by Tim Dorsey
“But it’s my warehouse!”
“And a great warehouse it is. You wouldn’t guess from the outside, but it’s got tons of room.” Serge grunted as he slid a recent purchase out the back of the Firebird and onto the handcart. “I’ll just take up a little corner and be quiet as a church mouse.”
Alfonso stared at the handcart as Serge wheeled it toward him. “What the hell are you going to do with that big aquarium?”
“Put water in it.” Serge set the cart down horizontally and grabbed a hose off the side of the building. “I got it super cheap with all the trappings. See how it came totally ready?” He placed his thumb partially over the hose nozzle to create a high-pressure stream.
“What are you doing?” said Alfonso. “You’re blasting all the gravel out of the bottom.”
“It came totally ready, just not ready for my purpose.” Serge tilted the tank up as he sprayed, draining the gravel-mud onto the ground at Alfonso’s feet. Then he reached down into the muck and looked up. “You want the plastic treasure chest with the skeleton that pops out?”
“Not really,” said Alfonso.
Serge raised one eyebrow. “You sure? It’s brand-new.”
“I’ll take it,” said Coleman.
“What are you going to use it for?”
“I can bore a hole on top for the stem and use the keyhole as a carburetor—”
“I get the picture.” Serge tossed the tiny plastic chest to his buddy and began wheeling the glass tank into the building. He found a sturdy machinist table in back. “Coleman, help me.”
It was touch and go at Coleman’s end of the aquarium, but they eventually got it safely atop the metal platform. Serge turned around. “Ah, you startled me. What are you doing back here with us. I told you I wouldn’t be a bother.”
“Dammit, Serge.” Alfonso took off his hard hat. “I have a million things to do, but now I’ve got to know.”
“You positive?” Serge wiped down the inside of the glass with a rag. “There are accessory-before-and-after-the-fact laws.”
“Just tell me what you’re going to do.”
“Suit yourself,” said Serge. “It’s your warehouse.”
He wheeled the handcart back to the Firebird’s trunk, loaded a weighty cardboard box and returned. Alfonso and Coleman watched intently as Serge removed a dozen clear cylindrical tubes from the box and set them on the table. They were filled with something gray and granular. Serge sequentially dumped the contents of each tube into the aquarium, carefully creating an even layer across the bottom.
“What’s that?” asked Alfonso.
“You should know.” Serge opened another tube. “It might even have come from your scrapyard before it went through a processing center.”
“Iron pellets?”
“Good guess.” Serge spread another layer on the bottom.
“But where do you get something like that?”
Serge used his palms to smooth out lumpy spots. “They come in a variety of sizes. Large, mixed ore balls for smelting fodder. And super-pure tiny pellets from mail-order technology wholesalers to use in semiconductors and electron beams. These are in the middle, a uniform half millimeter sold by school-supply houses to make science projects. But not my science project! That’s why I needed to get rid of that other gravel. Stay here . . .”
Serge took off running and came back with another box from the car. The side of the cardboard: PERISHABLE. He opened the flaps of the carton, which was lined with thick plastic designed not to leak. Serge waved urgently. “Check it out!”
Alfonso peeked over the edge before looking up. “A live lobster?”
“His name’s Shelly. Can you take care of him for me?” Serge took off running. “Coleman, let’s rock!”
“Where are you going?” Alfonso yelled after him.
“To fill five-gallon jugs of salt water at the ocean.”
Alfonso jogged to the warehouse door. “But what am I supposed to do with a lobster?”
Serge threw the Firebird in gear. “I think he likes music.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
NIGHTFALL
A sliding metal door creaked along its track.
A Firebird skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. “Don’t lock up yet!”
Alfonso turned with a padlock in his hand. “Serge! Dinner’s waiting at home!”
“I’ll just be a minute.”
“That means six hours.”
“Three, tops.” Serge popped the trunk. “Coleman, grab a handcart.”
Alfonso exhaled with frustration and slid the door back open.
The pair began wheeling bluish five-gallon plastic jugs like the guys who service water coolers in office buildings.
Alfonso followed them as Serge filled the tank. He plugged in the aerator, and the bubbles started. Then Serge reached in the “perishable” box and petted the carapace. “That’s a good Shelly. I’ve made you a nice new home.” He let the lobster slip into the water and settle on the bottom. Serge pressed his face against the front glass and held up his right hand like it had a prize. “Since you like music, I also bought one of those underwater radios that can go in swimming pools or when you want to sing in the shower.” He clipped it inside the tank and turned it on.
The aquarium pulsed to muted bass tones.
“ . . . Surfin’ U.S.A.! . . .”
“You’re playing him beach music?” said Alfonso.
“It’s very important that a lobster’s transition to a new home be as stress-free as possible,” said Serge. “Or you know what could happen?”
Alfonso shook his head.
“He could get shell shock.”
Alfonso just stared.
Serge smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s a joke from the movie Rocky. It’s a groaner, but a good one. I love Rocky! . . .” Serge threw phantom punches in the air. Then he began absorbing a wicked series of combinations and body blows, staggering backward with each one—“Adrian! Adrian! . . .”—before crashing into the wall and taking down a large tool rack.
They ran over and helped Serge up into a sitting position. “Are you okay?”
“No rematch!”
“Serge! . . .”
He jumped up and ran back to the glass again. “I think he digs the Beach Boys album Pet Sounds.”
“All right,” said Alfonso. “I can’t stand it any longer. I know I’m going to regret this, but what’s with the aquarium full of iron pellets?”
“It’s the most amazing thing.” Serge affectionately tapped the glass. “You know when lobsters migrate in those cute little lines on the ocean floor in the National Geographic shows? They actually can sense the earth’s magnetic field to chart their course. And you know how we found out? They did an experiment right here in Florida, at the Three Sisters Reef down in the Keys, where they set up underwater magnetic coils, which altered their migratory routes.”
“So you’re doing some sort of experiment with lobster navigation?”
“No.” Serge tapped the glass again and turned around. “This is another facet of lobster magnetism. What I’m really interested in is his equilibrium. Familiar with how we humans use our inner ears? Similarly, lobsters have these little sacks of highly sensitive skin. And here’s the nutty part. They eat all kinds of crap on the bottom, but during digestion they filter a single extremely tiny rock into the sack. Gravity naturally makes the rock rest on the bottom of the sack, and the soft tissue there tells the lobster which way is up and down.”
“How does the aquarium come in?” said Alfonso.
“This is where science seriously kicks ass!” Serge reached in the tank and pulled out a single pellet. “Lobsters frequently excrete their ‘equilibrium’ rocks and replace them. So if you dump all the regular gravel out of an aquarium and refill it with iron pellets, it will eventua
lly absorb one into the sack. Then, if you hold a powerful enough magnet over the lobster, the pellet will be pulled up against the tissue along the top of the sack, fooling the lobster into thinking he’s upside down, and he’ll flip over.” Serge tossed the pellet back in the tank with a small splash. “It’s hours of fun for the whole family.”
“But why on earth would you want to flip a lobster over in the first place?” asked Alfonso.
“Why else?” said Serge. “For a trigger mechanism.”
FORT LAUDERDALE
Light rain fell on U.S. 1 as evening traffic passed the strip malls just north of Dania.
Bells jingled at the front of a narrow storefront with a sign that said it was proud to have opened in 1981. The owner looked up from the counter at a petite woman coming through the glass door, which had chipped lettering in reverse: BENNY’S PAWN, GUNS & PACKAGE.
“How may I help you today?”
She pointed down inside the display case. “I want a gun.”
“That was direct.” The owner chuckled. “Ever shot before?”
“No.”
“It’s the perfect time to start.” He leaned forward and reached into the case, grabbing something off a stand. He held it sideways in an open palm. “This is a twenty-five automatic. Lots of women like them because they fit easily in their purses and have a mother-of-pearl handle. In case you’ve heard the rumors, this is top of the line, virtually jam-free.”
“Too small.”
“I like your moxie.” The owner grabbed another pistol. “A nickel-plated Smith & Wesson three-fifty-seven Magnum. And it’s a wheel gun, so if purse size isn’t an issue, you don’t have to worry about it jamming.”
“You said the other didn’t jam.”
“Except when it jams.”
The woman examined the Magnum. “Still too small.”
The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows without comment, and reached under the glass again.
“This is an absolute cannon.” He handed her the heavy weapon. “Colt Python forty-four, the Dirty Harry gun.”
She reached in her handbag for a credit card.
“You didn’t even ask the price.”
“I don’t care.”
“And there’s a waiting period.”
“How long?”
“Three days.”
“Too long.”
“What? ‘Too long, too small.’ ” The owner whistled. “Jesus, someone must have really pissed you off. But hey, that’s what we’re here for.”
“Does everything have a waiting period?”
“No,” said the owner. “Just the handguns. Anything up there on the wall you can just walk out the door with.”
She raised her arm. “Even that? But it looks like a pistol.”
The owner glanced briefly over his shoulder, then appraised her stature a moment. “How much do you weigh?”
“That’s pretty rude.”
“No, I mean you’re pointing at a twelve-gauge shotgun.”
“Looks like a big pistol.”
“Because it has a pistol grip and minimum-legal-length eighteen-and-a-half-inch barrel, so it doesn’t get hung up going through doorways. That baby’s designed for urban warfare.”
“Perfect. Wrap it up.”
He looked her up and down. “What are you, barely a buck-ten soaking wet?”
“What’s my weight got to do with anything?”
“It doesn’t have a shoulder stock and kicks like a mule. Plus you’ve never shot before.”
She simply handed him her credit card.
“I’ll also need to see your driver’s license.”
She fished it out of her purse. The owner held it under a jeweler’s lamp and jotted down the particulars. Brook Campanella, five six. The state of Florida said she was twenty-five, but the photo looked seventeen, tops. Freckles, straight brown hair, devoid of menace. Could be a kid who gets you popcorn at the movies. He finished with the license and swiped her Visa.
“Okay, everything’s in order,” said the owner. “Want some ammo with that?”
“I guess.”
He slapped a box on the counter.
“I’ll take ten,” said Brook.
“What about a tactical carrying case?”
“Sure.”
He gestured toward the rows of bottles in the package section. “Want anything to drink with that?”
“Not right now.”
“What about a hacksaw?”
“Why would I need a hacksaw?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE NEXT MORNING
Two men with dirty fingernails shoveled quickly, burying the body in an eight-foot hole.
A number of people saw them but didn’t pay attention because the body was in a casket, and the men wore the green work uniforms of the Fort Lauderdale cemetery.
In the background, a second casket rested on a series of straps above another hole. There was a tent and rows of folding white chairs. At one end of the casket, a preacher opened a Bible as his vestments began to blow. Black clouds rolled in from the Everglades. The tent had been meant for the sun, but now held back rain. Only three of the chairs were occupied, a young widow and her children. It was hard to hear the preacher because of the heavy traffic on the adjacent freeway. The widow had her own Bible in her lap, and restless fingers kept busy rubbing the crinkled, tearstained newspaper obituary in her hands. It mentioned her husband’s five tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The rain chased the gravediggers away from the other plot and back to the maintenance shed. Someone else who had been laying a bouquet on a grave took shelter under a royal poinciana. He had placed the bouquet at the tombstone of someone he never knew or cared about. Now he watched the preacher in the distance and held a cell phone to his head. “Yeah, it’s started. You’re on.”
Several miles away, a cable-TV van was parked at the curb of a residential street. It became un-parked. The truck rolled slowly and turned up the driveway at the appointed address.
The house was a turquoise bungalow with potted yellow-and-red crotons that are popular with local landscapers and as economical hospital gift plants for less serious ailments, like whooping cough. An American flag hung from the porch, and a swing set stood out back.
The cable workers exited the van and walked around to the side door for privacy. The first one glanced back a last time, then stuck a bump key in the lock. Another person twisted the knob as the rubber mallet struck. The door popped open with facility. They entered the laundry room, opened their burglary sacks and marched single file toward the kitchen. The living room was around the corner past the refrigerator, which created a blind spot. When the first in the crew reached it, the baseball bat caught him in the throat.
He promptly dropped to the tiles in writhing voicelessness. The others jolted to a surprised halt as Serge stepped out from behind the fridge with a Louisville Slugger and a .45 ACP. That was the official signal to run.
The cable van screeched out of the driveway just before Coleman screeched up in a Firebird.
Six hours later. Darkness and traffic and croaking frogs. All businesses along the industrial access road were shuttered for the night. A black Firebird sat in front of a warehouse. Serge had already slipped a damage deposit under the door of Alfonso’s office for having to use the bolt cutters on the entrance gate’s padlock—and a few more bucks for what would come later.
Coleman torched a fattie and smiled down at the man in the chair. The man’s eyes bulged with terror. But not from threats he understood. Because every element of his predicament was so weird and fresh that his brain hadn’t caught up yet.
First there were his captors, beginning with this Belushi character in front of him. During the ride over, Coleman had continually spilled vodka on himself and puffed nonstop on a bong made from a decorative aq
uarium treasure chest. Then there was the driver. Where to start? . . .
How about at the start? . . . The Firebird pulled away from the nearly burglarized widow’s house and picked up the Palmetto Expressway. Serge turned around, slurping from a tube clenched in the corner of his mouth. “How you doing back there? I’m guessing you didn’t read the full obituary because it mentioned he was a war vet with a wife and kids, and even a burglar couldn’t be that low. So I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. Actually there isn’t any benefit coming up; sorry, didn’t think that offer through. You comfy? Hope you are because we got a long wait for sunset. Personally, waiting drives me crazy, so I apologize in advance because I need the cover of darkness. You know the waiting that really drives me nuts? When you’re in a convenience store, and the checkout chick has no supervisor and she’s on her cell phone the whole time, ringing up my coffee and water distractedly with one hand. And I could cut her slack if it was an important call, like the lions grabbed her mother at the zoo. But surprisingly it’s never that call, just pointless chitchat: ‘I told the bitch to stay away from my Hector, and she always brings up that one little time I blew her boyfriend . . . Right, like that excuses everything.’ And even worse, convenience stores have started putting in glass countertops at the checkout, which display the rolls of scratch-off lottery tickets. So now the slowest shitheads in the community are shopping at the cash register, the most critical bottleneck you can’t shop at. The checkout is the Khyber Pass of convenience stores, and if history has taught us anything, it’s to keep the Khyber Pass moving and clear of shithead clogs or it becomes the opposite of convenience.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “But what really burns my ass is when you’re checking into a motel, and the only guy at the front desk is tied up on the phone with some Walmart-cafeteria reject who’s going on and on . . .”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “You might want to watch the road.”
“You watch it. I’m talking here.” He released the steering wheel and Coleman grabbed it. Serge folded his arms atop the back of the driver’s seat. “I can at least cope if the guy on the phone to the motel is making a reservation. But no, I’m standing there waiting in person, and he’s asking a million questions about the place to decide if it’s the right fit for his lifestyle. How late is the pool open, do they have HBO, is it a hot complimentary breakfast or just those big clear dispensing vats of Froot Loops. You know what I did the last time it happened? I lunged over the counter and grabbed the phone and said, ‘Listen, fuck-stick, if you check into this motel, I’ll enter your room in the middle of the night and open your chest cavity with a concussion drill.’ Then I handed the phone back to the desk guy: ‘Funny, he hung up. I’d like a room, please . . .’ ”
