan: “Leaving in an hour.”

Wasted in Margaritaville: “I’m already here.”

The Fluffer: “Is Lucy going?”

Choco-holic: “See you all in Miami!”

The grinding noise stopped, followed by the sound of metal clanging on a terrazzo floor where nine inches of shotgun barrel had just landed.

Brook Campanella set down the hacksaw and picked up a file, smoothing out the new bore of the sawed-off twelve-gauge.

MEANWHILE . . .

A black Firebird pulled into the parking lot of a busy shopping center.

Coleman looked up from his hurricane glass. “We’re stopping at Food King?”

“Supply run,” said Serge, jumping down from the car. “You know what else pisses me off? People who say ‘an’ historic event. You don’t say ‘an’ history book. The irony is it’s usually only people who think they’re smarter than you and also say ‘incentive-
ize
.’ ”

“The pricks.”

“And companies that say, ‘Your satisfaction is our number one goal.’ ”

“If that’s so, then give us the shit for free,” said Coleman.

“Exactly,” said Serge. “But instead they tell you they’ll come to fix your cable between noon and five, and I say, okay, I’ll pay my next bill between July and November, but they don’t laugh.”

They went through the automatic doors of the supermarket.

“Ooo! Ooo!” said Coleman. “I want to drive the cart! Can I drive the cart?”

“Go crazy.”

Coleman got a running start down an aisle, jumped up on the bar between the back wheels, flipped backward and knocked himself out.

Serge sat his pal up and shook him back into the world.

Coleman stood and grabbed the cart. “What are we shopping for?”

“Required ingredients for my new inspiration,” said Serge. “Things are starting to happen fast, so we’ll also need super-high-energy food.”

“What about Little Debbies?”

“Good thinking.”

They turned up the aisle. “Serge, people are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Giving us looks. They see us with the single cart and think we’re gay.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Of course not.”

“But I see what you mean,” said Serge. “Some are glances of abject disgust, while others over-sell their friendliness to compensate for the injustice of our struggle.”

“Here are the Little Debbies.” Coleman grabbed a box off the shelf and set it in the cart.

“Coleman, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m putting it in the cart.”

“You never just put it in the cart.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

Serge shook his head. “Give me that.” He took the box and walked backward several steps into three-point range and made an arcing jump shot. The treats crashed into the cart. “That’s how you do it.”

“But, Serge, I don’t think I can shoot from that far away.”

“Give me the box again.” He paced to the other side of the aisle. “If you’re not a good perimeter shooter, I can always hit you with a no-look, behind-the-back pass, and you slam-dunk it.”

Serge slung the box to Coleman, who slammed it hard into the cart. “Like that?”

“You’re a fast learner.” Serge took the box again and began walking even farther than before. “The other options are the underhanded shortstop-to-second-baseman lob to begin a double play or, if the aisle is clear like this one, you can retreat as far as possible for a Hail Mary football chuck into the back of the end zone.”

Serge went as far as possible, then slapped the side of the box in his right hand and unleashed a high spiral that almost reached the air ducts and could be seen from anywhere in the store.

The box crashed a few feet short of the cart.

Coleman picked it up and slam-dunked it hard again.

Serge returned. “Now, that’s how you shop.”

Coleman stared into the cart. “Serge, these Little Debbies are all fucked up.”

“You’re right,” said Serge. “They should check those things before they put them on the shelf and hope we don’t notice. Stick ’em back and grab another.”

They continued, aisle after aisle, slinging and passing and tossing products, until the cart was half full. “Grab that cleaning product and look for giant ten-pound bags of sugar. It will become important later.”

“Why? Another inspiration?”

“You think I bought all that food-storage stuff back at headquarters just to keep leftovers great? We’re going to have the best Tupperware party ever!”

“Serge, I just noticed something.” Coleman threw a tin of mixed nuts. “The people aren’t giving us looks anymore. I mean not the gay looks. They’ve been replaced by these other looks.”

“You’re right,” said Serge. “Now all the looks are bad except without a subtext of butt-fucking.”

“What could possibly be the reason?” asked Coleman.

“You think maybe gay people don’t shop this way?”

“Serge, I’ve been looking around, and I don’t see anybody shopping like this.”

“It’s tourist season.” Serge lobbed a grapefruit. “There are a lot of Europeans in town.”

“They don’t do this in Europe?”

Serge shook his head again. “The countries are much smaller, so they have very tiny carts and no elbow room in the aisles to go Michael Jordan on the store’s ass.”

A few minutes later, the cart was nearly full. “I’m tired of throwing things,” said Serge. He grabbed an item off the shelf and set it on top.

A guy in a trucker’s hat walked by and mumbled, “Faggots.”

Serge turned around: “Hey, buddy, you should watch more
Glee
.”

“That show’s really growing on me,” said Coleman. “Especially that one chick who’s always plastered.”

“I was particularly impressed by the Madonna episode,” said Serge. “ ‘Express Yourself’ was quite moving.”

“Oh, definitely,” said Coleman. “She’s not just the Material Girl anymore.”

“But you know what makes it the best show on television?” said Serge. “They teach the youth of America that it’s cool to be tolerant.”

“In real life, most of the kids on that show would get daily beat-downs if they broke into song and dance in the middle of the gymnasium during PE.”

“But not on
Glee,
” said Serge. “The coach always knows that jumping jacks must take a backseat if someone spontaneously feels a Broadway show tune coming on.”

“Madonna would approve.”

“But here’s the most fascinating aspect of
Glee
. It proves that Sean Hannity and the rest of the gang at Fox News are actually super nice.”

“How’s that?”

“Glee
is on the Fox Network, run by the same corporation,” said Serge. “And given the slant of Fox News talking points, you’d expect them to slam
Glee
for indoctrinating our youth with the San Francisco agenda. Yet they don’t.”

“What could possibly be the answer?”

“They’re secretly in on the plan to help us all get along,” said Serge. “Fox News creates a diversion of fake anger so
Glee
can slip through. Because the only other answer is that they’re just hate farmers who don’t want to bite the hand that feeds, which would make them the world’s biggest hypocrites.”

“And that can’t be.”

“I know.” Serge reached for a shelf. “Hannity’s my hero.”

“Serge, why’d you put that in the cart? It looks yucky.”

“We need to balance the Little Debbies with ultra-healthy stuff.”

“How do you eat tofu?”

“Scoop it with Doritos,” said Serge. “That’s the last item. Time to check out . . .”