Atomic Lobster (21 page)

GULF OF MEXICO

T
he 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!”

DAVIS ISLANDS

M
artha 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.

Crickets.

Then, slowly, a sound at the end of the street. From around the corner, the reflection of headlights, and then headlights themselves, swinging south. Cooter ducked as the beams swept over the bushes. He checked his pistol’s magazine and safety. The vehicle stopped at the curb.

Cooter tightened his fingers around the pistol’s grip. The passenger door opened. He took aim and began squeezing the trigger. He stopped. What the—?

Empty beer cans flew onto the lawn.
“Wooooo! Steelers number one!”
Plump men in football jerseys piled out of the van. Someone in a black-and-yellow Afro wig threw a glass bottle against the side of the house. A security light came on.

“Dammit,” Cooter muttered under his breath. “These boobs are going to ruin everything!”

“Woooo! Steelers!”

Cooter jumped from the bushes and rushed down to the sidewalk. “Can I help you?”

Someone in a Super Bowl T-shirt looked at a scrap of paper. “Is this 888 Lobster Lane?”

“Yes.”

“You live here?”

“What do you want?”

“Your name Jim Davenport?”

“Look, fellas, it’s kinda late.”

Wham, wham, wham, wham. Kick, kick, kick. Wham, wham. They hopped back in the van and sped away from the man sprawled across the sidewalk.
“Steelers forever!”

DAVIS ISLANDS

T
he Davenports’ drive home was pressurized with domestic tension. Jim continued south on an empty island boulevard, just the distant red taillights up ahead from a Mercury.

“Martha—”

“That was revolting.”

“Please don’t let it ruin our evening.”

“I haven’t even gotten to the guy with the gun.”

Jim chose the correct strategy of not talking. Five blocks ahead, the Comet’s taillights turned onto Lobster Lane.

The Mercury raced up the street and skidded to a stop in front of 888. Serge got out as if an unconscious man on the sidewalk were perfectly normal. He popped the trunk. “Coleman, give me a hand!”

Jim turned onto their street.

“Why are you slowing down?” asked Martha.

“Who’s that in front of our house?”

Serge slammed the trunk, jumped back in and sped off.

The marital chill continued as Jim parked in the driveway, and they went inside.

Numerous tires screeched in the street.

“What was that?” said Martha.

“I don’t know.”

The doorbell rang.

Jim looked through the peephole: a fisheye view of five men in black suits.

He opened the door. A silver badge. “Agent Boxer, FBI.” They came inside without invitation.

Jim followed. “What’s this about?”

“You remember the McGraw Brothers?…”

Jim and Martha flinched at the mention.

“…The last one just got released from prison.”

“Oh, I understand now,” said Jim. “You’re supposed to notify victims.”

“It’s a little more than that.” The agent looked around the room. “Got a VCR?”

Jim opened an oak cabinet concealing the entertainment system. The agent pulled a video from his jacket and inserted it. He picked up four remote controls, studied the buttons, and handed the pile to Jim. “This is different from my system. Can you start the tape?”

“Sure…”

The show began. Tex McGraw stood alone in a dingy garage.

“We routinely get thousands of tapes,” said Boxer. “Most are just garden-variety loons. Crazy threats, conspiracy theories, loners documenting empty lives, like public-access TV. Ninety-nine percent are just barking dogs that don’t bite.”

On screen, McGraw plugged an electrical cord into a socket, triggering a loud, buzzing sound.

“What are you trying to say?” asked Jim.

“This tape’s different. We intercepted it on the way to the office of the prosecutor who put him in prison.”

“He made some really bad threat?”

“No. He didn’t make any threat at all,” said Boxer. “In fact, he didn’t even say a word. Those are the worst threats. We’ve gotten a few of these in the past, mainly militia nuts upset about Waco and Ruby Ridge.”

“I don’t—”

“Just watch.”

“What’s he doing placing his own hand under that circular saw?”

“Turn it off,” said Boxer. “You don’t need to see any more. I think you get the picture.”

Jim trembled. His fingers lost dexterity, hitting wrong buttons. The scene on TV only got worse.

“Turn it off!” yelled the agent.

“I’m trying.” More wrong buttons. Video hideousness.

Martha screamed.

The agent grabbed the remote, but it was different from his system.

McGraw held his severed left hand in his right, and threw it. Boxer ran to the TV and reached for the power button. The bloody hand hit the screen. The television went black.

“Geez, I’m awfully sorry,” said Boxer. “You weren’t supposed to see that part.”

Martha cried softly on the couch; Jim stood numb.

Boxer popped the tape out of the VCR. “We just wanted you to grasp the level of danger you’re in.”

“But how am I involved?” asked Jim. “You said the tape was sent to the prosecutor.”

“Our best profiler worked around the clock to decipher his intentions. We theorize he’s working his way down a revenge list.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He also sent us a letter: ‘I’m working my way down a revenge list.’”

“God,” said Jim.

“Your name was on it. So was the defense attorney whose body we just found. Dental records.”

“But why on earth would he cut off his own hand?”

“Psychological warfare,” said Boxer. “He’s on a suicide run. ‘If I’ll do this to myself, imagine what I’ll do to you.’ Trying to scare us.”

Jim fell into a chair. “It’s working.”

“The Bureau can give you protection, but it would be better if you left town.”

“Leave town?” said Martha.

“Maybe take a cruise,” said Boxer. “We’ve seen these extreme, revenge-obsessed types before. They’ll stop at absolutely nothing.”

“Then we’ll always be running,” said Jim.

“We’ll catch him,” said Boxer. “Just foiled a plot against an arresting officer. Grabbed one of Tex’s kin in a restaurant where McGraw told him to kidnap the officer and bring him to this empty piece of property where we discovered the lawyer’s remains.”

“Why is he making relatives take people into the woods instead of just killing them on the spot himself?”

“So he can have fun.”

The doorbell again.

“I’ll get that.” Boxer turned the knob. More dark suits. Another badge.

“Agent Garfield, Secret Service.”

“The Secret Service is interested in the McGraw case?” said Boxer.

“Who’s McGraw?” Garfield reached in his jacket and pulled out a clear bag with two hundred-dollar bills. “Jim Davenport?”

“That’s me.”

“You passed counterfeit notes at a restaurant tonight.”

Serge did his best work when it was dark and isolated. He slid his hands into rubber gloves, grabbed heavy-gauge cutters and began snipping wires. Unseen interstate traffic zipped by on the other side of a berm. Nobody around except Coleman and their surprise guest from the trunk, who was seated twenty yards away, trying to scream with a washcloth stuffed in his mouth.

Another snip. “Why do they always resist like that?”

A beer tab popped. “Serge, we don’t have a key to turn this thing on.”

“And that’s when most people give up. But not Serge.” He whittled the insulation off a pair of just-cut cable. “Notice how the activation key goes into the padlocked control box? That’s their so-called security feature: You turn the key and, inside the box, it completes the electrical connection that starts everything up. But the wires whose circuit the key completes lead nakedly out the bottom of the box.” Serge held a stripped wire in each gloved hand. He touched
them together. Sparks. Then a flurry of mechanical movement in the background. Serge separated wires. Movement stopped. “Now for my final preparations.” He grabbed his tote bag, opened the chain-link gate and stepped over a knee-high barrier.

Their guest’s muted screams grew louder as Serge approached and set the bag on a concrete floor. Cooter McGraw squirmed furiously, but it was futile with all the ropes and knots and safety straps fastening him into the bucket seat. An impish smile spread across Serge’s face as he narrated the emptying of his supply bag: “Steel-wool scouring pads, double-sided tape, nine-foot length of bare copper wire, big magnet, spare gas can. Your mind must be going in ten directions. What on earth can Professor Serge be up to? I love a good mystery, don’t you? That’s why I never just shoot a guy. Okay, I do, but only if I’m running late.” Serge began taping steel-wool pads all over the man’s shirt. “I like to be a proper host and entertain. And, just to be fair, I’ll usually provide a slim way out of the jam I’m creating. In this case, it’s that pedal by your feet. If you’re really good, you could stave off disaster for hours, maybe even until someone arrives early for work in the morning and saves you.” He lifted the gas can and soaked the hostage. “But don’t give it full power from the natural panic that anyone would have in your situation.” Serge tied one end of the copper wire to the magnet and heaved it straight up, where it stuck to the ceiling of metal mesh. A strand of copper trailed back down and hung next to Serge, ending a foot above the floor. “My advice? Finesse the throttle. Less is more.” Serge clapped his hands together sharply. “What do you say we get started?”

More muffled screams.

“You’re excited, too? Great!” Serge hopped back over the barrier and ran to the control box.

“I still don’t get it,” said Coleman.

“Observe, Kato.” He grabbed a stripped wire in each gloved hand again. Coleman looked up at a darkened sign.
FUN-O-RAMA
. He looked back down at Cooter McGraw sitting in the middle of a fleet of silent bumper cars.

Serge twisted the wires together. The cars began moving ran
domly at idle speed, except for Cooter’s, which zoomed by at top velocity.

“You’re going too fast!” yelled Serge. “Finesse!”

“I don’t think he’s listening.”

“And you try to help people.”

Coleman turned away to light a joint against the wind. “So what’s the deal here?”

“You still don’t get it?”

Coleman shook his head.

“See how each car has a tall pole behind the driver’s seat with a curved metal runner at the top, scraping the metal mesh ceiling?”

Coleman nodded.

“The mesh is electrified. It’s how bumper cars get their power. If you find yourself soaked in gasoline with a bunch of steel wool taped to your chest—and in Florida that could happen at any time—the last thing you want to do is make a spark. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happens when you hit a live copper wire that some careless person left hanging from the ceiling by a magnet. Objective: Avoid the wire. Since he’s tied up and can’t steer, he’s got to use the throttle and work with the other cars….” Serge cupped his hands around his mouth. “Slow down! You’re never going to last!”

The car headed straight for the wire at top speed.

“Ease off the juice,” yelled Serge. “Synchronize it so that other car bumps you out of harm’s way.”

“He’s slowing down,” said Coleman. “The other car knocked him clear.”

“Here he comes again,” said Serge. “This time he’ll have to speed up to bounce off the other car and miss the wire.”

“Speed up!” yelled Coleman.

“He did it,” said Serge. “Not bad.”

Three more passes, three perfectly timed deflections.

“Nice work!” yelled Serge. “At this rate, he just might make it.”

“Look,” said Coleman. “He doesn’t see that other car coming up in his blind spot.”

“Watch out for that other—!”

The guys shielded their faces from the sudden light and heat.

Serge grabbed his car keys. “Let’s go. Rachael’s probably about to regain consciousness.”

“But I want to watch.”

“Don’t be disgusting.”