Atomic Lobster (13 page)

“No! Stop! Please!…”

A last, hard tug, and the reluctant guest was jerked from the truck and flung to the ground at Tex’s feet. He looked out of place at the jamboree in his shredded business suit.

Tex yanked him up. “You’re one useless defense attorney.”

“I did everything I could! I swear! But they had too much evidence, plus they found you at the scene covered in blood.”

“Well then it’s perfectly reasonable,” said Tex.

“It is?”

“Except I’m not a reasonable person. Remember? You argued that at trial. Insane.” Tex slid his hands inside thick protective rubber gloves that reached to the elbow.

“I’m begging! Whatever you’re thinking…”

“Okay, I’ll give you a chance.” He slapped the attorney lightly on the cheek. “We’ll let you go if you win a little game we play around here.”

“Sure, anything. What is it?”

Tex grabbed him by the back of the collar. “Bobbing for catfish.” He slammed the lawyer’s face down into the boiling oil. Arms flailed, the barrel filled with bubbles. Tex pulled him up. “Got a fish yet? Nope.” Back down into the barrel. Back up. “Fish? Nope.” Down. This time, the attorney’s arms fell limp. Tex casually released him, and he flipped backward into the dirt, face still fizzing. Even the most hardened McGraws had trouble keeping food down.

Tex walked back over to the trusted trio. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and crossed a name off the top.

“What do you want us to do now?” asked Cooter.

“Keep working down the list.”

TAMPA

T
he bingo room’s air conditioner hummed loudly amid the conspicuous absence of conversation. A few people grabbed last-second Styrofoam cups of coffee and returned to their seats. The wall clock hit seven. Non-Confrontationalists Anonymous was back in session.

“Good evening,” said the moderator.

A hyper-enthusiastic hand waved from the middle of the front row. “Ooooh! Ooooh! Me! Me! Pick me!”

“Serge? What is it?”

Serge smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Good evening to you, too!”

The moderator took a deep breath. “Thank you.” He looked up at the rest of the members. “Since last week has anyone had a relevant experience they’d like to share?”

Front row, same hand. “Ooooh! Ooooh! Me!…”

“Serge,” said the moderator. “How about letting someone else in the group have a chance to talk?”

“Sure, no problem. Except they never say anything because of, well, the creepy way they are.”

The moderator pointed toward the last row. “Jim, what about you? I understand there was a problem with some movers?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Serge mentioned it to me before the meeting.”

Serge turned around in his chair. “Jim, tell ’em. It’s a great story!” He winked back at the moderator. “Even Jesus would have opened a can of money-changers-in-the-temple-whup-ass if they were His movers!”

“Serge, please,” said the moderator. “Allow Jim to speak.”

“I don’t want to,” said Jim.

“Can I?” asked Serge. He jumped up and faced the group. “These three movers were big and mean and smelly! Horrible scars, flaming skull tattoos, and the biggest had this milky eye that always seemed like it was looking at you….”

The moderator placed a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “I think Jim should tell his own story.”

“You sure?” said Serge. “I’m great at stories. Like that part about the eye? I made it up.”

“Please?”

“Okay.” Serge sat down, and Jim forced himself to stand. He demurely described events of the move.

Before the moderator could respond, Serge was back on his feet. “Let’s get some fuckin’ spiked clubs and chains and shit!…Who’s with me?…Wait, let me rephrase that: Who’s
against
me?…” Serge turned to the moderator. “It’s unanimous.”

“Violence never solves anything,” said the moderator.

Serge’s head jerked back. “It solves
everything
. Didn’t you study history at all in those universities? How are we ever going to learn to deal with confrontation?”

“Serge, for some reason I get the feeling that you don’t have a problem with confrontation.”

“Bullshit!”

“I stand corrected.”

“Serge,” Jim begged. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Too late,” said Serge. “I swore my undying loyalty to you. We must respond in overwhelming numbers!”

The moderator glared at Serge.

“What?”

“If you continue to talk about violence, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you—”

“I was just joking before,” said Serge, fingers crossed behind his back. “I’m suggesting Jim makes an appointment to see the moving company’s manager, and the whole group goes down to the office, and we talk it over calmly like mature adults. It’ll be an excellent field-trip exercise. They won’t let us back in the zoo.”

“I’m shocked.”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, it sounds so…reasonable.”

HEADQUARTERS, MOVING DUDES

Serge and Jim sat in a pair of chairs across the desk from the manager. The manager was confused by all the self-conscious people several rows deep along the back wall of his office.

“Who are those guys?”

“We’re on a field trip,” said Serge. “Thanks for having us. Community support goes a long way toward recovery.”

The manager looked down at his phone message. “I thought this was about a claim.”

“It is,” said Serge. “Wristwatch, gold necklace.”

The manager checked Jim’s customer file. “But he signed a waiver. And refused inventory.”

“That’s right,” said Serge. “The thefts were retaliation for not wanting the inventory.”

“Are you insinuating these things were stolen?”

“No,” replied Serge. “I’m saying it outright.”

Jim placed a hand on Serge’s arm. “Please. It’s not that important. Let’s leave.”

Serge pushed the hand away. “I know what I’m doing.”

The manager rubbed his chin. “I think Bodine’s in the lot stowing an overnight load.”

“Bodine?” Serge jotted on a scrap of paper. “I didn’t catch his last name.”

“Biffle.” The manager leaned toward his intercom. “Sally, send Bodine in.” He sat back. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“In ways you never dreamed,” said Serge.

The door opened. A giant entered. The support group shuffled to a far corner.

“You wanted to see me?”

“They say a watch and necklace were stolen from the Davenport move.”

“Who did?”

Silence. Serge elbowed Jim. Jim was paralyzed. Serge elbowed him again.

Bodine faced them and clenched his fists. “Well?”

Serge sighed. He reached over and grabbed Jim’s slack jaw, moving it up and down as he spoke out the corner of his mouth. “I say you stole.”

“I didn’t take a thing!”

Serge worked Jim’s jaw again: “Yes, you did.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“A big fat ugly liar.”

“Why you little worm!”

The manager jumped up. “That’s enough. Bodine, you can go.”

Serge called after the departing mover: “I’d expect as much from someone who lives in Lutz.”

“Lutz?” said Bodine, stopping in the doorway. “What are you talking about? I’m from Gibsonton.”

“My mistake.” Serge wrote on the scrap of paper. “This has all been a big misunderstanding. Jim must have lost the stuff in his house.”

They shook hands with the manager, and the group left. The moderator stopped Serge in the parking lot. “I’m shocked!”

“What did I do now?”

“No, that went very well. I thought you were slipping with the fat liar part, but it turned out nicely in the end.”

“Jim didn’t get his stuff back.”

“But we won an even bigger victory,” said the moderator. “I think the group really benefited from this.”

“Never helps to get excited.” Serge slipped the scrap of paper into his wallet.

THE GULF OF MEXICO

F
our white-haired women stood alone outside the locked ballroom doors.

Eunice checked her watch. “We’re a half hour early.”

Edith stared resolutely at the doors. “If this is what it takes.”

“Hunk alert,” said Edna. “Three o’clock.”

Coming down the promenade was a tall, physically sculpted man. Muscles filled out his white, smartly pressed officer’s uniform. Four gold bars on each shoulder.

Except for comedians and magicians in the nightly stage show, the ship’s crew was almost entirely foreign. With rigid demarcation: bartenders, waiters and blackjack dealers from the Baltics; cooks and cleaning staff, Pacific Rim; officer corps, Mediterranean.

That accounted for the steamy Latin magnetism of the man approaching the G-Unit. Clinging adoringly to his right arm was a vivacious sophomore from the University of Wisconsin. The man smiled politely and tipped his cap as they passed.

He suddenly jumped and grabbed his bottom.

“What is it?” asked the student.

“Someone pinched me.”

Edith stared off and whistled.

The pair continued up the hall, the student clutching his arm even tighter. “You’re really the captain?…”

The G-Unit watched them depart.

“I’d let him eat crackers in
my
bed,” said Eunice.

“Why don’t any of the dancers look like him?” said Edna.

Five minutes later and one deck below, the man in the white uniform unlocked a door with a magnetic card. The student in a Bucky Badger jersey walked through the middle of the giant cabin and twirled around. “I didn’t realize officers’ staterooms were so luxurious!”

They weren’t. This was a penthouse suite.

Since the cruise line wasn’t an official navy, there was no law against impersonating an officer, and the crisp, mail-order captain’s uniform rarely failed with the women.

TAMPA

Back in their apartment, Coleman and Rachael burned up joints. Serge burned up the phone lines.

“…That’s right, Roger…because it’s a last-minute thing…. See you there….” “…Bob, Serge here, something’s come up….” “…Stan, it’s me, Serge…. Yes, I know what time it is. I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important….” “…Jim, Serge…impromptu meeting…. Of course the moderator knows about it….”

A half hour later, Serge and Coleman stood beside a ’73 Mercury Comet. Rachael was down in the backseat, going through the carpet with problem-gambler optimism. Other cars began pulling into the church parking lot.

“What’s going on?” asked Jim.

“I’ll tell you when everyone’s here,” said Serge.

More cars arrived until it was a full set. Puzzled support-group members got out and whispered to each other.

“Pipe down!” said Serge. His eyebrows went up. “Wow. I’ve never had people pipe down that fast.” He began pacing. “First I’d like to say thanks for coming on such short notice. I had to be intentionally vague because my phone might be tapped….”

The group took a step back.

“…We’re going on another field trip. I can’t tell you the final
location for your own safety. Just stay close to my car and we’ll caravan over.”

“But it’s the middle of the night.”

“Precisely,” said Serge. “The perfect time to resolve conflict.”

“Where’s the moderator?”

“Meeting us there.” Serge climbed into his Comet. “Everyone follow me.”

They didn’t want to go, but they didn’t want to disagree with Serge even more. Cars began rolling out of the parking lot. Coleman produced a fat one and pressed the Comet’s cigarette lighter. Serge pulled out his favorite Colt .45 automatic and set it in his lap. “I love field trips.”

“Me too,” said Coleman.

“Let’s play a road game.”

“Okay,” said Coleman. “I got a good one.”

“How’s it work?”

“Everyone searches around the car for—”

Rachael sprang up in back and excitedly hung over the seat between them. “Look! I found some kind of pill!” She popped it in her mouth.

“Shit,” said Coleman. “Rachael already won.”

The dysfunctional motorcade turned south on Interstate 75. Tall lightpoles went by at distant but even intervals, sweeping the hood and windshield with a yellow glow. Bright, dark, bright, dark. “Let’s sing,” said Serge.

“Okay.”

The Mercury got off the interstate at Big Bend Road, and a long line of cars slowly curved down the exit ramp. They turned east, leaving development behind.

Serge:
“That cat Shaft is a bad mother—”

Coleman:
“Shut yo mouth!”

Serge:
“Just talkin’ ’bout Shaft…”

The Comet drove deeper into the sticks. They entered the kind of neighborhood with drainage ditches instead of sidewalks. Serge pulled a scrap of paper from his wallet. It had the name and town that he’d scribbled in the movers’ office and, now, an address from
the phone book. He cut his headlights and pulled onto the shoulder. “There’s the place. Last house on the left.”

“Then why are we stopping way back here?”

“Stealth is everything.” He got out and popped the Mercury’s trunk. People from the other cars collected around him. Serge removed a cardboard box.

“Where’s the moderator?”

“Must be running late,” said Serge. “We’ll just have to start without him.” He opened the box. “Everyone take one.”

The first member’s hand came out of the carton. “Halloween masks?”

“Sorry. They only had the Seven Dwarfs.”

“So why do you get to be Batman?”

“Last one left.” He slipped the disguise over his face. “Move out!”

They tiptoed down the street and behind a mobile home. The rear door was child’s play. Serge’s hand found a switch. A lamp went on, but the person in bed continued snoring.

Serge shook a shoulder. “Wake up.”

GULF OF MEXICO

T
he line outside the ballroom was halfway down the hall. The double doors opened. Another stampede.

The G-Unit saw them right away: fresh meat. Three new guys sampling trays of mini-quiche. Most debonair in the whole room. Latin spice, too, just like the “captain” in the hallway, except a bit older. But nowhere near as ancient as the rest of the guys. So what were these hot new dancers doing here? Who cared? The race was on!

The quilting team soon pulled even, but the G-Unit boxed them on the inside rail and shot past at the finish line.

Edith staked her claim. “Hi!…”—panting hard.

She’d caught him midbite. “Mmmm…” He finished chewing and dabbed his mouth corners.

“Let’s dance….” She jerked him onto the floor. A napkin fluttered.

The rest of the G-Unit dragged his pals from the steam trays in quick succession.

The men’s chiseled handsomeness would have been enough, but then another pleasant surprise: They could cut a rug with the best. The ladies were swept away. The tango, the rhumba, the watusi.

The rest of the women simply gave up and formed a large, good-natured circle, clapping in unison as the couples strutted to “Tequila.”

The Brimleys were out of demand again, which was more than fine. Extra drinking time over at the bar. Behind them, the tempo swung to surf music. The G-Unit pinched their noses and did the swim, then mid-dance introductions: “…Ethel and Eunice on the end there…”

“I’m Steve. This is Miguel and Richie.”

A loud crash. A Brimley was down. But nothing could stop the dance-floor magic. Edith made a pair of Vs with the first two fingers of each hand and pulled them across her face. “I saw this in
Pulp Fiction….
”

One deck below, Johnny Vegas’s captain’s uniform inflated with hope. The Wisconsin gal just
had
to be the one: There was no possible way he could fail this time! Except she was driving him crazy by stretching out the preliminaries, like asking him his name. “Mine’s Danielle….” Just talk, talk, talk. She strolled over to the stereo. Wonderful, he thought, now she wants to snuggle to “soft sound of the seventies.”

A thud from the ceiling. A Brimley.

To Johnny’s utter astonishment, the sophomore began a sexy little solo dance with the expertise of a ten-year pole dancer. She swiveled her hips and ran hands through silky brown hair. “Tell me what you like.”

Johnny pushed his tongue back in his mouth. “There is one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Wear my captain’s hat?”

She fit it on her head and saluted. “Aye-aye…”

MEANWHILE, OUTSIDE TAMPA

Snoring continued. The mobile home’s bedroom looked like it had been ransacked by its own occupant. There was an open suitcase with dirty laundry and souvenirs. Someone had just gotten back from vacation.

More travel junk on the dresser. Swizzle sticks, matchbooks, postcards, paper cocktail umbrellas, shot glasses, loose pesos, rumrunner
tumblers, drink-till-you-drop wristbands, native onyx hash pipe crafted the old way by new peasants, deck of cruise-line playing cards.

Serge shook him again. “Yo! Wake up!”

The man rolled onto his back with even louder snoring. Serge seized both shoulders hard. “Awaken!”

Nothing.

“Serge,” said Jim. “I want to go.”

“But we haven’t even started.” Serge peeled a sticky note off the nightstand. In poor handwriting: “Get Davenport.” He turned back to the bed and produced a chrome .45 automatic from his waistband, gripped it by the barrel—
“Good day…Sunshine!…”
—and cracked the sleeping man’s noggin like he was opening a walnut.

The man shot up into a sitting position and grabbed his forehead. “Ow! Fuck!”

“Bodine,” said Serge. “We need to talk.”

Sleep cleared fast. Bodine saw Serge’s gun and the room full of Halloween masks. He scooted in retreat until the backboard stopped him. “Don’t! Please! Tell Tommy I was going to call him. I swear. We got delayed in port. You have to believe me!”

“I believe you,” said Serge.

“You do?”

“Sure,” said Serge. “Except I don’t know who the hell Tommy is.” He extended his shooting arm.

Bodine covered his face. “Don’t kill me!”

“Then cooperate.”

He peeked between fingers. “Cooperate? How?”

“What’s this sticky note, ‘Get Davenport’?”

“Oh, that’s something else. Doesn’t concern you.”

“Humor me.”

“Some asshole filed a complaint where I work. I wanted to remember his name so I could get even.”

Serge nudged Jim. “You’re on.”

“What do you mean, ‘I’m on’?”

“I’ve got your back.”

“This is crazy.”

“Make you a deal,” said Serge. “Just tell him what you told the rest of us at the meeting, and we leave. Nothing will happen.”

“That’s it? Swear?”

“My word of honor. I’m just going to stand in the back of the room and observe. You have the floor.” Then, waving the gun at the rest of the group: “Get up there and give your friend moral support.”

The gang tentatively surrounded the bed. Serge began going through a dresser on the other side of the room. Jim adjusted his Bashful mask so the eyeholes lined up. “Uh, I kind of want you to, you know, give back the stuff you stole.”

“I didn’t steal from anybody!”

“That didn’t come out right,” said Jim. “I’m not accusing. Maybe you were confused. It’s just that my wife’s necklace—”

“Wait a second. Now I know you!” The man jumped out of bed. “You’re that wimp who reported me at work!…”

Serge removed a necklace and watch from the dresser.

“…You almost got me fired with that bullshit!” He stepped forward and poked Jim hard in the chest. Jim and the rest of the group backed up in unison. “You think missing jewelry is bad? Wait till you see what I do to you for breaking into my trailer!…” He poked Jim again. The group retreated another step.

In the background, Serge leaned against the wall, shaking his head.

“…You’re going to regret ever setting eyes on me!” The poke became a shove. Then another. “I know where you live! I’ll burn down your fucking house with your whole fucking family!”

The members had backed up all the way to the door. Serge pushed his way through the group. “Okay, this isn’t going exactly how I’d imagined. Study my technique.” The butt of his pistol smacked the skull much harder this time, opening a spurting gash. Serge grabbed the dazed man under the armpits and dragged him into the bathroom. “Guys, I’ll just be a minute.” The door closed.

A violent symphony: Porcelain smashed, then a mirror. Horrible screams.
“You’re killing me!…”
Gurgling from the toilet.

“You don’t go near Jim or his tenth cousin!” yelled Serge. “You’ve already forgotten where he lives!”

“Who’s Jim?”

More toilet splashing, followed by desperate gasps for breath.

“Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes! Yes! Anything! Please!…”

The door opened. The gang recoiled at the ghastly sight of Bodine.

Serge jabbed him in the back with the gun. “Now apologize!”

“Where is he? I can’t see with all the blood in my eyes!”

“Three steps forward.”

“I’m really sorry about stealing your stuff. You’ll never see me again. Just keep that lunatic away from me!”

Serge began pulling him back toward the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” said Bodine. “I told him what you wanted.”

“Remedial instruction in case you begin to forget later on.”

“No, I’m begging.” The man went limp. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“You can’t make a big enough deal.”

“Yes I can. Just give me a chance to show you. I’m begging!”

Serge turned to Jim. “What do you think?”

“I want to go home.”

“He’s trying to make amends,” said Serge. “Let’s at least hear his offer.”

Bodine nodded hard. “It’s a great offer!” He rushed to his suitcase and reached under some clothes.

“Freeze!” said Serge. “How do I know you don’t have a weapon in there?”

He backed away. “Check for yourself.”

Serge kept his gun on Bodine as he walked sideways and reached into the luggage. He pulled out a heavy clay object. “Statue?”

“Pre-Colombian,” said Bodine. “Priceless.”

“How’d you end up with it?”

“Smuggled. There’s a huge black market with all these artifact collectors. The guys in Cozumel said I’d increase my investment tenfold when I sold it to these dealers coming over tonight. That’s who I thought you were at first.”

Serge tossed the statue up and down in his palm. “They lied.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Chac-Mool.”

“What’s that?”

“The most common souvenir in all the Yucatán. Every street corner has ’em. It’s like coming back from New York with a plastic Statue of Liberty.”

Coleman reached for the reclining clay figure. Serge slapped his hand. “You’ll drop it. You’re drunk.”

“But you said it was worthless.”

“Still a tacky souvenir, which to me is invaluable.”

“The statue guy looks stoned,” said Coleman. “What’s with the bowl in his lap?”

“It’s a replica of the famous figure atop that pyramid in Chichén Itzá. The bowl is where they put still-beating hearts of human sacrifices…. Hey, Jim, how’d you like a cool statue?”

“I want to go home.”

“But we’re having fun.”

“You’re insane!” Jim gestured around the bloody room. “How is
any
of this fun?”

“Someone crossed one of my friends, so I got to pistol-whip him senseless, destroy his bathroom, give toilet-snorkeling lessons and leave with a cheesy souvenir. Everything I love in life. Want the statue or not?”

Jim buried his hands in his pockets.

“This is your revenge,” said Serge. “Take it or we’d don’t leave. Cops might be on the way.”

“Darn it!” Jim grabbed the statue from Serge. “Now can we go?”

Dwarf masks filed out the front door. Bodine waited until it closed. Then he ran around the trailer in a panic meltdown, flinging clothes at his suitcase. “What have I done? I lost the statue. They’ll kill me for sure!”

Bodine zipped the luggage shut, ran to his front door and opened it.

He froze. “Wait! No!—”