Atomic Lobster

by Tim Dorsey

  “I check their pay phone every day for change.”

  “Kaminsky’s protagonist, Lew Fonesca, works in a building behind the Dairy Queen.”

  “So?”

  “This house is also behind the D.Q. It’s like we’re living next door to a literary landmark.” Serge carefully replaced the book on the shelf. “Can’t believe the landlord isn’t charging extra.”

  “How’d you find this pad to begin with?”

  “Sharon used to live here.”

  Coleman stopped scraping. “You don’t mean the Sharon.”

  Serge nodded. “Sometimes there’d be a little stink at the strip club in Tampa, like when she’d set up guys for us to rob, and we’d have to lay low down here with one of her friends who rented this joint.”

  “Where was I at the time?”

  “You were here, too. I say that loosely.” Serge opened another National Geographic. “Might want to start getting yourself together.”

  “For what?”

  “The Night Launch. I can’t sleep.”

  “Don’t you mean Night Tour?”

  “A direct offshoot of the Night Tour, but with critical distinctions.”

  “Man, if it’s anything like a Night Tour, count me in! What happens?”

  They grabbed chairs and took seats facing each other. Serge rubbed his palms together. “Okay, this is going to be so excellent. You know the concept of the Night Tour?”

  “Intimately.”

  “Same idea except way more insane.”

  “But Serge! How is that even possible?”

  “It starts when you’re up in the middle of the night with insomnia. All societal conditioning says you must keep trying to get back to sleep because you have obligations in the morning. But the Night Launch says: Break the chains! Jump in your car and drive as far as you can! Watch the sun come up, then keep on truckin’ into the next day, reality bent through the lens of sleep-deprived adventure! Never felt so alive! But you don’t want to make a habit of it if you plan on owning a big house someday.”

  “What started the Night Launch?”

  “Limits of the human brain. I’m perpetually contemplating life’s mysteries, but God’s put us on a no-fly list when it comes to all the big questions.”

  “Like, ‘Why are we here?’”

  “Please. I figured that out in third grade. I’m talking relativity, the daily transactions between mass and energy, when does inanimate matter make the jump to self-aware life? Got so frustrated one night I just jumped in the car and took off without knowing it was the first Night Launch. Three days later, I’m still awake in this state park, staring at a stone and a squirrel. What’s the connection? Come on, concentrate. Looking back and forth: stone, squirrel, stone, squirrel…Blam! Hit me between the eyes! There is no jump. Life’s already there, locked in the charges and orbits of subatomic particles, yearning to become more complex.”

  “Stones are alive?”

  “Remember the Pet Rock? Everyone thought it was a joke. Except me. Bought mine at a Walgreen’s. We were inseparable.”

  “Did it have a name?”

  “Rocky. Went everywhere together. Finally he died. But since he was a rock, I didn’t notice for a week. Of course a few days later, you know, it was just obvious.”

  “Were you taking your medication?”

  “No. Anyway, I buried him on a warm summer afternoon. Terribly sad. I was going to get him a headstone, but then I’d have to bury that, and then bury that, and then that, and then I’m at the end of my life with a shovel and a long beard. So instead I bought a turtle. People laugh at turtles, but they’re existentially unambiguous.”

  Coleman held a toke. “Where are we going on this launch?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. But check this out.” He spread several magazines across the floor. “National Geographic is the best! Look at the progression of these articles: January 1940, ‘South Florida’s Amazing Everglades’; October 1967, ‘Threatened Glories of Everglades National Park’; January 1972, ‘The Imperiled Everglades’; April 1994, ‘The Everglades: Dying for Help.’ Hello? Tallahassee? Anyone home?” Serge picked up an issue and began thumbing. He stopped. “What day is it?”

  “I don’t know. March twenty-something?”

  “Coleman, it’s the beginning of January.”

  “I was at the right end of the year.”

  Serge checked a bank calendar on the wall. “Can’t believe it.” He looked in his lap and slapped the photo on page 132. “This is a sign from God. He wants us to go here.”

  “Where?”

  Serge answered by swinging into tactical mode, packing up anything of importance. He filled two duffel bags and gripped a rubber mouthpiece in his teeth, taking a test breath from a metal canister the size of a fist.

  “What’s that?” asked Coleman.

  Serge pulled it from his mouth. “You were with me in the Keys when I bought it.”

  “I was?”

  “The scuba shop. Remember asking that guy to modify your nitrous-oxide cylinder? Meanwhile, I found this. Diver’s tiny emergency tank, ten minutes of reserve air. Another intensely cool gadget I had absolutely no use for, which meant it was as good as bought. And that brings us back to the Creator’s hand of fate: Now I need it for the Night Launch.”

  A thud against the front door.

  Serge and Coleman turned. Rustling sounds, then keys dropping. More fumbling. Keys dropping again.

  “Should we grab a weapon?” asked Coleman.

  Serge shook his head. “Whoever it is can do us no harm.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because those are the sounds you make when you’re trying to get inside.”

  They walked across the room, and Serge opened the door.

  Their jaws fell.

  FOUR

  MEANWHILE…

  Cops quickly roped off the FUN-O-RAMA just over a berm from Interstate 75.

  Two homicide detectives stood next to each other, sipping convenience-store coffee.

  “What kind of demented bastard?”

  “But you have to give him credit…”

  The first detective looked warily at his partner.

  “…In a demented kind of way.”

  Industrious crime-scene technicians swarmed the batting cage. One dusted for prints around the pitching machine’s coin-operated control box. Another filled evidence bags with dozens of bloody baseballs pooled at the feet of the sheet-covered body, still strapped into a chair over home plate.

  Stunned silence filled the doorway of Serge and Coleman’s apartment. They watched in awe as one of the most radioactively sexual women they’d ever seen pushed past them and stumbled bleary-eyed to the bunk beds: a statuesque hourglass with blond locks curling down the front of an ultra-tight T-shirt cut off midstomach and worn braless for so long that pert nipples had left permanent stretch marks. And those legs, racing up into denim shorts with a low, hip-riding waistband exposing panty lace and the top of a tramp-stamp tattoo. Serge had a weakness for that. This one was a unicorn.

  The woman stopped next to the bunks. Clothes dropped to the floor. She yawned and arched her back in full bedtime stretch—the porch bulb out the still-open door silhouetting the kind of perfectly formed breasts found only in Heavy Metal magazine. Then she climbed into Coleman’s bed.

  “Serge! The hope thing really works!”

  “There has to be another explanation.”

  “What else could it be?”

  “Robert Downey Syndrome.”

  “You mean like when you get really, really fucked up, and your autopilot takes you back to someplace you used to live?”

  Serge nodded. “This must be our hooker, Sunshine.” He crouched down next to the bed. “Excuse me? Ma’am?…”—lightly tapping her cheek—“…Yoo-hoo! Hate to interrupt your beauty rest!…”—tapping harder—“…Hello! You don’t live here anymore!…”—tugging her by the shoulders—“…Shoo! Be off! You’re late for Junior League!…”


  Serge’s shaking finally produced a moan. He sat her up. A woozy head sagged. “Let me lie down. I have to sleep….”

  “Sunshine!” yelled Serge. “You can’t stay here!”

  Eyes opened a slit: “Who’s Sunshine?”

  “You.”

  “I’m not Sunshine. I’m Rachael.”

  “You’re not a hooker?”

  “Fuck no. I just dance naked at the Red Snapper. Or hand jobs in the massage parlor, but only if they’re threatening to turn off my electricity.”

  “Serge,” Coleman said from behind. “I’m getting a weird feeling…. Doesn’t she remind you of someone we knew?”

  “Uncanny,” said Serge. “Like they were separated at birth.” Another hard shake. “Rachael, wake up!”

  “Stop shaking me.”

  “No.”

  “Okay, okay…” Rachael straightened. “If you’re not going to let me sleep, give me a sec….” She grabbed her shorts off the floor, reached in a pocket and retrieved a folded rectangle of wax paper that contained what looked like Goody’s Headache Powder. Her face went down for a long, noisy snort.

  Rachael’s head suddenly whipped back. “Whoa!” Eyes comically wide, a round white spot at the end of her nose. “Goddamn, I needed that!”

  Serge tapped the end of his own nose. “You got something.”

  She licked a finger and wiped the spot, then rubbed it along her lower gums.

  “That is so hot!” said Coleman.

  Rachael reached in her other pocket and pulled out a crumpled back of Marlboros. “Got a light?”

  Coleman jumped forward and flicked his Bic.

  “Coleman!” said Serge. “This is a clean indoor air state!”

  “I can’t help myself,” said Coleman. “She’s too much woman.”

  Rachael took a long drag and exhaled with malice out her nostrils. Her brain finished rebooting. She looked at her hosts. “What the fuck’s going on? Who are you guys? Why’d you bring me here? And what did you do with my clothes?”

  “Nobody brought you anywhere,” said Serge. “You stumbled in yourself and took off your own clothes.”

  She looked around the room and began nodding. “Yeah…now I recognize this place.”

  “You must have lived here before.”

  “No, but I knew someone who did.”

  “Really?” said Serge. “Me too. But the landlord still insists we pay rent. So if you don’t mind—”

  “Rachael! There you are!”

  They all turned toward the open apartment door. A muscular white Rastafarian stood on the threshold: “I want my money!”

  Rachael scooted backward on the bed until she was against the wall: “Stay the fuck away from me!”

  The man advanced: “You were supposed to sell the shit, not suck it all into your skull! I want my money, bitch!”

  “Did you just call me a bitch?” She climbed from the bed.

  Serge saw it coming and got in the middle. He was quickly sandwiched, the dealer and strung-out stripper clawing over his shoulders at each other. He turned sideways and thrust out both arms, giving each a hard shove in the chest that sent them tumbling in different directions. “If you can’t play nice, I’m going to insist on a time-out.” They charged and slammed back into Serge. The dealer got lucky and landed an open-handed wallop across Rachael’s face.

  Serge felt resistance slack off from her side. She stood in quiet shock. “You slapped me.”

  The dealer continued swatting the air over Serge’s shoulders. “You’re dead!…”

  Rachael rubbed her cheek. “I can’t believe you just fuckin’ slapped me.”

  Serge’s full attention was now on the man, seizing him by the front of his shirt. “I live here! I’ve never seen either of you before! Take this shit elsewhere!—”

  “Serge!” yelled Coleman. “Watch out!”

  FIVE

  A FEW MILES AWAY

  The front door opened on a modestly landscaped ranch house just off Beneva Road in Sarasota. The Davenports walked out.

  Martha turned around and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks for the wonderful dinner.”

  “Yes,” said Jim. “Great lamb chops.”

  “You’re not going to stay over?”

  “Mom, we have to get on the road.”

  “I thought you were staying over.”

  “No, we’re not staying over. We talked about that on the phone. I made it very clear—”

  “Oh, Martha, how could I have forgotten. Did you hear about your sister’s son, Larry?”

  “No.”

  “He got arrested!”

  “Mom, we have to go.”

  “You don’t care that your nephew is in jail?”

  “I do, but it’s almost midnight. I’ll call my sister tomorrow.”

  “You haven’t even asked what he did. Shoplifting! Women’s underwear, and he doesn’t even have a girlfriend. Makes no sense. We think he’s being framed.”

  “He’s not being framed,” said Martha.

  “How can you take sides against your own flesh and blood when you don’t even know the facts?”

  “Mom, it’s Larry.”

  “What about Larry?”

  “Too long to explain. We really have to be going.”

  “Did I tell you I had a new will drawn up?”

  “No.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “Mom, you always do this!”

  “Do what? Don’t you want to know about the new will?”

  “I’ll call—”

  “It gives you power of attorney in case something terrible happens to me, and I’m still alive but can’t speak or signal you by blinking.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ve got it in the house. Let me go get it and we can read it right here in case you have any questions.”

  “Mail me a copy.”

  “You don’t care if something terrible happens to me and I can’t blink?”

  “Mom!”

  “Why don’t I just die?”

  Jim stood next to the Escalade, smiling painfully.

  “Mom,” said Martha. “We had a nice visit. Please don’t end it again like the other times.”

  “What other times?”

  “We seriously have to go.” Martha walked briskly to the SUV. “Jim, hurry up and get in.”

  They simultaneously hopped through opposite doors. “What are you waiting for?” said Martha. “Start the engine.”

  “Your mom’s still talking.”

  “Just go!”

  Jim turned the ignition and threw the vehicle in reverse.

  Martha’s mom cupped her hands around her mouth. “I really thought you were staying over. The Thompsons are coming in the morning.”

  Martha smiled and waved.

  “What am I supposed to tell the Thompsons?”

  They backed out of the driveway.

  “I’ll be dead soon.”

  Serge had ducked just in time.

  Rachael stood fuming with a frying pan.

  Coleman fitted the butt of a joint into locking hemostats and stared at the motionless body in the middle of the apartment floor. “Is he dead?”

  “Not sure,” said Serge, “but blood from the ears rarely precedes a big dance number.” He squatted down and felt the dealer’s wrist. “Weak but steady pulse.” He looked up at Rachael. “Why’d you do that?”

  “He slapped me.”

  “How could I forget?” said Serge. “Third Law of Stripper Thermodynamics.”

  Rachael got dressed, sat down next to Coleman and snatched the hemostats. She took a massive, double-clutch toke and handed it back, then unfolded the square of wax paper.

  Coleman pointed. “Can I have some?”

  She pulled it protectively around her far side. “No!”

  Serge went through the dealer’s pockets and stood up, riffling a fat wad of bills.

  Coleman whistled. “Look at all that money!”

  Serge crammed the rol
l into his hip pocket. “God’s plan continues to reveal itself in all its glory. We needed cash for the Night Launch, and He delivered it to our door like a pizza.”

  “Plus the chick.”

  “The launch is in its final countdown. Internal sequence start.” Serge reached for his keys. “Get your shit.”

  Coleman stood. “Yow.” He grabbed a bedpost for balance. “Serge, give me a minute.”

  “Mission Control, we have a hold at T-minus ten.”

  “I’m okay. Just got up too fast.”

  “Coleman, you knew we had a Night Launch. Are you capable of not partying for eight seconds?”

  Coleman grabbed a beer from the fridge. “I don’t party that much. Do you think I party too much?”

  “No, Coleman, you don’t party too much….”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “…Partying involves cake and ice cream and Chuckles the Clown. What you do is called getting outrageously trashed, falling down flights of stairs, bringing home drifters who piss in kitchen drawers, breaking furniture, chipping teeth, making holes in drywall, leaving your keys in the microwave, forgetting your wallet in the freezer, maintaining a channel-buoy physique, whispering to complete strangers in family environments if they know ‘where there’s any weed,’ and keeping accomplishment at bay with a vengeance unseen since the Rape of Nanking.”

  Rachael licked her wax paper like a lollipop. “Will you two lame fucks shut the hell up?”

  Serge stuck a pistol in his waistband and grabbed a duffel in each hand. “Ready!”

  Coleman gathered rolling papers and a bag of herbs. “Ready!”

  “Mission Control, we have a go. T-minus ten, nine—”

  “Hey!” shouted Rachael. “Where are you going with all that money you took off Jimmy?”

  “Is that his name?”

  “That’s my money!”

  “I couldn’t give it to you even if I wanted. It now belongs to the Night Launch.” He headed for the door.

  Rachael reached into her back pocket and lunged.

  “Serge!” yelled Coleman. “Look out!”

  He turned quickly, but it was too late. Rachael already had the knife under his chin. “I want my money!”

  Serge dropped his bags and grinned.

  Rachael pressed the knife tip, indenting Serge’s skin. A single droplet of blood. “What’s so funny?”