Atomic Lobster

by Tim Dorsey

  “But you’ve already spent too much on us.”

  “My feelings will be hurt.”

  “Okay,” Edith said reluctantly. “Thanks.”

  Steve waved and headed off with his pals. “See you tonight in the ballroom.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.” Edna put the box to her ear and shook it.

  They took an open-air shuttle to the dock and headed up the gangway. A cheery ship’s officer swiped their magnetic ID cards through the reader. Green lights. The women hoisted gift bags onto the X-ray belt.

  “Wasn’t that nice of them?” said Edna.

  “Such gentlemen,” said Eunice.

  They retrieved their belongings from the other side of the belt, and started for their cabin.

  “Excuse me? Ma’am?…”

  They kept walking.

  “Ma’am, stop!”

  “What’s that shouting about?” Edith turned around.

  “Ma’am, would you please come back here?”

  “What for?”

  “Spot check. Place your bags on the table.”

  “It’s okay,” said Edith. “You’ve never checked us before.”

  “We need to check this time.”

  “But I don’t fit the profile.”

  “That’s why we have to check you,” said the officer. “So the people who fit the profile don’t get sore.”

  She haltingly placed her bag on the table. Hands reached inside. Vodka came out. “Ma’am, you were supposed to declare this.”

  “I was? I mean, how’d that get there? I’m confused. Are you my son?”

  “It’s all right, ma’am.” He placed the bottle on another table behind him. “We’ll just hold it for you until we get back to Tampa.” He reached in the bag again. A gift box came out. “What’s this?”

  Edith shrugged.

  “I’ll have to open it.” The ribbon and wrapping paper came off. He lifted the lid and peeled back packing tissue, revealing a dusty, clay Mayan figure.

  Edith put on her glasses. “What’s that?”

  “Just a Chac-Mool.”

  “A what?”

  “Common souvenir.” He returned it to the bag and handed it back. “I’ve gotten all my relatives one.”

  TAMPA

  Serge sat in the front of the support-group meeting room. Two minutes till the next session. The place was full. Nobody had bothered to change since the latest video shoot.

  The moderator entered from the back door. He took one step and stopped at the sight. Dozens of bruised clowns and mimes, costumes torn, makeup caked with dried blood, one of them flicking a switchblade open and closed. The moderator began walking again, but much slower. He reached the podium with a blank look. “Serge, what’s going on?”

  “We can’t tell you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s like Fight Club.”

  “Fight Club?”

  Ronald McDonald removed a toothpick. “The first rule of Clowns versus Mimes…”

  The rest joined in: “…is you don’t talk about Clowns versus Mimes.”

  The moderator stared helplessly at Serge. “I should have known you were behind this whole thing when I saw it on the news.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t saying that in a good way.”

  “Why not? I just gave America what it wanted before it knew it wanted it: clowns, mimes, bone-jarring violence, something for the entire family.”

  “But these people came here for help.”

  “And I cured them.”

  “Cured them? You’ve only made things worse! I’ll have to double the meeting schedule just to repair your damage!”

  “No offense,” said Serge. “But they just dropped by out of politeness to say good-bye. They’ve outgrown your meetings.”

  “Wrong! They need to attend now more than ever!”

  A white-faced man in a French cap placed two fingers on his forehead, like horns, then assumed a squatting position in the aisle next to his chair.

  “What’s that about?” asked the moderator.

  A birthday-party clown held a magazine up sideways, letting the Playboy centerfold unfurl. “He says your meetings are bullshit.”

  “Please,” begged the moderator. “Before it’s too late. Stop listening to Serge!”

  “Screw you!”

  “Bite me!”

  Mimes silently grabbed their crotches.

  Ronald threw his toothpick aside and stood. “Fuck this lameness.”

  They got up and left en masse.

  “Wait,” said the moderator. “Come back!…”

  SOUTHERN PENNSYLVANIA

  Four A.M. Traffic was light as Interstate 79 wound through the hilly, dark countryside.

  A Chevy van pulled away from a rest stop at the state line and headed south. The spare tire on the back had a Steelers wheel cover. The half dozen men inside discovered that their sixty-quart cooler was dangerously low on Miller.

  All week long, TV reports from Tampa had been causing quite the stir inside a popular Pittsburgh sports bar. Then, on the seventh day of the news cycle, as the story began to fade and the clock edged toward closing time, people who had lives got back to them. Others ended up in the van.

  One of the passengers talked into his cell and wrote something on the back of an envelope. “Thanks…” He hung up. “I got Davenport’s address.”

  The driver looked over his shoulder. “Thought you said his phone was disconnected.”

  “Lucked out. I called this real estate friend of mine.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I got him in trouble with his wife. There was screaming. Anyway, he checked his computer for recent home sales in Tampa, and the guy just moved….”—he refreshed his memory with the envelope—“…to this place called Davis Islands.”

  The van’s taillights faded into the West Virginia mountains.

  THIRTY-SIX

  GULF OF MEXICO

  The G-Unit stowed gifts around the cabin.

  “Can’t believe what those guys spent on us in that market.”

  “Just when you think all the best men are taken.”

  Edna held up a floral dress. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “And my turquoise earrings.”

  “And my…whatever this is…” Edith held up the dusty statue.

  “I think they said it was Mayan,” recalled Edna. “Chock-something.”

  “Seems really old,” said Eunice.

  “Just a replica.” Edith held the statue closer and studied the odd, reclining figure with a bowl in its lap. “Kind of ugly.”

  “But you are going to keep it?”

  “Have to.” Edith set it on the TV. “Don’t want to hurt Steve’s feelings.”

  “Look at the time!” said Edna.

  The women changed into their most fetching evening wear and headed up to the next deck. They entered the ballroom. “Where are those guys?”

  “Around here somewhere,” said Ethel. “They never miss a night.”

  The gals checked the usual spots, then canvassed the entire room, calling out names. Nothing. Edith grabbed the punch ladle. “That’s funny.”

  But the women had such great moods, they took it in stride, instead hitting the slots, piano bar, galleria. They regrouped after midnight in the cabin. Edna pulled something from a shopping bag. “Look what I got!” She held up a clay Mayan figure.

  “That’s like mine,” said Edith. She looked closer. “Exactly like mine.”

  “Thought yours was so exquisite I picked one up in the gift shop. They had whole rows on glass shelves. Apparently it’s a very popular souvenir.”

  “You wasted your money,” said Edith. “I would have given you mine.”

  “It was only ten bucks. Besides, you didn’t want to hurt Steve’s feelings. Remember?”

  Edith stopped and looked at her own Chac-Mool atop the TV. “I can’t believe you think that ogre is attractive.”

  “You have to get into the history,” said Edna
, untying a golden elastic string around the statue’s neck and opening tiny pages. “Mine came with a little booklet. They used to drop the still-beating hearts of human sacrifices in the statue’s lap. The original was much bigger.”

  “That’s beautiful to you?”

  “Fascinating’s a better word. Plus it’s a status symbol.”

  “How much did you drink tonight?”

  “A lot. Listen: There’s a warning here. Not really a warning. More like one of those info labels on cans of dolphin-safe tuna.” Edna grabbed a pocket magnifying glass from her purse. “Says we hope you enjoy your purchase of this keepsake from Mexico’s rich heritage, expertly hand-crafted blah, blah, blah, same as the original atop the pyramid in Chichén Itzá, as well as smaller ones approximately this size that individual Mayans worshipped in their homes, and we hope your appreciation will encourage you to join us in fighting the growing antiquities-smuggling trade that is robbing the Yucatán yada, yada, yada…”

  “How’s that a status symbol?”

  “You know what this would be worth if it were real?”

  “No.”

  “A lot.”

  “But it’s not real.”

  Edna closed the magnifier. “I’m telling people it is. Like my cubic zirconia.”

  A Chevy van with Pennsylvania plates crossed the state line.

  “Hank, aren’t we going to Florida?”

  “Mississippi’s not on the way?”

  “Not really.”

  “Shit.”

  The van slowed down at the next light for a U-turn. A giant foam index finger went out a window.

  “Steelers number one!”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  DAVIS ISLANDS

  Martha heard a car come up the driveway and checked the front window. “It’s them!” She ran out the door.

  Mother and daughter hugged in the middle of the lawn. Then Martha turned to the dashing young man a few steps behind. “And you must be Trevor! I’ve heard so much. Pleasure to meet.”

  “I didn’t know Debbie had a sister.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She waved back at the house. “Jim, get over here. It’s Trevor.”

  Jim trotted down the steps. He hugged his daughter, then: “Nice to meet you. I’m Jim.”

  “Trevor.” Trevor Greenback, scion of one of the West Coast’s most successful condo developers, bottom of his class at Yale. Handsome as they come, and he clearly took care of himself, the tight golf shirt advertising regular afternoons at the spa.

  Jim looked at his watch. “We better get going. Reservations are for seven.”

  A short drive later, four tassled, leather-bound menus lay open around a table with fresh linen.

  “Trevor,” said Jim. “Debbie wasn’t really clear. What exactly is it that you do?”

  “Honey,” said Martha. “He went to Yale.”

  “Taking time off right now,” said Trevor. “Lining up some contacts.”

  “Debbie said you graduated three years ago.”

  “I was on the fencing team.”

  “And after that you?…”

  “Took some time off.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Jim,” said Martha. “You’re sounding like a police show.”

  “That’s all right.” Trevor leaned back and raised his chin toward Jim. “Been sailing.”

  “Daddy, he has a sailboat!”

  “Should come with me sometime,” said Trevor. “Ever sail?”

  “No.”

  “That’s okay. A lot of people haven’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to—”

  “Trevor,” said Martha. “Jim used to invest in real estate. Like your father. Bet you have a lot to talk about.”

  “Really?” Trevor turned to Jim. “Anything lately?”

  “Picked up a piece of land near Fort Myers.”

  “Ooooh. Big mistake.”

  “Seemed like a great deal—”

  Trevor shook his head. “Market’s not right. You should have checked with me first.”

  “Jim, you should have checked with him first,” said Martha.

  “It’s just a little investment,” said Jim. “I was going to hold on to it long-term anyway.”

  Trevor shook his head.

  “Not good?”

  “There’s still time,” said Trevor. “Cut your losses and flip it to someone else who doesn’t know what they’re doing. I didn’t mean the ‘else’ part.”

  “Maybe you did.”

  “Jim!” said Martha.

  “What? We’re just talking.”

  “Ever consider working out?” asked Trevor.

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Then fire your trainer,” said Trevor. “My spa’s got a waiting list, but I’ll get you in with Sven. He’ll fix the upper body issues.”

  “What upper—”

  Martha flapped her menu for distraction. “The roast duck looks irresistible.”

  A waiter waited. “Anything from our cellar?”

  “You have a cellar in Florida?” asked Jim.

  “No.”

  “I’d like a glass of white zinfandel,” said Martha.

  The waiter bowed out of the picture.

  Martha closed her menu. “Jim, it’s so sweet taking us here. Where’d you find out about this place?”

  “Neighbor told me.”

  “Must be the nicest on the island.”

  It was. The Winery. Everything in the dining room said class. Paintings, statuary, little lamps on tables, a bubbling Roman fountain in the middle. The facade featured heavily tinted windows and squared-off shrubbery illuminated from beneath by unseen green and yellow spots. A lavender canvas awning arched over the entrance. The Davenports’ table was near the door. Martha had a view out the front windows of sidewalk strollers and people eating Italian on a patio across the street. Jim was opposite her, looking into the room. It was an off night. Only a few other customers. He noticed a table in the rear corner.

  Serge peeked over the top of a menu and waved.

  Jim choked.

  “What is it?” asked Martha. She glanced behind, then at Jim. “What’s the matter?”

  He hit himself in the chest. “Nothing.”

  Dinner was ordered. It came. They ate. Martha sat back and placed her napkin on the table. “That was wonderful.”

  In the back of the restaurant, Coleman tugged Serge’s sleeve. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “So go.”

  Coleman got up and stumbled down a hallway on chardonnay legs. He bounced off one wall, overcorrected and caromed off the other. “Where is the men’s room?” So many doors, so many choices. One said Caballeros. “That can’t be it.” Coleman kept going. He reached the end of the hallway and a final door. “This must be the place.” He opened the door and stepped into an alley. “I don’t think this is it.” He turned back around and grabbed the handle. Locked. He clutched his legs together and looked both ways.

  Back in the dining room, Martha glanced over her shoulder again. “Jim, what do you keep looking at?”

  “Paintings.”

  Serge continued surveillance, scanning the room over the top of his menu. Just the Davenports and an underdressed man in jeans and a tractor-company baseball cap eating alone. Except he wasn’t eating. Serge bent down for low-angle vantage. Beneath the table, the man screwed a suppression tube on the end of a .380 automatic. Serge placed his own pistol in his lap.

  Out in the alley, Coleman stepped up to a Dumpster and assumed the position. He was about to unzip when a door opened. Two dishwashers stepped into the alley for a smoke break. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Nothing!” Coleman hobbled away and turned the corner into another, tighter alley between buildings. He stepped up to a wall. A door opened. Someone taking out garbage. “Hey!”

  “I’m good!” Coleman staggered on. He squeezed between his legs. Gotta go! Gotta go right now! He turned another corner. “I’ll just slide
behind these bushes and nobody will be the wiser.” He began hacking his way through the brush.

  Back in the dining room, the dessert cart arrived.

  “Everything looks so good!” said Martha.

  Pie and cake were served.

  A few tables away, the man in jeans stood and hid something inside his shirt.

  Serge stood.

  The man in jeans approached the Davenport party and began removing his hand from his shirt.

  Serge was right behind, reaching inside his own shirt.

  Jim looked up at Serge and gasped.

  Martha saw something else and gasped. Everyone turned around. Coleman was inside the restaurant’s front hedge, facing the window right behind their table, unable to see through the tinted glass. His eyes were closed, and he smiled with relief.

  Martha dropped her dessert fork. “I may be sick.”

  The jeans man and Serge reached the table.

  Coleman continued his business. Trevor angrily threw his napkin down. “I’m going to kill that jerk!” He jumped up. His chair flew out, hitting the man in jeans and knocking him off balance. A silenced bullet poofed through the ceiling. Cooter McGraw fell into Serge, who tumbled backward and conked his head.

  Stars. Lights out.

  Serge felt someone shaking his shoulder. “Mister, are you okay?”

  He looked up in a daze at three waiters. “What happened?”

  “You hit your head on the fountain.”

  Serge glanced around the room. “How long was I out?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “Where’d that guy in the jeans go?”

  “Took off right after you fell.”

  “Damn.” Serge quickly pushed himself up; the staff jumped back when they saw the pistol he had been lying on. Serge grabbed the gun and ran out the door.

  “Coleman!” Serge twirled around on the sidewalk. “Where are you?”

  Coleman stepped out of the bushes at the end of the block, concealing a joint. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over.”

  “You idiot. Get in the car!”

  The Comet sped off.

  Cooter McGraw raced up Lobster Lane, past the Davenport residence, and parked two doors down. He jumped from his car and ran back, taking cover in shrubs next to a front door with shiny deco house numbers over the top: 888.

  He waited.