Atomic Lobster (24 page)

PORT OF TAMPA

B
y sundown, the cruise terminal had calmed. Feds had hoped to find more coke-filled statues, but no luck. They currently finished mopping up a drug shipment so small it wasn’t worth the paper for a press release. The only remaining drama was the cruise-line official annoying everyone about when he could release the ship.

A phone rang. The agent in charge answered. “…Actually, just about done…. What?…Where’d you hear—Yes, sir. Immediately.” He began yelling before the phone was hung up: “Clear the building! Now!”

Someone sealing an evidence box: “But—”

“Drop everything! Code Orange!”

The cruise exec stood stupid. “What’s going on?” Agents grabbed him under the arms, feet barely skimming the ground as he was hustled outside.

A convoy of black sedans raced up to the cruise terminal. Doors flew open. Men and women in tourist attire fanned out with concealed submachine guns and circled the building. Then they casually sat on benches and read newspapers.

Next: three large vans, United Asbestos Removal. They hopped the curb and raced up a pedestrian walkway to the entrance. Back doors flew open. Hazmat teams rushed inside with airtight helmets and portable breathers.

Another speeding sedan arrived from the opposite direction. Two more feet hit the ground: the new case agent in charge, who’d just Lear-jetted down from Washington. She was on a satellite-encrypted phone to northern Virginia. “Affirmative. We have a hot zone…. Activate Foxtrot…”

Serge continued through the house on crisis-prevention patrol. He reached the den and inspected empty hinges. “Where the heck did the door go?” He moved on to the kitchen, sighed and hit a grease fire with an extinguisher. He opened a sliding glass door and stepped onto the patio.

Back in the living room, an unblinking ex-Steelers player slid plastered along one of the walls like he was at the edge of a cliff. His right arm was in a sling, a brown paper bag clutched to his chest. He felt behind him and found the doorknob to a closet. His eyes darted one last time, and he jumped inside. The closet door closed; the front door of the house opened. In walked someone missing his left hand.

Serge circled the pool out back—
“No running!”
But it looked like things were finally leveling off. He began to relax.
Wait
.
What’s that noise?
Loud, destructive and continuous. Not good. He followed the sound across the backyard. Where
was
it coming from? He opened a gate on the side of the house and approached the smaller, stand-alone building beside it. The racket grew louder as Serge reached down for a handle and pulled up the garage door.

“Coleman! Cut that thing off!”

Too loud.

“Coleman!”

Futile.

Serge yanked an electric plug from a socket. The room went silent. Coleman and Lenny looked around in puzzlement.

“Over here!” yelled Serge.

Coleman raised the safety visor on his helmet. “Hey, Serge. What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I’m still processing data.”

The den’s missing door lay flat across two lumber horses; Lenny at one end with a T-square, Coleman at the other with a power saw.

“Okay, I give up,” said Serge. “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? Making a bong.”

“Why do you need to destroy a door to make a bong?”

Coleman and Lenny looked at each other and began giggling.

“What’s so funny?”

“Sorry,” said Lenny. “Didn’t mean to laugh. You don’t smoke pot, so there’s no possible way you could understand.”

Coleman flipped his visor down. “Lenny, plug that back in.”

“You got it.”

The noise resumed beneath a spray of sawdust. Serge stepped outside and lowered the garage door.

PORT OF TAMPA

The agent dispatched from Washington had worked her way up through the ranks, earning every promotion twice over because of gender. Denise Wicks. She’d begun straight out of college as a field operative. Europe was the traditional first step, where she quickly distinguished herself. The other agents were busy along the prime minister’s motorcade route, while she made the best of girl-duty, patrolling surrounding blocks in a Fiat. That’s when she caught a brief glint out of the corner of her eye. She circled back and slowed as she passed a street vendor’s kiosk. There, among thick bundles of flowers: the gleaming tip of a rocket tube. She looked in the other direction across a typical European square, people tossing coins in a fountain. A hundred yards beyond, the motorcade’s lead vehicle appeared at the far end of the pigeon-filled plaza. She looked at her walkie-talkie. No time. All up to her. She made a quick U-turn, hitting the Fiat’s gas pedal for a short burst and diving out the driver’s door at twenty miles an hour. The car and kiosk went up in a fireball.

Bruised and bleeding, she fled the scene and was picked up by an unmarked TV-repair truck before local police arrived. Never officially happened. After that, the spy world’s hot spots were her oyster. Indonesia, Lebanon, Colombia. Wicks was so good they sent her
back to Washington to be a supervisor. Didn’t like it, but that was an order.

Hours after arriving in Tampa, she had the scene wired tight, “tourists” guarding the perimeter. People in moon suits swept the terminal; plastic sheets up everywhere to block view. Word inevitably leaked out. The media swarmed and drooled, then sulked at the press release about another ho-hum government asbestos removal. Wicks made another walk-through, triple-checking that everything stayed on the rails. A cruise executive buzzed around her like a mosquito.

“When are you going to let us release the ship?”

“Be patient.”

“But we’re losing a fortune. The passengers are driving us nuts!”

“Have to make the terminal safe,” said Wicks.

“What’s that got to do with my ship?”

“We’re setting up a temporary Customs checkpoint under a tent on the dock. Shouldn’t take long.”

“But the ship’s
leaving
.”

“Regulations.”

“This is bullshit. I want to talk to someone in charge.”

“I’m in charge.”

“Can’t we work something out? What do you want?”

“I want you to be quiet.”

The executive stewed. Wicks caught something muttered under his breath:
“…woman…”

“On second thought,” said the agent. “When was the last time you had a Coast Guard inspection?”

“Last month. We’re not due again until January.”

“New program. Additional random checks.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I’m sure she’ll pass with flying colors. Only takes three or four days, unless there are violations. Then who knows?”

“You can’t do this!”

She opened her cell phone and hit a stored number. “Captain Greene, this is Wicks—”

“Okay, wait. Stop. I’m sorry. Anything you want.”

“Have to call you back…” Wicks closed the phone. “Anything?”

“Name it.”

“I’d like you not to say another word, go back in your office, close the door and don’t come out until I say.”

The executive vanished.

Another agent had waited respectfully in the background. He stepped up. “Ship’s completely secured, just like you ordered. Won’t be going anywhere.”

“Yes, she will,” said Wicks. “I want her sailing thirty-six hours max.”

“But didn’t I just hear you tell that guy?—”

“Everything needs to return to normal as soon as possible. I want whoever’s behind this to think nothing’s out of the ordinary.”

“What do you have planned?”

“We’re going fishing.”

A commotion rippled through the crowded living room of the Wainscotting residence.

“Heads up!” yelled Coleman, carrying one end of a trimmed-down door.

“Coming through!” shouted Lenny, holding the other.

They entered the den.

A local affiliate TV truck sat outside the port. The cameraman pressed his right eye to the rubber viewfinder. They were going live.

“…So if you have cruise reservations out of Tampa, plan arriving early for long lines at the temporary Customs tent until the emergency asbestos removal is complete. At the Port of Tampa, this is Jessica Thompson for Action Eyewitness News 7.” She lowered her microphone and her smile. “We good?”

The cameraman nodded.

Farther along the curb, more news trucks: “…Get here extra
early for expected Customs delays…” “Officials advise arriving at the port at least two hours…”

Agent Wicks was in a surprising moment of contentment. Rarely had a campaign of media disinformation gone so smoothly.

A white Lincoln pulled to the curb. A woman in an equally white business suit got out with a briefcase. “Agent Wicks?”

“Yes?”

“Madeline Joiner, Caribbean Crown Line.”

“How can I help you?”

“By letting me apologize for Stan. He can be a little rough around the edges.”

“Stan?”

“The guy who’s afraid to come out of his office.”

“He’s still in there?”

“Whatever you said scared him witless.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“In Stanley’s case it’s a good thing. But he really needs to go to the bathroom.”

WAINSCOTTING RESIDENCE

A
fight broke out by the pool. A clown crashed through a sliding glass door. Two mimes jumped on him.

Serge sensed something was wrong.

The living room listed out of balance, the crowd’s center of gravity near the doorless den. Partygoers were abuzz as Serge pushed his way through.

“It’s absolutely incredible.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Must be some kind of world record.”

“Their names are Coleman and Lenny.”

The disorganized mob tapered quickly into a single-file waiting line that ran along the living room’s north wall and through the den’s entrance. Serge went inside, the smoke haze even soupier than before. He reached the front of the line.

Coleman prepared to flick his lighter again. “Now serving number forty-three!”

The next person handed Coleman a ticket and bent over to suck a plastic pipe.

“Hey, Serge,” said Lenny.

“Great news,” said Coleman.

“Our bong…”

“…It works!”

The line moved slowly but efficiently. People walked away holding full lungs; the next lucky contestant stepped up.

“
That’s
a bong?” said Serge.

“Biggest I’ve ever made,” said Coleman. “Lenny, take the lighter….”

“Ten-four.”

Coleman cut through the line and stood beside Serge, pointing out respective groundbreaking features. “We sawed the door for a perfect fit, then squeezed a continuous bead of silicone bathroom caulk around the edge and pressed it down on top of the hundred-gallon aquarium for the crucial airtight seal. We also predrilled two holes for the PVC inhale pipe and the three-quarter-inch galvanized shower stem….”

“Shower stem?”

“That’s the water you hear running in the other room. We’ll put it back when we’re finished. The stem holds the bowl, which is the bottom half of that beer can containing a full quarter ounce of radioactive Gainesville furry bud. Takes ten people to finish a single hit.” Coleman folded his arms and glowed with pride. The line ticked forward to another person.

Serge leaned to look inside the tank. The aquarium’s electric aerator bubbled at one end, the dope bowl at the other. “Those fish look awfully crowded.”

“Lowered the water level to optimize smoke-chamber volume ratio.”

“The angelfish are swimming sideways.”

“They’re getting fucked up, too, gills filtering tetrahydrocannabinol, or THC, from the pot bubbles…. Watch this….” Coleman returned to the front of the line and held up the next person. “Just be a sec.” He grabbed a cardboard tube of fish food and tapped it into the plastic inhale stem. Then he put his mouth over the end and blew in the opposite direction. Food flakes shot into the tank. A frenzy.

“Like piranha,” said Serge.

“Fish munchies,” said Coleman. “Another revolutionary feature. Their thrashing changes the gas-distribution model and increases dope potency, like those new tornado-carburetors that super-charge V-8 engines.”

“Coleman,” said Serge. “How can you be like you are the rest of the time and yet so smart about this pointlessness?”

“What do you mean?”

On the opposite side of the living room, a lone person returned from the bathroom. He stood apart from the crowd, filling a paper plate with crackers and scooping the center of a cheese ball to avoid the nut coating. A Wheat Thin went in Jim Davenport’s mouth. He looked out the glass doors at the pool, where a knot of sports fans by the keg blocked his view of an immense man with no left hand working his way through the property on search-and-destroy. Jim looked another way and became curious about the commotion on the other side of the living room. He popped a final cracker in his mouth, dusted his hands and walked over to the back of the line snaking along the wall. “What’s going on?”

“Some dudes made a radical bong from an aquarium!”

“Really? Wow. What’s a bong?”

A glass door to the pool slid open. Cowboy boots clomped onto glazed Mexican tiles. Tex had acquired the target. He moved in a wide circle around the edge of the living room for a flanking assault.

Jim was on tiptoes, straining to see into the den.

Tex McGraw silently eased along the north wall. He closed to within twenty feet. A .44 revolver came out from under his shirt. Fifteen feet, ten…The target was still oblivious, leaning against the same wall, just on the other side of a door. McGraw stepped in front of the door and extended his arm. The barrel of the pistol neared the back of Jim’s head. Point-blank. McGraw grinned wickedly. He began pulling the trigger. He paused and sniffed the air. What’s that funky smell? Memories of his meth-country roots. He turned toward the slats of the closet door next to him. It smells like…ether…

Ka-boom!

The house’s foundation rocked. The shock wave knocked the closest people down like candlepins. Serge ran out of the den. “What the fuck was that?”

The ex-Steeler’s free-basing explosion in the closet had blown the door to pieces. It just missed Jim, but sent McGraw tumbling across the room. Splattered chemicals triggered a flash fire. Smoke
detectors chirped painfully. Flames licked the ceiling, and panicked guests ran screaming with singed eyebrows.

“Serge,” said Coleman, picking up his spherical TV. “Does this mean the party’s over?”

“You idiot! Come on!”

They joined the multidirectional stampede for any exit that wasn’t blocked. People collapsed coughing on the front lawn. Sirens whooped up the street. Hoses unrolled. Firefighters raced in with axes. A side door flew open, banging against the house. Tex McGraw stumbled out and limped away in shredded clothes.

Joiner walked along the dock with Agent Wicks. “Mind if I ask something else?”

“You want to know when the ship can leave?”

“Actually that was my second question, if the first went well.”

“Shoot.”

“A bunch of passengers want to cancel their trip. Can we let them off?”

“They’re almost finished with the temporary tents.”

“But they just went through Customs yesterday to get on, and never left port.”

“Doesn’t matter. Remember the Chilean crew smuggling heroin paste? We clear everything that comes off the ship, but not the ship itself. Once passengers step back aboard, they’re recontaminated. Might as well have walked into another country.”

“Understandable…”

In the background, shouting from the promenade deck, breaking glass, shrill sobs.

“…But we need to do something,” said Joiner. “Delayed passengers don’t have a good shelf life.”

Crash. Bang.
Motherfucker!

“I’m in a real jam here,” she continued. “The home office will decide within the hour whether to cancel the whole cruise, not to mention the next incoming ship that’s doing circles at sea.”

“Cancel?” Wicks hid her concern at the possibility of the ship not sailing.

“It’s almost a done deal,” said Joiner. “If those disgruntled passengers get off, occupancy drops below the break-even point for fuel.”

“Wait,” said Wicks. “I have an idea to turn this around and make everyone even happier than before all this started.”

“How?”

“My department will subsidize your fares for the trouble we’ve caused. You offer fifty percent discounts to the passengers already on board and get back some of those cancellations. Then phone previous customers who live locally and offer vacated cabins at the same rate. Raffle whatever’s left to the public.”

“But that’ll cost a fortune. How can you afford it?”

“We’re the government. Remember after Katrina when we booked an entire fleet of ships at full price to stay in the New Orleans port for temporary housing? Next to that, this is a drop in the bucket. Promise to have you sailing by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“It’d be a great publicity stunt. And you’ll probably end up with even higher occupancy than you started with. Can’t hurt casino and bar revenue.”

“You know too much about our business.” Joiner smiled. “Who do you have to clear this with?”

“I don’t.”

“Look at the career on you!”

“Then it’s a deal?”

“Deal.”

Wicks looked toward the end of the dock. “That last news crew hasn’t packed up yet. Might get good play if you catch them.”

“Want to go on camera together?”

“Can’t. Go ahead and take credit.”

“Sure?”

“I insist.”

“I owe you.” Joiner headed for the journalists.

Wicks watched the camera lights come back on. Excellent, she thought, the perfect cover to get Foxtrot onboard.

One hour later. Serge and Coleman stood among a hundred rubber-neckers staring across Lobster Lane at a smoldering empty lot.

“Serge, look, the blast fixed my TV. What luck.”

Serge bit his lip.

Coleman noticed something in the grass. “Cool.” He reached down and picked up an unbroken Heineken thrown clean of the house.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said Serge.

“Releasing the pressure so it won’t foam.”

“No, I mean how can you drink at a time like this?”

The bottle hissed and shot suds. “Celebrating my crowning achievement.”

“Coleman! The house we were supposed to protect burned to the ground!”

“I know,” said Coleman. “When you throw a blowout and it ends with the whole place leveled, it means you left everything you had on the partying playing field! You had nothing more to give! Just wish Lenny were here to see it.”

“Dear God! You don’t mean he’s…”

Coleman nodded. “In big trouble. Left the house without telling his mom. Had to rush back.”