Atomic Lobster

by Tim Dorsey

  “Nag, nag, nag.” He grabbed the extinguisher and forced the nozzle through her lips. She struggled and coughed as he threaded the rubber hose a solid foot down her trachea. Then he covered her entire mouth with his left hand, leaving only enough room between his third and fourth fingers for the hose. More thrashing. Serge made a stiff arm and pushed down on her face with all his strength.

  A toilet flushed. Coleman came out of the bathroom. “That feels better.” He moseyed over to Serge. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Something I should have a long time ago.”

  Serge reached with his free hand and pulled the extinguisher’s safety pin. “Sweet dreams.” He squeezed the lever.

  Rachael’s chest instantly inflated beneath Serge. Her lungs reached capacity, and the extinguisher’s contents raced back up her airway. Twin sprays of foam shot out both nostrils like seltzer bottles.

  Serge rolled off her. Rachael jumped up.

  “Watch out!” yelled Coleman. “She’s got her knife again!”

  “Won’t do much good now.”

  She swung the blade erratically at both of them, over and over. They didn’t even have to move. Every violent swipe was several feet off the mark, sometimes in the wrong direction. She staggered and twirled, still swinging the knife, crashing into walls and furniture. It didn’t seem possible, but her fury actually increased: Rachael couldn’t believe she was being irreversibly killed by Serge, and she took out her frustration by attacking the room in general, smashing mirrors, flinging dresser drawers, tipping the mini-fridge.

  “Up on the bed!” said Serge. They hopped atop the same mattress for safe viewing as the Tasmanian devil continued its destructive spin through the cabin.

  “What’s happening?” asked Coleman.

  Rachael pirouetted into the bathroom. Crash. A toilet lid flew out the door.

  “She’s drowning.”

  “On dry land?”

  “A rare treat.”

  “Rare? But you said that’s how you whacked Tex McGraw earlier this evening.”

  “Different method. Plus you told me about those DJs who already did it. Just fuckin’ great. I worked hard on that idea, but nobody will believe it was mine first. So now they make me kill someone else.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “But you can’t dwell or you’ll never be happy.”

  Rachael came out of the bathroom and began slamming herself against the side of the TV console.

  Coleman pointed. “What’s she doing now?”

  “Trying to pump her own chest.” Serge yelled across the room: “Won’t work!”

  “Why not?” asked Coleman.

  “You can pump if it’s water. But fire-retardant foam acts on the scientific principal of cohesion. That’s why I chose it.”

  “Co-what?”

  “As foam bubbles fizz out, their chemical residue clings to lung walls, clogging brachia, which deliver oxygen to the bloodstream.” He nodded toward Rachael, flapping spastically against the entertainment center. “It’s all over now except the credits.”

  She came twirling back through the room, breaking lamps, tearing down curtains. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she lurched out the open balcony door, hit the railing with her pelvis and jackknifed over the side.

  Johnny Vegas waited next to lifeboat number five. He grabbed the starboard railing, gazed up at the moon and felt an invigorating wind in his hair.

  Rachael flew by a few feet from his face and quickly disappeared beneath the black waves. Johnny bit his lip and went back inside.

  FIFTY-TWO

  PORT OF CALL

  Passengers streamed out of the ship under a hot morning sun. They hit the dock and hailed cabs for an ambitious bout of tourism in downtown Cozumel.

  “What a crazy cruise,” said Coleman, wobbling down the gangway. “McGraw and Rachael are both dead.”

  “I know,” said Serge. “That eliminates the two major obstacles to truly appreciating travel: mortal danger and bullshit. Now we can enjoy ourselves.”

  They reached the dock and headed north; the Diaz Brothers arrived from the south and headed up the gangway. They produced stolen ID at the hatch, and Tommy Diaz set a shopping bag on the X-ray belt.

  “What do we do now?” asked Benito.

  A screener handed Tommy his bag with a small statue. “Check our e-mail.”

  They took an elevator to the main lobby.

  Three more men with stolen credentials came up the ramp.

  “Why are we taking this cruise?”

  “Because I don’t trust those stinking Diaz Brothers,” said the lead tunic.

  “Seemed okay to me.”

  “They’re either traitors or fools. Either way I’m not taking the chance.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “We let them take care of Foxtrot. If they don’t, we let them lead us to Foxtrot, and then we take care of Foxtrot. Then we take care of the stinking Diaz Brothers. No loose ends.”

  “But they have the statue.”

  “I gave them an empty one.” He set his own shopping bag on the X-ray belt.

  Three floors up, Tommy Diaz tapped a keyboard in the Internet Café. “Here it is.” He opened an e-mail and clicked a hot link to a rudimentary website. He scrolled down and stopped. He logged off the computer.

  “You got the name?” asked Rafael.

  Tommy nodded. He headed across the atrium lobby to the ship’s information desk. A short conversation. The woman behind the desk cheerfully looked something up. Then Tommy dashed toward a flight of stairs, and the others followed.

  “What cabin?” asked Benito.

  Tommy checked door numbers. “U115.” They reached the next corridor. “There it is.”

  “Someone’s coming out,” said Rafael.

  “Act inconspicuous.”

  They pretended to be opening another cabin door. The person from U115 smiled as he went by. They watched him turn the corner.

  “Let’s go,” said Tommy. They followed their target up to the pool deck.

  “You sure he’s the right person?” asked Benito.

  “Positive. I checked the name from the website at the information desk. Only one Davenport registered on this ship.”

  “Wasn’t that the name on the scrap of paper we found in Bodine’s trailer?”

  “The same,” said Tommy. “Now it all fits together. It wasn’t some random rip-off. A government agent’s been onto our operation the whole time.”

  They continued tailing Jim.

  “But he doesn’t look anything like some super-dangerous agent,” said Rafael. “He looks like a wimp.”

  “Don’t be fooled,” said Tommy. “I’ve read about these guys. Anyone can possess physical strength, but it takes an ultra-rare psychological makeup. They’re the people you’d least suspect.”

  “Look, he’s being insulted by those bodybuilders at the pool. He’s just taking it.”

  “Fits the stuff I read,” said Tommy. “These guys thrive on intense pressure. That’s when they’re like ice. But back in the real world, many are understimulated and can’t function. Some become hyper-irritable and blow their temper at the least thing. Others go the opposite way and withdraw into a passive shell.”

  “Those kids are hitting him with squirt guns.”

  “Just keep your eyes open,” said Tommy. “He might have a backup team.”

  Over on the mainland, Serge strolled past a quaint row of Cozumel shops. He suddenly stopped and spun around on the sidewalk. Six men in tropical shirts scattered and looked at postcards.

  He began walking again. “Who are those guys?”

  Every ten feet, people standing in doorways: “Like Cuban cigars?…” “Cuban cigars here…”

  “Coleman, hurry up. We need to get back to the ship.”

  “Wait a second.”

  “But you’ve stopped in every single pharmacy asking if they have ‘the good stuff.’”

  “I like to shop.”

  A sa
tellite phone vibrated. Foxtrot read the encrypted text message. A pair of three-man teams had just come aboard: the Diaz Brothers, who’d been under surveillance for the last week, and a previously undetected cell the brothers had been observed with outside Cancún. It wasn’t known which had the statue…. Oh, and your cover might be blown.

  Foxtrot deleted the message and headed for the Veranda Deck.

  Serge and Coleman returned to their cabin. Now that Jim was safe from McGraw, Serge could relax on his bed with a Travis McGee novel about a cruise ship.

  Coleman tried tuning his spherical TV but only got grainy Spanish stations. “I’m bored.”

  Serge turned a page. “Read a book.”

  “Then I’ll be more bored.”

  “I’m trying to read.”

  “What are you reading?”

  Serge closed Darker Than Amber in frustration and went over to his DVD player.

  “What are you watching?” asked Coleman.

  “Yellow Submarine.”

  The TV showed a series of strange creatures opening and closing doors, darting across a long hallway.

  Coleman picked up his round television. “I think I’ll go out.”

  “Good.”

  Coleman left the cabin and began walking down a long hallway, people opening and closing doors. He was still fiddling with his TV when he came to a cleaning cart and a half-open door. He took a step inside. “Helllooooo? Anyone home?” The maid wasn’t there. Good. He’d done this a million times. The cleaning crew couldn’t possibly know every person in every room. If the maid returned, he’d just act cool like it was his own cabin. Then, ever so nonchalantly, he’d leave with the valuables.

  Coleman closed the door and went to the dresser. He quickly found a watch, some rings and loose currency.

  The maid returned.

  “This really is my room! I didn’t take anything!” He ran out the door.

  The Diaz Brothers continued surveillance of Jim Davenport, now beneath the waterslide.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Benito.

  “Looks like they’re setting up for a wedding.”

  “Wedding?”

  “I don’t like the feel of this,” said Tommy.

  “Think we have the wrong guy?”

  “No, we have the right guy,” said Tommy. “I’m just having strong second thoughts about our friends from Cancún. I don’t think they’re who they claim to be.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Their website. MyJihadSpace.com.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Tommy walked to a railing with his shopping bag and removed the statue. It splashed into the sea. “Deal’s off.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Rafael. “We have visitors.”

  “Who?”

  Rafael tilted his head toward the other side of the deck, where three men in tunics tried to conceal themselves behind a faux tiki hut.

  “What are they doing here?” asked Benito.

  “A double cross,” said Tommy. “That’s the last straw. We may be smugglers, but we’re still Americans!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Warn Davenport.”

  “Look, he’s leaving.”

  “Probably heading back to his cabin. This is our chance.”

  Three men behind a tiki hut watched the Diaz Brothers follow Jim across the deck and into a stairwell. The leader smiled.

  “Why are you so happy?”

  “They just told us who Foxtrot is.”

  Coleman had found another cleaning cart outside an open door. He rummaged through luggage.

  Across the hall, another person stepped up to a door. The magnetic room key was different. It had a pair of wires running to a handheld device that looked like a department store inventory scanner. Digital numbers tumbled in the device’s display. They stopped. A red light turned green. The person darted inside. A swift, professional search promptly yielded a dusty Mayan statue wrapped in a bath towel.

  A maid arrived at a cabin and swiped her magnetic key. She opened the door and found Coleman going through a handbag.

  “It really is my purse!” He ran out the door.

  Coleman safely made it to the next level. He walked up the hall, changing channels on his round TV. “Buenos…” Another cleaning cart. U115. He went inside.

  Coleman set his TV on the dresser and began checking all the usual places. Slim pickin’s. He scooped a handful of dimes and nickels off a counter. Someone began fumbling with the doorknob. “Uh-oh.” He ran to a corner and covered himself with a discarded bedspread that lay in a bunch.

  The blanket quaked as someone moved through the cabin. It sounded like they went in the bathroom. Coleman peeked from under the bedspread. They were in the bathroom. He threw the covers off and ran out the door without closing it.

  He raced around the corner and crashed into three Latin men wearing white linen suits. He took off again.

  “Watch where the fuck you’re going!” Rafael shouted down the hall.

  “Forget him,” said Tommy. “We have to find Davenport.”

  “How’d we lose him?”

  “Because he’s good. Let’s check his cabin.”

  They turned the corner. U115.

  “The door’s open,” said Benito.

  Rafael stuck his head inside. “Helllloooo? Jim Davenport?” He came back out. “Nobody’s home.”

  Tommy thought a moment. “Okay, we can go running around the ship and risk missing Davenport if he comes back. Or we can wait here and risk him running into our friends from Cancún.” He squinted in thought, then nodded. “We wait here.”

  They went inside and closed the door.

  Benito sat on a bed. “But even if we take care of Davenport, what about Cancún?”

  “I’ve got my own plans for them,” said Tommy. “They messed with the wrong Diaz Brothers…”

  An undetected person in the bathroom quietly hid a towel-wrapped statue beneath the sink. Then a discreet hand slipped out of the bathroom and reached for a switch on the wall.

  “Hey!” yelled Rafael. “Who turned off the lights?”

  The action was efficiently merciless. Blazing-fast hands and feet.

  Minutes later, the Diaz Brothers awoke in a pile in the hall.

  FIFTY-THREE

  ONE HOUR BEFORE SUNSET

  Cabin U115.

  Martha straightened Debbie’s veil for the twentieth time.

  “Jim, doesn’t our daughter look beautiful?”

  Jim looked curiously at something on the dresser. A spherical TV. He turned it on. “Buenos…”

  “Jim!”

  “What?”

  “Our daughter!”

  “Debbie, you look beautiful.”

  “I think I’m going to cry,” said Martha.

  Jim smoothed out his tux. “I’ll check on the caterers.”

  “Debbie,” said Martha. “Your veil’s crooked.”

  “Mom!”

  Jim arrived on the pool deck. Hundreds of chairs had already been set up. He walked over to someone unfolding more seats in the back row.

  “Don’t we already have enough chairs?”

  “No.” More unfolding. “We always do this for weddings.”

  “Do what?”

  “Like when a restaurant gets the whole room to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for a complete stranger. The ship made a special announcement inviting everyone to the wedding.”

  “But we already agreed on the price. I don’t think I can afford—”

  “Complimentary.”

  “Wow,” said Jim. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  “No, it’s not.” Another chair unfolded. “We sell more drinks, make a fortune.”

  The preacher showed up, then Trevor.

  “Holy smokes!” said Jim. “What happened to your face?”

  “Don’t want to talk about it.”

  They kept arriving: the best man, ring girl, ushers, DJ, florist with a $500 magnolia trellis-arch, two extra bart
enders and a rolling ice chest of Bud and Bud Lite in the new unbreakable plastic bottles.

  One floor below, Serge entered the dining hall. “Coleman, where are you? We’re going to be late for the wedding!” He reached the back of the restaurant; Coleman was sitting alone in a corner booth with six entrées.

  Getting close now. The sun was a half hour from the horizon. Chairs began to fill: Midwesterners, New Englanders, spring-breakers, radio station winners, retired machinists, budding salesmen, blackballed labor organizers, the G-Unit, Steelers fans, clowns, mimes, the Diaz Brothers, the Brimleys, the Backup Backup Team, Gaylord Wainscotting, Serge, Coleman, Agent Foxtrot, Johnny Vegas and three men from Cancún.

  “I don’t understand what could have happened to our statue,” said one of the tunics. “We searched the entire room.”

  The leader groused. “Foxtrot is what happened.”

  Finally, everyone was in place, the deck bathed in that magnificent golden glow when the sun is at the perfect angle. All the guests hummed with anticipation of Debbie’s entrance.

  Almost all. The Diaz Brothers watched the tunics; the tunics glared at the Diaz Brothers; Trevor and Wainscotting sneered at Serge; six men in tropical shirts eyed Trevor and Wainscotting; Steelers fans followed an important game on small pocket TVs; Johnny Vegas winked at the maid of honor.

  Someone cued the DJ. He inserted a CD. “Here comes the bride…”

  The audience turned around. Jim swelled with pride as he escorted his daughter under the waterslide.

  They reached the front. Everyone hushed. Trevor stepped up next to Debbie.

  The preacher began reading the usual. Blah, blah, blah. Mimes dabbed their eyes. They finally got to the part: “…speak now or forever hold your peace…”

  Tunics jumped up. “Foxtrot!”

  Diaz Brothers jumped up. “Jim, look out!”

  Wainscotting jumped up. “Serge, you son of a bitch!”

  Steelers fans jumped up. “Touchdown!”

  Tropical shirts jumped up. “Nobody move!”

  Serge jumped up, pointed over the starboard side and pumped a fist. “Rogue wave! Yessssss!”