Atomic Lobster (20 page)

THAT NIGHT

T
he house was dark.

A large-screen TV provided the only light. Dramatic, teletype theme music.

An anchorwoman filled the screen.

“Good evening and welcome to Eyewitness 7 Action News at eleven. We begin tonight’s broadcast with the latest shocking developments in the near-fatal shooting of former Pittsburgh Steelers great——, who was wounded in a firefight with his wife earlier today and is currently listed in serious but stable condition at Tampa General. Meanwhile, police continue unraveling details of the bizarre shooting, which apparently was triggered when Mrs.——arrived unexpectedly at the Hall of Famer’s winter home and intercepted mail containing photographs of a compromising nature with former cheerleader Mandy Steam, who was sunning herself on the back patio at the time and escaped gunfire by diving off the seawall, but fractured her skull on a kayak. Police theorized that the photos were part of an elaborate extortion plot masterminded by this man….”

The TV switched to long-range footage of detectives questioning Jim Davenport just outside his front door.

“…But after further interrogation, authorities dismissed him as just another obsessed fan. In Pittsburgh, however, regulars at one popular sports bar said not so fast on calling off the rush to judg
ment. From our sister station, News Action 4…”

Screaming drunks in Steelers jackets and Afro wigs crammed their faces in the camera.
“…That [bleep]hole is [bleep]ing dead!…” “Yeah! [bleep]ing dead!” “He’s [bleeped]…” “Steelers [bleeping] rule!…”

The broadcast switched back to Tampa. “In other news, our Action 7 Investigative Eye on Florida Team has turned up additional developments on the controversial new series of Internet videos that make
Bum Fights
look like
Teletubbies.
As reported earlier, an anonymous individual has struck a chord across the entire nation, which experts attribute to a political backlash against the French. Meanwhile the tapes continued selling like wildfire on eBay before the popular auction site shut down all bidding just before noon. But not before our own Action 7 investigative reporter Bannister Truth was able to obtain a copy and track Web sales to a computer at the downtown Tampa library.”

The TV switched to a newsman dramatically thrusting a video box toward the camera.
CLOWNS VS. MIMES VOL. III, THIS TIME IT’S PERSONAL
! “The tape is too disgusting to watch!” said the reporter. “Let’s take a look….”

The broadcast cut to a clown slamming a car door on a mime’s head.

“Breaking news!” the anchorwoman interrupted. “Police are just now responding to the site of a grisly discovery in the bay…”—the screen showed a night view from the Channel 7 chopper—“…where the disfigured body of a scuba diver was found banging against a seawall on Davis Islands…”

Serge finished watching the news from the couch in Gaylord Wainscotting’s living room. The set clicked off. He walked to the back of the dark house and saw a helicopter spotlight sweep over the water.

Three houses up, a squad of detectives combed Jim Davenport’s backyard.

“What kind of monster?…”

“I’ve never seen anything so horrible….”

Police divers were in the water. They finished securing the
corpse to a special litter. One gave the thumbs-up. Others began hoisting.

A uniformed officer approached the detectives in charge. “Just got an ID. McGraw, Lyle.”

They watched the body come over the wall.

“Anyone who’d do such a thing is a complete psycho,” said Sadler.

“I’m not even sure what I’m looking at,” said Mayfield.

“A floater. They all bloat like that.”

“Not like
that
,” said the coroner, bending down for a closer look at the human puffer fish. “He hasn’t been dead long enough for gases to build up from decomposition.”

“Then what caused?—”

“I know what it looks like,” said the coroner, “but there’s no possible way.”

Silence.

The coroner looked up. They were waiting.

“At least I
hope
it’s not what I think.” The coroner stood. “You heard rumors about terrorists planning to use scuba divers to attach magnetic bombs to the hulls of our ships?”

A few nods.

“Then you may also have heard those leaked reports about classified military programs training dolphins to patrol our ports, because their sonar is better than our most advanced hydrophones.”

“But we don’t have any dolphins around here like that,” said Sadler. “Right?”

“That’s where it gets tricky,” said the coroner. “The Navy denies it, but there’s word of a special training facility in Key West.”

“And?”

“They came up a couple dolphins short after Hurricane Wilma.”

“Holy mother…”

“I don’t understand,” said Mayfield. “Even if a dolphin detects a scuba diver, how does it stop him, let alone cause this kind of mess?”

“The dolphins are fitted with a special weapon,” said the coro
ner. “Believe me, it’s one of the last ways you want to go.”

“What kind of special weapon?”

EARLIER THAT NIGHT

“Serge,” said Coleman, “my arms are getting tired.”

“Just keep rowing.”

“Why can’t
you
row?”

Serge scanned the water off the starboard side with a night-vision monocular. “Because I’m on lookout—and I have to operate Serge’s New Secret Weapon. It’s a lot to deal with in a canoe.”

Oars splashed in the moonlit bay. “I still don’t understand how that thing works. All I know is you destroyed my laughing-gas dispenser.”

“Your sacrifice for the community is duly noted.”

“But it cost me ten bucks at a Bourbon Street head shop.”

“It only made you fall down a lot.”

“That’s the whole point.”

“Shhhhhhhhhhh!”

Coleman stopped rowing. “What is it?”

Serge peered over the side. “We have activity.”

For the last hour, their canoe had slowly made its way east from a boat launch across the harbor at Ballast Point, until they were now fifty yards off Davis Islands. In the green glow of Serge’s nightscope, a figure in a black wet suit silently swam toward the seawall behind the Davenport residence.

The scope following a trail of bubbles. “Row to the right…. A little more…Okay, stop.” Serge reached into the bottom of the canoe. “Almost over the diver. We’ll drift the rest of the way with the tide.”

“Can you see him?”

“Perfectly.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Stopping. He knows we’re here.”

“So your plan’s ruined?”

“Naw, he just thinks it’s a coincidence. Couple of health nuts out
at night in a canoe. He’s trying to remain undetected until we pass.”

Serge grabbed his New Secret Weapon.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Looking up at us. Good. Otherwise this thing might glance off the scuba tank…. Come on, just a little farther…. Almost over him…alllllllmost…Now!”

Serge quickly raised the harpoonlike device and thrust it down into the water with his right hand. His left grabbed a short, makeshift length of PVC pipe that rose three-quarters of the way up the spear’s shaft, and gave it a fast twist.

Coleman cracked a Schlitz. “Where’d you get the idea for that thing?”

Serge maintained a firm two-handed grip as the pole jerked wildly. “Top-secret U.S. Navy program. Training dolphins in Key West to patrol ports for scuba-diving terrorists.”

“But dolphins are so nice,” said Coleman. “Would they actually attack a terrorist?”

“Not remotely,” said Serge, still gripping the pole. “So they make a game of it by teaching dolphins to playfully tap their handlers in the chest with a small cylinder attached to their snouts.” He jerked the weapon out of the water and laid it back in the bottom of the canoe. “The cylinders are empty during training. But during live patrol, they’re loaded with a capsule of highly compressed gas and fitted with a spring-loaded needle. Very effective. And messy, one of the worst ways to go…”

The bloated diver bobbed to the surface like a cork, quivering next to the canoe.

“…Chest cavity inflates with a massive amount of air, rupturing whatever internal organ took the needle and slowly crushing surrounding ones….”

“I think he’s trying to yell.”

“Going to be hard with collapsed lungs.”

Coleman finished his beer and watched the diver twitch with after-tremors. “But how did you make one of those secret Navy weapons from my nitrous dispenser?”

“You know how you stick the whip-it canisters inside the dis
penser and twist it to puncture the seal, filling those balloons you suck to get high?”

“In my sleep.”

“I just substituted one of those carbon-dioxide canisters they use in paint-ball guns. Same size. And where the balloon usually goes, I welded a glue syringe from The Home Depot. Then I mounted the whole thing on the end of a broomstick, and slipped a length of PVC plumbing pipe over it so I could twist the puncture mechanism from a safe distance….”

The motionless diver began drifting away.

“…And from there, the science of hydraulics takes over. Wait, not exactly hydraulics because fluids don’t compress like gas. Hey, I just flashed on another installment of Great Moments in Florida Hydraulics History.”

“Go for it.”

“Remember when Disney World first opened Hall of the Presidents?”

“The robots only went up to Nixon then.”

“Good one, Coleman. Impressed you retained that.”

“I was on acid, and Nixon’s cheeks turned into a killer octopus.”

“True fact: The hydraulic fluid they originally used in the robots was red. But soon after the curtains went up on the exhibit, they switched to clear.”

“Why?”

“During one of the first shows, Abraham Lincoln is in the middle of his speech, and a hydraulic line busts. All this red stuff starts spraying like a Monty Python skit. Audience is horrified. They thought Disney was doing the assassination.”

Coleman resumed paddling as the tide banged the diver against the seawall. “Why do you remember stuff like that?”

Serge grabbed his own pair of oars. “It keeps me happy.”

COZUMEL

A
nother perfect day in paradise. Local merchants began to drool. Ten minutes earlier, an arriving cruise ship had a massive bowel movement of tourists, who would soon clog the streets with American currency.

The G-Unit was on a roll. The night before, Edna hit two hundred bucks on a slot, and Eunice scored another eighty at blackjack. Time to throw around a little of that cash. They shopped and ate and lounged at a sidewalk café that served margaritas in glasses the size of goldfish bowls. Then more kiosks and haggling into the siesta hours, until it was time to head back. Which meant the duty-free shop.

Edith hunched over a park bench, jamming vodka deep into a jumbo straw tourist purse with Mexican flags and sun gods.

From behind: “Edith!”

“I’m not doing anything!”

Steve and the other ballroom guys walked toward them with those toothy smiles. “Love the T-shirt.”

Edith looked down at her oversized tie-dye: 51%
ANGEL
, 49%
BITCH
.
DON’T PUSH IT
. She looked up. “Thanks for the champagne.”

“Me?” Steve said coyly.

“What are you doing here?” asked Edna.

“Same thing as you. Shopping. Find anything good yet?”

Edith opened her straw bag. “Just booze.”

“Have to fix that,” said Steve. “We can’t allow you to leave without a real piece of the Yucatán. I know these great little out-of-the-way shops….”

An hour later, the women lugged bulky bags crammed with native gifts. A chicken ran by. They entered a deserted store at the end of an alley.

One shopping bag was lighter than the rest.

“Why aren’t you getting stuff?” asked Eunice.

Edith picked up a knight from a hand-carved Aztec chess set. “Haven’t seen anything I like yet.”

“So what? Those guys are paying.”

A grinning salesman appeared from nowhere. “You like chess set? Special price. Fifty dollars.”

She put the knight down. “I don’t play chess.”

“Special price for new players. Ten dollars.”

“You just said fifty.”

“Five dollars.”

“I don’t know….” She picked up a piece of onyx.

The salesman smiled. “You like hash pipe? Twenty dollars.”

Edith set it down.

“…Three dollars…”

She nearly crashed into Steve on the way out of the shop.

He smiled again, arms behind his back. “Pick a hand.”

“What?”

“Just pick.”

“Okay, the left.”

Steve produced a gift-wrapped box the size of a toaster.

“For me?”

“Saw you were having trouble deciding, so I got a surprise. Something I know you’ll love.”

Edith raised it to her right ear.

“No!” Steve’s arms flew out. “Don’t shake it!”

“Fragile?”

“Very.”

The other women gathered around.

“This is so exciting….”

“Wonder what it could be….”

Edith grabbed the tail of a ribbon and began to pull.

“Don’t open it here,” said Steve. “Wait till you’re back on the ship. You’ll have a special treat to look forward to.”

She held it toward him. “I can’t accept this.”

Steve sternly pushed it back. “You must.”

“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.