Atomic Lobster (11 page)

Coleman took a plastic tube out of his mouth. “You’re using photo fluid?”

“No, bleach.” Serge checked some of the blank rectangles on the clothesline. Dry. He took them down.

“I thought the red lightbulb was for photo fluid,” said Coleman. “Why do you need it with bleach?”

“I don’t. For some reason I want to be in Amsterdam.” Serge removed the gloves and turned to his new laser printer atop the toilet tank. He began feeding rectangles.

“Where’d you get this idea?”

“Three weeks ago when I was paying for gas, the clerk hit my fifty-dollar bill with one of those yellow markers.” Serge inserted
more plain rectangles. “The nerve of her thinking I’d try to pass counterfeit money.”

The printer began spitting out hundred-dollar bills. Serge examined one of the notes with a magnifying loop. “In addition to solving our cash flow, I’m also fighting crime.”

“Looks like you’re committing crime.”

“It’s the new reverse values. Ask any Republican.” He examined another bill. “You’re now allowed to do whatever you want in the name of homeland security.”

Coleman poured another cold one into his funnel. Serge pulled more paper down from the clothesline. “Safety ultimately depends on the economy, which our Treasury protects with high-tech security features on currency. I’m troubleshooting their performance.”

“How are they doing?”

“Not so good.” Another batch went into the printer. “They over-thought. The extra safeguards are excellent, but it all still comes down to the reliability of the clerk behind the register with that yellow marker.”

“But Serge, I always see them use the marker. You’ll get caught the first time you try.”

Serge pulled a yellow marker from his own pocket and held it to Coleman’s face, then hit one of the new hundreds.

Coleman ran a hand through his hair. “Looks like when I pass a real bill.”

“The best way to defeat high-tech is by going low-tech.” Serge began stuffing his wallet with cash. “The markers don’t check denomination, just government paper, which I used.”

Bang! Bang! Bang! “My money.”

Serge opened the door and gave Rachael two grand.

“Oh…thanks.”

The door closed.

“But Serge, I still don’t get the part about how this helps the government.”

“Counterfeit dough is like a game of hot potato. Whoever’s holding the money last gets burned. Like stores that use yellow markers.”

“So?”

“Some companies have started using ultraviolet scanners that are needed to detect the new security features. Cost around a hundred dollars. But others are still trying to get by on the cheap with markers, which are about a buck.” Serge fed more blanks into the printer, removing fresh C-notes and flapping them in the air. “I’ve just raised the price of those markers to a hundred dollars.”

DAVIS ISLANDS

G
et your signing hands limber!” Steph led the Davenports down the walkway of their future house.

They climbed into a black Expedition with magnetic realty signs on the doors. Jim and Martha were in the backseat. They began driving across the island. Steph was a verbal machine gun on the cell phone, handing forms over her shoulder. The Davenports autographed next to little “Sign Here” stickers and passed pages back up to Steph, who fed them into a wireless fax machine on the front passenger seat. She hung up the phone, speed-dialed another number, handed Jim a page, took one back from Martha, slid it into the fax, rolled down her window and snapped a photo of a new home that had just been listed with her agency.

Jim scribbled his name again. “Who’s driving?”

“Shhhh,” said Martha.

Steph hung up and fed another page. “That’s the last. Now we wait.”

A ring tone. The Pet Shop Boys.
Let’s make lots of money.
“Steph here. I’ll tell them right now.” She hung up. “They accepted your offer.”

“So soon?” said Jim.

“Congratulations.” She pulled up in front of a French café in the strolling district. A young couple in boating attire waited at the curb.
Steph moved the fax for the man to sit up front, and the Davenports scooted over to make room for the woman in back.

“Tom, Jane, have I got some great homes to show you….” She looked in the rearview. “Want me to show them yours?”

“What?”

“Perfect opportunity. Don’t wait too long.”

The Expedition sped back across the island and stopped in front of the new Davenport place. They got out. Jim turned to wave, but Steph was already pulling away.
“No, you can’t put a price…”

Martha threw her arms around her husband’s neck. “I love you!”

Jim stared over her shoulder in a trance.

From behind: “Jim! Martha!”

They turned.

A pyramid-shaped woman jogged toward them, checking the cardio-monitor on her wrist. She had plastic, trash bag–like running pants to trap perspiration and a pink T-shirt with sequins:
DIVA IN TRAINING
. She waved cheerfully as she reached the driveway and continued jogging in place.

Martha blinked. “Gladys? Gladys Plant? Is that you?…Jim, look, it’s our old neighbor.”

Gladys checked her wrist again. “Hope you don’t mind if I keep running while we talk. Heart rate…”

“But what are you doing over here?” asked Martha. “I thought you moved to a serpentine neighborhood. Grid streets were too dangerous.”

“That’s right.” Gladys bobbed. “But the dirtballs finally figured out serpentine streets.”

“Streets that curve aren’t good anymore?”

“They’re out,” said Gladys. “Now you have to move completely offshore. Luckily there’s this great little island right here in the bay. Criminals don’t know about it yet.”

“That just sounds like we’re retreating.”

“We are.”

“Hear that, Jim?” said Martha. “We made the right move.”

“You’re in paradise,” said Gladys.

A delivery van pulled up. A man in shorts hopped out and checked the house number against his packing slip. Eight-eighty-eight. He handed Jim a cellophane-wrapped welcome basket of cheese and wine. The van left.

“Must be Steph,” said Gladys. “Treats her clients right…”

“How thoughtful,” said Martha.

“…Treated Mr. Simmons a little too right, if you know what I mean. Wife found an earring under the bed. She never learned who, but still a messy divorce. Steph picked up the sale.” Gladys pointed up the street. “Now it’s
my
house. Steph said that earring knocked ten grand off the purchase price. Excellent agent.”

Jim opened the gift card.

“Steph?” asked Martha.

“Wants to know if we’re ready to sell.”

“Don’t,” said Gladys. “You can’t find another place like this in the whole state. It’s a quirk of geography, like a tiny village in New Hampshire. Families safely walk these quiet streets at any hour, and yet…”—she gestured up at the top of the Tampa skyline towering over date palms—“…we’re in the shadow of downtown. The professionals who work those top floors love it over here. We’re only five minutes away, but it’s like a million miles.”

“Why?” asked Jim.

“Remember the pair of tiny bridges at the tip of the island? They’re the only way on and off. This whole place is one big dead end. That’s kryptonite to scumbags.”

“You don’t have
any
crime over here?” asked Jim.

“We got a few old apartments, and the renters tend to get a little rambunctious from time to time, but that’s all on the east side of the island; they never get over this way.” Gladys pressed a button on her wrist and stopped bobbing. “Nope, it’s like the fifties over here. If anything happens, the police just roadblock those bridges. So nothing happens. Even stupid criminals aren’t that stupid.”

A ’73 Mercury Comet sped by.

“Coleman! You’ve got the map upside down again!”

The Davenports turned at the sound of screeching tires. The
Comet made a skidding left and disappeared around the end of the block.

“Probably someone’s kids,” said Gladys. “Speaking of your new neighbors, bet you’re dying to know…”

“Actually,” said Jim, “we’ve had a pretty busy—”

She began pointing at expensive houses. “That’s Tyler Ratznick’s place. State senator. He should own a taxi company the way they’re always bringing him home after midnight when he’s blotto. Next is Skip Hismith, local TV anchor. Don’t know how they’re still married. Fight constantly. Loud, too. She’s always locking him out of the house, and he keeps whispering through the door to let him back in. Finally, he buried a key outside, then he had to bury a whole bunch of keys because while he was on the air she started going around the yard with a metal detector. Next, Vinny Carbello. He’s in the witness-protection program.”

“How do you know that?” asked Martha.

“Tells everyone. Used to be a big deal in Jersey. Guess he misses the attention. Same with his friend in that house on the other side, Franky Four-Fingers.”

“Jesus,” said Jim. “We’ve got a neighbor whose finger was cut off by the mob?”

“No,” said Gladys. “Happened last week. Lawnmower. All the protected witnesses who hang out at Island Pizza are still giving him grief. The giant Victorian spread is the Wagners. Launched a coupon-swap site on the Internet and sold it for a mint back before anyone knew it was stupid. And the Yorks, funeral home that switches prices on the caskets because who’s going to argue once Aunt Gerty’s in the box; the Babbits, hardware store chain, nothing fishy; Doctor Gamboru, who fled a genocide and has liposuctioned half the island; Bill and Fred, who are gay and have the best parties; the Flemings, who obviously
aren’t
gay because of that atrocious largemouth-bass mailbox. Then we come to all the silk flags hanging from porches. Guess the idea just caught on at that end of the street like trophy wives at the other. Indian arrowhead flag is the Moultries, big Florida State alumni; the golf-ball flag, retired commodities broker Gaylord Wainscotting,
absolutely obsessed with the game; the Birminghams and their millionth-degree Masons flag like anyone gives a damn; restoration-award flag is the Sikorskys, architecture firm; the flying-stork-and-bundle-of-joy flag almost never comes down at the O’Malleys, who have eight or nine now; the butterfly flag…the Gronquists just like butterflies; the Longshank-Scones, who overdo their accents and work into every conversation that they’re Welsh royalty, but most of the neighborhood doesn’t even know where Wales is, so they hang an extra-large flag of their family crest with that Gaelic lion on its hindlegs, wearing a crown and juggling chess pieces or some bullshit….” Gladys finished turning all the way around, pointing at the house she was in front of. “…Now you.” She pressed a button on her wrist and began jogging away. “Welcome to Lobster Lane!”

THAT AFTERNOON

The new support group had better accommodations: the bingo room of a Catholic church in south Tampa that also doubled as the local voting precinct.

This time Serge was early. Quite early in fact. He and Coleman sat alone in a room full of empty Samsonite chairs. Best seats in the house, front row, middle.

Others began trickling in, grabbing their usual spots in the back row. Those arriving later took the penultimate row and so forth, until the latest arrivals timidly shuffled toward the front.

The moderator arrived and opened a briefcase at the podium. He had a gray ponytail and a faded
NO NUKES
T-shirt. He noticed the newest members in the front row and gave them a welcoming smile. Serge smiled back, flashing him a wildly enthusiastic thumbs-up.

The moderator was perfect for the job, possessing equal part cheer, empathy and naive optimism. He had three graduate degrees in liberal arts from some of the nation’s most prestigious universities, which meant he drove an embarrassing car. As is often the case with such groups, the moderator was also a recovering member. He tapped the microphone. “Good evening. Hope everyone had a great week…. You might not have noticed, but we have some new friends
with us tonight…. Sir, would you mind standing and introducing yourself?”

Serge popped out of his chair and twirled to face the room. Over his head, the group’s name was written in the tiniest of unsure letters on the blackboard:
NON-CONFRONTATIONALISTS ANONYMOUS
.

“Howdy! I’m Serge!”

“Hello, Serge.”

“Is that a breath of fresh air or what?” said Serge. “Can’t tell you how nice a little hello is after that other group. ‘Douche bag,’ ‘fuck face’…”

“Serge…”

He turned around. “What?”

The moderator smiled. “Pleasure to have you with us. Would you like to introduce your friend?”

“You mean Coleman?”

A man in the back row became woozy and crashed into the chair in front of him.

“Jim Davenport?” said Serge. “Is that you, Jim?…It is!” He ran to the rear of the room and pulled his old buddy up for a big hug.

“Serge,” the moderator called after him. “We’re not supposed to use last names in here. Confidentiality…”

“It’s okay,” said Serge. “Me and Davenport go way back—I mean Jim, whose last name is something other than Davenport. We were neighbors ten years ago on Triggerfish Lane. He was like my big hero: law-abiding family man, pillar of the community, impulse control. Which meant society pissed all over him. Luckily I was there to offer protection. Then guess what happened!
He
ended up protecting
me
! Remember the big home invasion a decade ago during that Fourth of July party? The infamous McGraw Brothers? I was the one in the buffalo costume. Anyway, I didn’t know Jim had it in him. Never fired a weapon in his life. But he was a crack shot that day. Saved my life, so I owed him unending loyalty. Swore I’d never leave his side. Then I got a little distracted for ten years. But now I’m reunited with Jim, and this time I promise to be like glue!” Serge held Jim out by the shoulders. “How’ve you been, big guy? I need to come by your place after this and say hi to Martha—”

Jim’s legs buckled, but Serge caught him on the way down. “Everyone, back up! Give him some air!”

The moderator rushed over. “What happened? Should I call nine-one-one?”

“Just fainted.” Serge fanned Jim’s face. “Probably thrilled to see me after all these years.”

Jim finally came to. He found himself sitting in the middle of the front row, wedged between Serge and Coleman.

“Excellent! You’re awake!” Serge said loudly. “Was worried you were going to miss all the good stuff. This moderator knows his job! Quite unorthodox, because it looks like he used to be a weirdo in college…”

“Excuse me?” the moderator said meekly.

“…We’re about to leave on a field trip!” Serge told Jim. “Didn’t know the group took field trips or I’d have fixed a snack. Remember those little cheese and crackers in separate compartments with a plastic spreader? Mom always packed those when my kindergarten class was visiting a planetarium or the Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse. Always ended up with more cheese…”

“Excuse me?”

“…Jim, guess where we’re going? You’ll never guess. That means you’re supposed to guess. Okay, I’ll just tell you. The zoo! Our moderator is going to lead us in this crazy experiment with the animals. That’s the unorthodox part I mentioned. So what if they laugh at him—”

“Excuse me!”

Serge looked up. “What?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“No, I was rudely talking when you were,” said Serge. “Yell away. I might kick the crap out of you, but that’s just involuntary reflex. Doesn’t mean I’m right.”

Silence.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Serge. “Proceed.”

“Thank you.” The moderator addressed the rest of the room. “Now if you’ll all follow me to the parking lot…”

Minutes later, a white church van drove north on MacDill Avenue.

“This is just like my field trips in kindergarten!” said Serge. “We should all sing! Everybody, after me:
‘If you’re happy and you know it…’
”

The van passed through the entrance of Lowry Park Zoo, passengers clapping and stomping their feet. They got a group discount at the ticket booth, and the moderator assembled them inside the turnstiles.

“Okay, I’ll go over the exercise one more time. We’re heading to the cages with the big cats. What I want you to do is wait until one of the lions or tigers looks your way. Then I want you to stand your ground and stare back. Under no circumstance do you break eye contact.”

“Serge,” whispered Coleman. “This guy did too much acid.”

One of the members raised his hand. “I’m scared.”

“Me too,” said another. “What if we make them mad?”

“They’re in cages,” said the moderator. “And they aren’t going to get mad. They won’t even know what’s going on. That’s the whole point: a perfectly safe and controlled assertiveness exercise.”

“Come on, guys!” said Serge, extending an arm outward, palm down. “Form a circle and put all our hands together like a championship football team! No fuckin’ animal comes in
our
house and stares us down!”