Torpedo Juice

by Tim Dorsey

  Walter canvassed the crowd. Nobody saw anything. He found the manager.

  “And you say nothing unusual happened tonight?”

  “Only a plumbing leak.” The manager remembered that one of his dishwashers was smoking outside by the garbage cans and heard something. “Alfonso! Get over here!”

  A thin young man in a hairnet walked up. He was trying to grow a mustache. “…No, just crashing sounds, things breaking, shouts.”

  “And you didn’t go look?”

  “The parking lot always sounds like that.”

  Gus rounded up three drunk roofing salesmen he’d found staggering down by the tiki hut, calling into the night for their missing buddy. They now leaned with their backs against the patrol car for balance.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Someone found a bunch of money in the parking lot and he went to claim it.”

  “Was it his?”

  “Not really.”

  An evidence tech with surgical gloves dropped a muddy Sebago Clovehitch into a clear bag.

  “That’s his shoe!” yelled one of the salesmen.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” said Gus. “I have more questions.”

  Walter was directing a forensic photographer to a just-found pattern of blood spray on the side of the building. “Right over here.” Revolving blue and red lights swept across the dark wall. Gus walked up. “I think we have an ID on the victim.” Walter looked at his partner, then at the red splatter. A camera flash went off. Walter started laughing.

  “You find this funny?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m still thinking about the Mr. Bill drawing on your dick. You’d laugh too if you saw the photos.”

  “Photos?”

  “The waitress at the café had printouts. Your wife took pictures while you were asleep.”

  “Printouts?”

  “From the Internet.”

  HEADLIGHTS PIERCED THE fog and a salt mist that hung over the road under a harvest moon. The Buick Riviera sailed back up the Keys shortly before midnight.

  Serge’s face glowed green from the instrument panel curled around the steering column in that vintage Buick design. He drove casually with one hand. His right arm was over the seat back, slowly inching toward Molly, who was bunched up against the opposite door. He addressed the passenger compartment in general: “Figured we’d top off this great evening with a nightcap at the No Name. What do you say?”

  Nothing from Molly. Odd sounds from the backseat. Serge looked in the rearview, but didn’t see anyone. “Hey, what are you kids doing?” He turned and craned his neck for a look. “Uh-oh.”

  Dark islands passed beneath. Serge kept glancing across the front seat at Molly. What an angel! Almost looked lifelike with that green instrument patina on her face. Serge pretended to yawn. He stretched and extended his arm farther across the seat back. Molly made herself as flat as possible against her door, like people in a prehistoric sci-fi movie when the T. Rex sticks its head in the cave but can’t quite reach them, and then, for some reason, one of the minor characters carelessly steps forward and the dinosaur bites him head first and drags him out kicking and screaming.

  “I won’t bite,” said Serge. “Why don’t you come a little closer?” He patted the vinyl bench seating between them.

  Molly stayed put.

  “You’re going to fall out of the car like that,” said Serge. “This thing’s pretty old. I can’t vouch for the latches.”

  She released her grip on the door and sat stiffly in the seat. Serge’s fingers tiptoed toward her. They both stared ahead, cresting another bridge with a rhapsodic view across the night water, twinkling lights from homes along the western bank of Ramrod. Serge’s hand slithered. Easy now, almost there. The sounds from the backseat grew louder. Serge peeked out the corner of his eye. His hand was now hovering over Molly’s shoulder, Neil Armstrong looking for a place to land on the Sea of Tranquility. The Buick started rocking on the springs. Serge eased his hand down. Two inches, one inch. Steadyyyyyyyy…

  Molly flinched slightly but didn’t pull away when Serge’s hand gently settled onto her shoulder. He released a breath of relief. Contact light, the Eagle has landed.

  Brenda erupted in the backseat: “Oh, my God! Oh yes! Fuck me!…”

  “Yikes!” said Serge, snatching his arm back and lunging for the radio dial. “How about some music?”

  “Oooooo, love to love you, baby, oooooo, owwww, ohhhh!…”

  Serge twisted the dial again.

  “I can see paradise by the dashboard light…”

  Another station.

  “Get down with the boogie, say, ‘Uhhh! Hahhh!’ Feel the funk y’all! Let it flowwwwww…”

  He turned the radio off and sat back with a nervous smile.

  The Buick stopped rocking. It was quiet again. Not for long.

  “Stop the car!” yelled Brenda. “Going to be sick!”

  Serge skidded onto the shoulder as he’d done a hundred times for Coleman. Brenda’s door flew open.

  Serge turned around in his seat. “Coleman! Be a gentleman! Hold her hair!”

  THE SCREEN DOOR at the No Name Pub flew open.

  “Serge!”

  Serge ran down the line of stools high-fiving. He turned around at the end. “Molly, this is the gang. The gang, Molly. You already know Coleman. Not pictured is Brenda, who’s hanging out of the car.”

  Coleman and Molly grabbed a table in the pool room. Balls clacked; the seven went in a side pocket. Pizzas came out of the kitchen.

  Serge went over to the juke and pushed coins in a slot. “Let’s see. So many to choose from. Can’t make a mistake. Have to pick the perfect tunes. Tunes are everything. Tunes affect emotions. Tunes change behavior. The wrong tunes could ruin everything. Which one, which one, which one? Let’s see what we’ve got here….” His finger ran down the glass. “…She’s waiting by the phone, he needs to be free, she’ll stab you in the back, he’s cryin’ on the inside, her body’s a danger zone, his heart’s on fire, she needs more lovin’, his watch is set to cheatin’ time, she never dances anymore, he wants one last chance, she’s takin’ a midnight train. Someone dies at the end of that one. In that song, it’s always raining. In that one, it’s not raining but the sun don’t shine. The horn section in that one gives me the nagging sensation I’ve forgotten to study for an exam. That one reminds me of costly errors in foreign policy….”

  “Pick a song!” yelled Coleman.

  “Okay, okay! There, that’s a good love song.” Serge hit B-12. Six times.

  He rejoined them at the table and sat sideways, appreciating the layout of the room, tapping along with the music.

  “Saturday night’s all right for fighting…”

  Molly studied his content profile. But all she could think about was the horror from the side of the restaurant. And just because some idiot had insulted her, like they always did.

  “Yes.”

  Serge didn’t hear her at first.

  “I said yes.”

  Serge turned. “Yes what?”

  “I’ll marry you.”

  Everyone at the bar startled at the outcry.

  “Yaaaaaahhhhooooooooooooooooo!!!!…”

  Serge jumped up and began doing the twist, singing along with the juke. “…Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day!…Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day!…”

  The commotion drew the owner out of the back room. “Serge! Get the hell off the pool table! What are you thinking?”

  Serge hopped down. He did the moonwalk, the hand jive, the chicken dance, the Iggy Shuffle. “…Sat-ur-day! Sat-ur-day!…” He threw imaginary dice, dunked an invisible basketball. He fell to his knees and threw his arms toward the ceiling.

  “She said yesssssssss!!!!!!”

  Sop Choppy walked over to Coleman. “What’s going on?”

  “I just got laid.”

  “No, I mean Serge.”

  “Oh, I think he’s engaged.”

  “No kidding?”


  The already festive mood inside the pub became reckless as the news spread. People bought rounds of drinks, toasted, got loud, went by to shake Serge’s hand. They pulled the newly betrothed couple out of their chairs and got them to dance. At least Serge was dancing. Molly just sort of stood there while Serge pogo-sticked in a circle around her.

  MOLLY GOT UP on her tiptoes to give Serge a quick peck goodnight.

  The Buick raced south on U.S. 1, Serge’s head out the window in the night breeze. He came back inside. “This is the best day of my life!”

  “I got laid.”

  “That’s right, you did! Congratulations! When was the last time?”

  “Last time what?”

  “Sex. You have had sex before, right?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “When?”

  “All the time. Yesterday morning, twice again in the afternoon.”

  “I mean with someone else.”

  “That doesn’t count?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then that would be”—Coleman began counting on his fingers—“the first.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope.”

  Serge slapped the steering wheel. “Hot damn! Now we really have to celebrate. But what can we do? It has to be extra special….”

  Coleman made a suggestion.

  “You read my mind.”

  Moments later, Coleman stared through hot glass at rotating corn dogs. “What would we do without convenience stores?”

  “You know who can’t go to convenience stores?”

  “Who?”

  “Barbra Streisand.”

  “That’s right. She’s a prisoner.”

  They carried their haul out to the car in five plastic bags and drove back to the trailer. Soon it was spread across the floor of Coleman’s mobile home. A Looney Tunes marathon came on. They toasted with Slurpee cups.

  “What about Brenda?”

  “That’s right. We should probably bring her inside before we forget.”

  “Next commercial.”

  They each grabbed an armpit and dragged Brenda up the steps. Coleman lovingly tucked her into one of the two single beds in the back of the trailer.

  He stood and smiled.

  Serge pointed. “What about JoJo?”

  Coleman looked at the tiny deer in the corner. “How can he sleep standing up like that?”

  “The people at the post office do it all the time.”

  “I’m going to put him in the other bed. Someday I want to get him some little clothes.”

  Coleman set the deer on its side and began tucking him in.

  “What’s all that red stuff on the blankets?” said Serge.

  “What?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what?’ You got ketchup everywhere.”

  Coleman looked at his hands. “I always forget napkins.” He wiped them on his pants, then smiled at Serge. Serge smiled back. Nothing could ruin this evening. They watched the beds like proud parents.

  “They’re so peaceful,” said Coleman.

  “Life is good.”

  24

  S UNLIGHT STREAMED INTO the trailer. Brenda’s eyelids fluttered.

  She rolled over and stuck her head under the pillow. “Oh, no.”

  One of her top ten hangovers. She remembered all of them. Her brain throbbed, her mouth felt like something had molted in it. Somehow she found the strength to raise her head. “Hey, this isn’t my room. Where am I?”

  Her head fell back on the pillow and her eyes closed. It gradually came to her. Coleman’s trailer. Then another delayed response. Something she’d just seen.

  She opened her eyes again. Over on the other bed. What the hell is that sticking out from under the blanket? Looks like a deer head.

  It is a deer head. And the blanket has a bunch of red stains. Brenda thought it was real, a local copycat of The Godfather. Probably someone after Coleman for a drug debt.

  “Jesus! That’s some seriously sick shit.” She laid her head back down and closed her eyes again.

  After a moment, she realized her arm was resting against something. Her hand felt along a large form in the bed next to her.

  Brenda’s eyes sprang open.

  JUST AFTER DAYBREAK, a Buick Riviera sped west on U.S. 1. Serge had already been up for two hours, reading the paper, watching early news on TV, anxiously checking out the windows to see when night would end, standing over Coleman and Brenda in bed, waiting for them to wake up so he’d have someone to talk to, but they never did. He finally gave up and hopped in the Buick for a solo breakfast run.

  Serge cleared the bridge on the return trip to Ramrod Key. He sipped orange juice and peeked inside the warm brown sack in his lap, taking a deep breath of McMuffin magic. The Buick made a left after the Chevron station.

  Serge pulled up to the trailer in a super mood. He got out of the car with a sack of fast food and thoughts of Molly.

  Brenda flew out the front door. “Ahhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh! Ahhhhhhhhh! I fucked Coleman! I fucked Coleman! I’m going to be sick!…”

  Serge smiled and tipped an invisible hat as she ran by. “Good morning.”

  “…I’ll never drink again! I swear to God!…” She grabbed the trunk of a sapwood tree and bent over retching.

  Coleman was sitting up in bed with clumped hair when Serge entered the room. JoJo looked around from the other bed. Serge held out the bag and smiled. “McMuffins.”

  Coleman grabbed an ashtray off the nightstand and excavated for roaches. “Where’s Brenda?”

  “Out in the yard.” Serge sat on the foot of the bed and passed a sandwich.

  “Thanks.” Coleman took a giant bite, chewing with open mouth. “Maybe I should get married, too. What do you think?”

  “Absolutely,” said Serge. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “If you hurry, you can propose right now before she leaves. That way, last night’s memory is still fresh.”

  “I think you’ve got something.” Coleman stuffed another bite in his mouth and threw the blanket off his legs.

  Serge set his own sandwich on the bed and savored the unwrapping process. He heard the front door creak as Coleman went outside. He took a bite and closed his eyes. “Mmmmmm. Unbelievable! Never ate anything so good in all my life!” He opened his eyes and looked at JoJo. “That’s because I’m in love. Everything they say about it is absolutely true. Food tastes better. Colors are more vivid. The air is like candy gas….”

  Serge and JoJo turned toward the racket coming through the front wall of the trailer.

  “…No! Fuck no! I wouldn’t marry you if it meant eternal life! I renounce what happened last night as the most repulsive experience in human history! It was worse than eating maggots! I’d rather be buried alive in shit!…”

  Serge and JoJo went to the door. People were now on the front steps of trailers along both sides of the road. Brenda stood several feet in front of Coleman. She had stopped yelling and was now repeatedly spitting at him as fast as she could work up saliva. Of course she was too far away, so she dropped to the ground and began packing dirt balls with shaking hands.

  Serge and JoJo walked up next to Coleman. “What’s going on?”

  A dirt ball hit Coleman in the chest. “I think she needs more time.”

  Brenda collapsed facedown in the yard and kicked her legs. “I just want to fucking die….”

  The neighborhood watched as Brenda eventually got up and staggered off down the street.

  “You know, I have this weird sensation,” said Serge. “Like we’re forgetting something.”

  Brenda stopped in the middle of the road and spread her arms wide in front of a dump truck. The truck hit the brakes and drove around her. She stumbled away crying.

  “I know what you mean,” said Coleman. “I have the same feeling. But what can it be?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s been bothering me all morning.”

  They looked at each other, then at the sky, then over at the Buick’s low-
riding trunk.

  A RED FLAG with a diagonal white stripe snapped in the morning breeze.

  The first dive boat of the day was returning. It rode a pair of silver pontoons and had a large, flat deck for all the scuba tanks and tanned people casting aside wet-suit tops. They were pumped from the morning run, endorphins, laughing, cracking beers, holding hands apart to represent the girth of barracuda and moray eels. The boat idled down an oolite canal cut through Ramrod and docked behind the Looe Key Reef Resort.

  The “resort” label was a little dated, considering all the newer, sterile behemoths that had gone up in the last twenty years. More of a raggedy old Florida roadside motel, which was better. It had survived to become the last genuine diver’s joint. The back doors of the rooms opened right onto the dock; out the front doors was the tiki hut on the shoulder of U.S. 1. It was a big hut, as tikis go, and it was legendary. Every seasoned diver had done time there. The bar was always cranking, night, day, hurricane evacuation.

  Three used-car salesmen climbed off the morning boat and headed for the thatched roof. They were the only ones still wearing wet-suit tops. The one worn by the chief partner of Pristine Used Motors was black and turquoise. He wore the wet-suit top for two reasons. First was the stud factor. He began sending free drinks to the women around the bar, and they began coming back. He decided to deliver the next drinks in person. He got off his stool with a rumrunner in each hand and slimed over to a pair of sorority sisters from Georgia Tech.

  The women reluctantly accepted the glasses.

  He hopped on the stool next to them. “Fuck me if I’m wrong, but haven’t we met before?”

  That was the other reason for the wet-suit top. Drinks easily washed off.

  A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA emerged from a side street on Ramrod Key and pulled onto U.S. 1.

  Coleman looked out the passenger window as they passed the Looe Key Reef Resort. “Why don’t we just dump him in the mangroves like everyone else does?”