Torpedo Juice

by Tim Dorsey

  He slipped the ring on her finger.

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  The nuptials spit out their regulators and kissed to “Yellow Submarine.”

  The dive boat erupted in applause when Serge and Molly broke the surface. People on the other boats began cheering, too. So did some of the divers who had wandered into the ceremony and surfaced with the couple. They scrambled for the artificial bouquet that sailed over Molly’s shoulder into the Gulf Stream.

  There was a cake on the boat, finger food, champagne. The merriment built. People danced. Serge stomped on a plastic cup.

  Before they knew it, the sun was fading and the wind had picked up. The underwater music festival neared another successful conclusion. Time to head in and continue the celebration back on land. Boat engines started; mooring clamps were unhooked. The remaining divers began surfacing.

  Except one.

  Down in a distant ravine between the corals heads, a diver in a black and turquoise wet suit top was acting a little strange. He stumbled along the sandy bottom with a goofy grin. The diver had logged over a thousand hours, and his experience told him something was amiss. He was too happy. He checked his watch and his depth gauge. It didn’t add up. He hadn’t been down deep or long enough for nitrogen narcosis, but there was every indication. He staggered and swayed in the current. A barracuda stopped and stared in that unnerving, teeth-bared way they do. The diver just smiled. He thought: Narcosis isn’t that bad. In fact, it’s pretty great! So this is how all the less-experienced guys get the bends or die. They’re having such a good time, they forget the fundamentals. Well, not me. Have to fight it. Must think.

  The owner of Pristine Used Motors forced his mind to reach back through years of underwater training. He checked the mini decompression table on his wrist, then hit a timer button on his scuba watch. Twenty minutes, then a little air in the vest and up to the next depth for another stage. The diver was executing the procedure to perfection, resisting the natural tendency to panic and shoot to the surface, which is what he should have done with Serge’s ten percent mixture of nitrous oxide building up in his bloodstream.

  He watched the sweep-second hand on his chronograph as it approached the ten-minute mark. The periphery of his vision slowly dissolved to darkness as Pink Floyd throbbed from a dozen submerged speakers.

  Eleven minutes. The diver stared straight up. Tunnel vision. Solid black around an ever-tightening circle of light from the surface. Twelve minutes, the tube of light shrank to the diameter of a quarter. Thirteen minutes. An ultimately euphoric grin wrapped across the diver’s face as Floyd built to climax.

  A pinpoint of light.

  “…I-yiiiiiiiiii…have become…comfortably numb….”

  The light went out.

  27

  A NOTHER TRAFFIC JAM in Marathon. The airport crowded with people. Local chamber of commerce, reporters, federal agents. A line of limos waited by the terminal. This was the day he arrived.

  The largest private jet the airport had ever seen came into view. It touched down and used all of the five-thousand-foot runway coming to a stop.

  Stairs rolled up. The door opened. People on the runway tried to surge forward but were held back by private security. A pair of executive attachés emerged first, followed by lawyers, accountants and a team of miscellaneous handlers in dark sunglasses. Finally…Wait, there’s more. Personal guests, local politicians and a handful of relatives, including the grandmother who had to be lowered with a special lift…. Was that it? No, hold on. Yes-men, suck-ups, professional entourage members, two “independent” experts ready to go on CNN at a moment’s notice, the unemployed celebrity golfing pal, and a woman in a bright tangerine scarf carrying a leather organizer—the highly protective traveling publicist. Okay, that was definitely it. Finally, the person they’d all been waiting for. And he comes now, confidently striding down the stairs in a lightweight gray suit tailored in Rome. Donald Greely, former CEO and chairman of embattled Global-Con, Inc.

  Greely reached the tarmac and was immediately mobbed by a tight crowd that shuffled with him toward the terminal. Newspaper photographers held cameras in the air, snapping photos over the swarm. Reporters shouted questions.

  “Will the company reorganize?”

  “What about all the wiped-out retirement accounts?”

  “Why’d you take the fifth before Congress?”

  “How much did the house cost?”

  “Are you going to live here permanently?”

  The reporters were roundly booed by supporters from local civic organizations, who endlessly thanked Greely for his generosity. The new hospital wing, new arts center, scholarships for local teens with high SATs and the home for unwanted puppies.

  With an artful and carefully rehearsed technique, the team of handlers acted in choreographed unison as a kind of giant ectoplasm, gradually elbowing, shouldering, sidestepping and jockeying the noisiest journalists to the outer rim of the crowd, simultaneously letting the most enthusiastic supporters percolate through to the inner core.

  All the way to the terminal, Greely grinned and signed autographs. They clasped his hand earnestly. “Can’t thank you enough for the donation!” “Will you speak at our awards banquet?” “You’ve been such an inspiration!”

  “Just trying to be a good member of the community,” said Greely. “Really, no need to thank me.” He had a point. It was all being paid for by other people’s life savings, routed through Caribbean shell corporations. Standard PR for controversial companies and public figures moving into town: Buy advance goodwill.

  The crowd approached the terminal. The traveling publicist glowed. Everything unfolding according to plan. Lots of photos of happy residents greeting their newest neighbor.

  Something caught the eye of one of the newspaper photographers. Out in the parking lot on the other side of the runway fence. The photographer broke from the pack and started shooting on the run. When his rivals noticed, they stampeded for the same picture, followed by reporters with open notebooks.

  The traveling publicist noticed the crowd around her client getting a little lean. Where’d the media go? She looked back and saw her worst nightmare. On the other side of the fence was a lone picketer, an elderly woman with an expression of collapsed hope, barely strong enough to hold up her homemade sign written in a pitifully unsteady hand: I HAD TO GO BACK TO WORK.

  “Goddammit!” shouted the publicist. “What did I ever do to her?”

  28

  T HE HONEYMOON WAS a corker.

  The gang gave Serge and Molly a traditional Keys send-off. They waved farewell from the dock on Little Torch Key. Serge and Molly waved back from the rear of a charter boat with aluminum cans and fishing bobbers tied to the stern, the gunwales shaving-creamed: “If this boat’s a rockin’, don’t come a knockin’.”

  “I’m dying to know where we’re going!” said Molly.

  “I told you,” said Serge. “It’s a surprise.”

  “I’m so excited!”

  The ferry took them on a short, three-mile hop to a private dock, and that’s when Molly saw it. She grabbed Serge around the neck and jumped up and down. “I love you! I love you! Thank you!…”

  “Easy, my neck.”

  Little Palm Island.

  Oasis.

  Tahitian bungalows riding small rolling hills, surrounded by bright island flowers and coconut palms growing out over the water. More like the South Pacific, which is why it was the movie location for PT-109.

  A chilled bottle of wine waited in the couple’s suite. Molly walked onto the veranda and drank in the aquamarine harbor. She squealed with glee and swirled in a circle.

  Nothing was too good for his Molly. Serge had arranged a mega-package of romance and pampering. All weekend long: the serenity massage, seaweed body mask, volcanic earth clay ritual, bali spice treatment, then hours together in their private teakwood Jacuzzi filled with lilacs.

  And the food! An elite team of world-class g
ourmets kept it coming. Breakfast: avocado omelets, salmon mimosas, silver pots of coffee and fresh-squeezed juice, then a room-service lunch of chilled lobster bisque, black mussels poached in fennel, goat cheese with arugula, goose liver pâté, steak au poivre and pommes frites. Wait, leave room for dinner: petite bouillabaisse, grilled yellow snapper, pollo-sautéed andouille with hearts of palm and corn-roasted chipotle sauce. Finally, the pièce de résistance, raspberry tart with crème anglaise.

  It didn’t come cheap. As they say, don’t forget your VISA. Seven thousand bucks. Molly read the welcome card that came with the chilled wine. Congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Grodnick.

  Almost forgot! The sex!

  Serge had been apprehensive. He was a fairly urbane guy—didn’t want to spook Molly with anything too weird right away. He brushed his teeth and walked barefoot into the room with the mahogany poster bed and gauzy white canopy. “Honey?…”

  Something slammed him hard from the blind side and knocked him onto the mattress.

  “I’m going to make you so happy! I’m going to be the best wife!…” She seized the front of his pants. His zipper ripped apart.

  Serge grabbed her wrists. “Honey, slow down. We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

  “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? I did, didn’t I? I’m so sorry….”

  “You’re fine. Just don’t burden yourself.”

  She stared down. Serge gently put a hand under her chin and raised her head. “You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but…is this, uh, your first?…”

  She tried to lower her head again, but Serge’s hand was still there. She nodded.

  “No crime in that. Let’s start slow with the basics.”

  It was a precipitous learning curve. What Molly apparently lacked in experience, she more than compensated for with enthusiasm, stamina and mind-curving imagination.

  Serge began to suspect he wouldn’t last the night. At the two-hour mark, he tremored on the mattress. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “I just made it up. Want me to stop?”

  “Hell, no!”

  Deeper into the night. More pioneering technique. Serge never would have guessed she was double-jointed. And just what was this she was starting to—oh, no!…Serge’s head arched back over the pillow, his mind’s eye catapulting through the Milky Way, comets and quasars zooming past….

  She sat up. “You didn’t like that, did you? I’m sorry. Now I’m embarrassed.” She put a hand over her eyes in shame. “You’re always going to picture me doing that….”

  Serge pulled the hand away from her face and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Holy God!…You sure you haven’t done this before?”

  She shook her head.

  “I want you to listen carefully and trust me on this one,” said Serge. “You’re incredible. You have absolutely nothing to feel self-conscious about.”

  “You really mean it?”

  “Completely,” said Serge, nodding hard. “Especially the naked-but-still-wearing-glasses part. Throws something into the mix I can’t quite explain.”

  Molly sprouted a giant grin. “Good!” She jumped off the bed and skittered into the next room, returning quickly with a turkey baster and feather duster. “Let’s try this!…”

  Serge pitched in agony against the pain-pleasure threshold. Molly finally showed mercy and let him up for air. “How was that?”

  Serge panted until he regained speech. “Where’d you get the accessories?”

  “I packed a few things. Wanna see?” She ran in the other room again, coming back with an overnight case that she opened on the foot of the bed. Oils, ointments, fur cuffs, nipple clips, whip, latex mask, double-ended dildo, illustrated manuals, ball of twine, clear tubing, bungee cords and trick-or-treat costumes.

  “I wasn’t sure what you were into, so I got a little of everything.”

  “From where?”

  “That adult superstore in Fort Lauderdale. The one with the shopping carts.” She reached in the case. “Now hold still….”

  On it went, Molly’s self-esteem climbing. By midnight, she had lost all inhibition and bloomed into a regular Chatty Cathy. “I have an idea. Let’s…no, I’m going to surprise you. You like surprises, right? You still having fun? I sure am! You’re going to love this one! You don’t have any heart conditions, do you?…” She reached deep into the overnight bag.

  “What’s that?”

  “Blindfold.” Molly strapped it to his face. Her voice deepened. “Lie down, slave!” Her voice returned to normal pitch. “Is it okay I call you ‘slave’? I don’t really mean it. I read it in a magazine. It’s just a game. I can leave the ‘slave’ part out if you want. I’d like to leave it in because of the story line….”

  “Go for it.”

  “Shut up, slave! Open your mouth!”

  A piece of twine tied his big toes together. He heard some kind of motor start.

  The next thing Serge knew, the blindfold was off and he was staring at the ceiling. Molly lightly slapped his cheek. “Honey, are you okay?”

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out. At first I thought I’d killed you.”

  “Make a note. That’s how I want to go.”

  “You’re not tired yet, are you? I’m not. I’m just getting started….”

  Who was this woman? Still waters certainly ran deep. It continued the rest of the night. Serge tried to remember as much as he could, but there was too much new data, Molly venturing far beyond her shell and into uncharted territory. Three to four A.M. became the profanity hour, which Molly executed with naughty, schoolgirl glee. She was on top, riding fast and hard. “Wow, I’ve never said these words before! I didn’t know it could be such a turn on. Fuck! Pussy! Cock! You like that? I think I’ll try it with the word ‘hot.’ Hot pussy! Hot cock! I like it better that way. What do you think? What about ‘sweet’? Which do you prefer? ‘Sweet’ or ‘hot’? Hey, it’s kind of like mustard. Get it? Sweet and hot mustard? Did you ever think of that, you big-cock mother-fucker?…” Right on through daybreak, Serge stretched out on his back, utterly spent. Molly sat next to him on the bed, flipping through her manual. She turned the book toward him and tapped an illustration. “We haven’t done the Praying Mantis….”

  Serge didn’t know how much more he could take, but Molly showed no signs of fatigue. “Come on up!” said Molly. “It’s the ‘Wallenda,’ page 143,” swinging from one of the driftwood rafters.

  Finally, mercy. “I’m starting to get tired,” she said, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “It’s all right if we stop? I need to get some sleep. But I don’t want to disappoint you. That’ll disappoint you, won’t it? I can tell. Okay, one more thing….” She trotted out of the room again and came back wearing one of the trick-or-treat costumes from her overnight bag.

  Serge sat up. “Which one are you supposed to be?”

  “Buttercup.”

  Molly ran toward the bed for her superhero pounce. She pulled up at the last second. “Baby?…”

  He was snoring.

  Serge usually had an immense aquifer of energy, but it wasn’t bottomless. Now he had to recharge. And there was no more restful place than Little Palm Island. Isolated, exclusive, utterly tranquil. It stayed that way because of the limited access. Only three ways to get there: private yacht, the seaplanes that occasionally splashed down in the harbor with a belly full of executives, and the ferryboat that docked at the landing on Little Torch Key. The landing had a small parking lot where you could leave the car overnight. It currently held eight vehicles. The last car was backed into its slot, hiding the license plate against the bushes. A brown Plymouth Duster.

  SHAFTS OF BLINDING afternoon light streamed through bungalow windows on Little Palm Island.

  Serge’s eyelids fluttered open.

  Molly was in the wooden Jacuzzi, luxuriating in exotic bath gels. She heard him stir. “Where are you, my love?”

  Serge banged into a doorframe.
/>   “Honey?”

  “Right here,” said Serge.

  Molly cupped her hands together and squirted water into the air. “I’m in the hot tub. Why don’t you join me?”

  “Not right now.” He stepped onto the veranda.

  Molly hummed and squirted water. “Come on. We’ll play.”

  “I have to go down to the shore for a minute.”

  “What for?”

  “To die.”

  “I’ll keep the water warm…hmmm, hmmm, hmmm.” Squirt.

  Serge was operating on fumes. He needed to find some place away from that woman and gather strength. He stumbled down to the beach toward one of the big burlap hammocks that were hanging everywhere between the palms. Being a Floridian, he looked up to make sure no coconuts were hanging over the end where his head would be. He clawed his way into the mesh and was snoring again in under a minute.