Torpedo Juice

by Tim Dorsey

  Five till seven. The seats almost full. The deputies stood in the back of the room by the punch bowl. Serge, Molly and Coleman arrived. Molly had a serving tray. She smiled at the deputies and peeled back cellophane. “Cookie?”

  Gus took two.

  Serge marched to the front of the room and grabbed chalk. He wrote across the blackboard in big letters. He set the chalk back in the tray and faced the class. Everyone became quiet. Over his head was the title of tonight’s lesson: TWELVE STEPS IN REVERSE: GETTING THE MOST FROM YOUR INNER MANIAC.

  This time Serge didn’t start talking right away. He paced with hands behind his back, staring in accusation. Some in the audience fidgeted and averted their eyes.

  “Why do you come to these meetings?” He let the question hang as he moved across the front of the room. Suddenly, he fell to the floor, flopping around and whining in a loud voice. “Because I’m a victim! Oh, please help me! I’m so fucked up!…”

  A young girl in the front row giggled.

  Serge jumped to his feet. “Did I say you could laugh?” He ran up fast until he was right in her face. “Shut the hell up! You’re a child. You don’t know shit! You think adults with problems are funny? You know how they get that way? They start like you, a smart-ass punk disrespecting underpaid teachers who are trying to hand you the keys to the world, thinking life’s going to bloom all by itself and wipe your ass with roses! You have no idea where you’re headed. But I do…” He began moving his hands over an imaginary crystal ball. “…I’m getting a picture now. A middle-aged woman with thirty-inch thighs and no health insurance working entry-level checkout, going home to a run-down rabbit warren full of TV Guides, pregnant offspring, paint-ball guns and a slob of a husband who can’t go look for another job just yet because he has to hurry up and finish these beers before the police drop by to break up your weekly slap-dance in the front-yard, dog-shit orchard. And you go back to that cash register, year after year, your anger growing in proportion to the success of the people coming through your line. Why are they so happy? Because they’re screwing you, that’s why! You can’t say exactly how they’re doing it because that’s part of the conspiracy. More years pass. You’re switching channels after dinner and happen to hear something that finally explains how none of this is your fault. You see, you’re a victim. You did nothing to deserve this. And you know what? They’re right. You did absolutely nothing. And one day you wake up and find yourself in one of these meetings you find so hilarious.”

  The girl was quaking. Serge saw some of the adults nodding and whispering. “Tough love.” “The boot camp method.”

  Serge erupted. “No! No! No! I hate tough love! Screw the boot camp! Are you crazy? That’s the last thing you should do to children! They need love! As much as you can give!” He walked over to the girl he’d just been yelling at. “You look like you could use a hug.”

  She nodded with glassy eyes.

  He helped her up by the hand and gave her a big squeeze. She sat back down with a quivering smile, wiping her eyes.

  “There,” said Serge. “Now go forth and be a nuclear physicist.”

  He faced the room as a whole and spread his arms. “The entire problem is this victim mentality. When did that start? Life’s not turning out the way they said it would when you were in first grade. You’re not the president or a movie star or playing center field for the Yankees. Guess what? They lied! Move on! You come from incredible stock! Immigrants who chewed through it all and spit it out with thanks: Ellis Island, Manifest Destiny, the dust bowls, Normandy, and for what? For a society that now encourages everyone to choose up excuse teams: My attention span’s a little off, sometimes I’m nervous, sometimes I’m tired, insults make me sad, I was unfairly labeled slow in school when I really just didn’t want to do any work, a diet of super-size French fries turned me into a human zeppelin, your honor, so I need to be given a lot of money….”

  A person standing along the back wall grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the refreshment table and picked up a pot of coffee.

  Serge stopped and pointed. “Put…the coffee…down!”

  The pot returned to its stand.

  “Just look at your speaker tonight,” Serge continued. “I’m a complete mess. But so was every successful person who ever got off the boat and climbed to the top. Watch those cable biographies for any length of time and you realize that the most accomplished people were every bit as weird as Son of Sam. The difference? Choice. Choosing to harness your peculiar energies. Me? I could be home right now giving into my all-consuming urge to construct the world’s largest ball of pencil shavings. But I choose not to. I choose to be here with you fine people. Sure, I’ve been thinking about it the whole time I’ve been standing up here, boxes of new pencils, electric sharpeners, the special adhesive you use, that twelve-year-old little fucker from Iowa who got on Leno with his pitiful five-foot ball that I’m sure had a false basketball core but just can’t prove it…. I forgot what I was talking about. Thanks for coming.”

  They gave Serge a standing-O as he walked down the aisle to the back of the room, taking up a position by the door to shake hands like a pastor.

  “Great talk…”

  “Loved it…”

  “So moving…”

  Molly couldn’t have been prouder of her husband. He was really helping people. How could she ever have doubted he was a social worker?

  Serge shook more hands. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “That’s very kind of you.” “Thank you….”

  Coleman walked over. “You’ve never said anything about pencil shavings. When did that start?”

  “While I was up there talking. I realized I’ve never been on the Tonight show…. Thank you…. Thank you very much….”

  The audience was almost completely gone, just the deputies left. Molly swept crumbs into the trash from her cookie tray.

  Gus shook Serge’s hand. “Enjoyed the talk, especially how you connected with the kids.”

  “Thank you.”

  Molly came up with her clean tray, and Serge took her by the arm.

  The deputies watched the couple leave the room, Coleman bringing up the rear.

  “Something’s not right there,” said Gus.

  “He was pretty strange.”

  “It’s not that,” said Gus. “I remember something from somewhere. Just can’t put my finger on it.”

  32

  T HE NIGHT WORE on. Only a few fishermen left on the bridge over Bogie Channel. One added fuel to a camping lantern. Headlights hit him. A late-model rental car rolled slowly over the span toward No Name Key.

  Gaskin Fussels came off the bridge barely above idle speed. No light except his high beams. A form appeared. Fussels hit the brakes. A miniature deer clopped across the road. Fussels’s heart pounded in his ears. The rental began moving again. It was quiet the rest of the way down the long, straight dark road. Fussels slowed when he came to the end of the no-trespassing driveway. The muscles in his arms resisted instructions to turn the steering wheel. His chest heaved. The fear of not continuing overrode the panic instinct, and he turned onto the dirt road. The overgrowth was thick, almost forming a canopy, full of glowing animal eyes. The sedan quietly pulled around the back of a stilt house. Fussels knew he couldn’t stop to think about it. He slipped out of the car and left the door ajar, creeping across the yard and tiptoeing up the stairs. He reached the sliding glass door and froze when he saw flickering light. Scarface playing on the big-screen TV with no volume. He cupped his face to the glass and scanned the room. Nothing. He grabbed the glass door’s frame and lifted carefully. He cringed when it made a loud metal snap, but at least it was out of the track. He was in.

  His skin was aflame, so much adrenaline it made a metallic taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t have been able to move at all, but Fussels was on autopilot now. His progress across the wood floor was ultraslow, setting each step, then adding the weight, fearing creaks in the boards that came with every movement. Finally, good news: There was
the ransom note, still sitting on the edge of the desk where the ship had been. Twenty feet away. Another step, another creak. Fifteen feet. Almost there. Ten. He wanted to reach with his arm and not risk more noise, but it was still too far. Another step…suddenly…

  Fussels’s feet flew from under him and he slammed to the floor with a tremendous thud. He found himself on his back in a pool of slick fluid that had caused the fall. He raised an arm; black drops fell from the sleeve. What the hell? He made his way back to his feet, concentrating on centering his weight like someone roller-skating for the first time. He was at the desk, the note easily in reach. Except he was still looking down at the floor. The fluid was dark and shiny in the moonlight coming through the giant hole in the roof. It trailed under the desk toward the wicker butterfly chair on the other side. The high-back seat was facing the opposite direction. Fussels used the desk for balance and started working his way around.

  A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA crossed the bridge to Big Pine and pulled up to a two-story, flat-roofed building with wasp-yellow trim. Coleman got out.

  Serge and Molly had gone home after the meeting at the community hall, and Coleman went partying. Now he was lonely. He wanted to see if Serge could come out and play.

  Coleman climbed the single staircase of Paradise Arms. He had a greasy white paper bag in his hand. He popped a jalapeño snap in his mouth and knocked on the door of apartment 213.

  No answer.

  He grabbed another snap and knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  Coleman bobbed his head to the memory of the last song from his car and stepped over to the window. He put his face to the glass and peeked through a slit where the curtains didn’t quite meet.

  “Oh, shit!”

  He pulled a canceled video card from his wallet and stuck it in the doorjamb. It took a little work, but Coleman eventually tripped the angled bolt. He ran inside.

  Serge was sitting in the middle of the living room in a wooden chair from the dining set, his back to the door. He looked over his shoulder. “Coleman! What are you doing here?”

  Serge was tied up, his hands bound behind his back, ankles strapped to chair legs. A thick-braid nylon rope was loosely looped a ridiculous number of times around his chest like the Penguin used to tie up Batman.

  Coleman rushed over and began undoing knots. “Don’t worry, buddy! Have you free in a second!”

  “Coleman! Get out of here! This is a game!”

  “It’s always a game with you!” Coleman freed the ankles. “Hang in there. Just a few more seconds…”

  “Coleman, you don’t understand—”

  “I’m not as stupid as you think.” Working the wrists now.

  A falsely deep female voice: “You’ve been a bad rebel soldier!”

  Serge and Coleman looked up at the bathroom door. It opened.

  Molly was completely naked except for the Darth Vader helmet and toy light saber. There was a brief moment of suspended animation when everyone silently stared at each other. Then time speeded up. Shrieks of horror rattled out of the helmet. One of Molly’s hands dropped the light saber and flew up to cover her breasts, the other shot down to the nexus of her legs. She ran crying into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  It was quiet again in the living room except for the light saber rolling across the wooden floor with a sound representing husbands in deep shit everywhere.

  Serge pushed Coleman away. “You idiot!” He finished untangling himself and ran to the bedroom. Molly was inconsolable, her head buried deep under the pillows. Serge caressed her back, but she wouldn’t stop crying. He removed the pillows and helped get the helmet off.

  It was no use, nothing Serge could say or do. Only more tears. He came out of the bedroom. Coleman was rummaging through the refrigerator.

  “I’m new to this marriage thing,” said Serge. “But I’m guessing this is the part where you need to leave.”

  “Let’s go someplace.”

  “Coleman, I’m married now.”

  Coleman closed the fridge. “Damage is done. You’ll only make it worse by staying here. I suggest you head to a bar with me and wait for this to blow over.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Do it for Molly.”

  THE WIND HAD picked up again, blowing the stout beginnings of a good rainstorm. Perfect drinking weather. The ’71 Buick Riviera pulled up to the No Name Pub. TV news was going in the background when Serge and Coleman came through the screen door and climbed on their favorite stools.

  “…A Wisconsin scuba diver was arrested just before dawn for public intoxication, burglary and other pending charges after breaking into the Key West Aquarium and spearfishing. The staff is mourning the loss of the lovable tarpon Bernie…”

  The owner was doing paperwork behind the bar. “Hey, Joe. How’s it going?”

  The owner didn’t look up. “Hey.”

  Serge turned to the others. “He’s usually in a good mood.” Then he noticed the two men in dark suits. They were standing at one of the walls, writing in notebooks.

  “Joe, who are those guys?”

  “IRS.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Counting the dollar bills. It’s considered income.”

  “…Another body was discovered inside a sand castle on Smather’s Beach. And from Duval Street, police are still puzzled by a Vermont man’s head injuries….”

  “Serge, that was a beautiful wedding,” said Sop Choppy. “How’s married life?”

  “Molly’s crying and refusing to come out of the bedroom.”

  “That’s normal,” said the biker. “What you need to do is wait it out in a bar. That’s what I always do.”

  “But you’re divorced,” said Serge.

  “Problem solved.”

  “Hey, Coleman,” said Bud. “Where’d you disappear to after the wedding? We were supposed to meet back here.”

  “Had a little trouble when I tried to return Serge’s tux,” said Coleman. “Gave me shit, like, they’re not for scuba diving or something.”

  “Get it straightened out?”

  “No, I had to run away.”

  Daytona Dave pointed at the TV. “Look!”

  A young female reporter appeared on the screen in a red rain jacket. She walked backward along a bridge railing, talking in her microphone. “This is Eyewitness Five correspondent Maria Rojas coming to you live from the Seven-Mile Bridge where an intense human drama is currently unfolding. Authorities have blocked off traffic while they attempt to talk a distraught woman out of committing suicide….” The reporter looked up the bridge, where a half dozen police spotlights converged at the top of the span. The cameraman focused over the reporter’s shoulder and zoomed in. A drenched woman had one leg over the railing.

  “Check it out,” said Coleman, popping a pretzel in his mouth. “It’s Brenda.”

  “You need to call the police,” said Serge.

  Coleman chewed and washed it down with some draft. “Why?”

  “Whenever a person is threatening suicide, they’re always looking to put them on the phone with someone close.”

  “Get Coleman a phone!” yelled Sop Choppy.

  A cell phone appeared. Bud Naranja hit nine-one-one and passed it to Coleman, who took a last quick sip and placed it to his ear.

  “Hello? Yes, I know the woman on the TV. No, not the reporter, the jumper…Right, I’d like to help. I think she may want to talk to me…. Her boyfriend…yeah, I’d say we’re pretty close…. I recently asked her to marry me. Sure, I’ll hold.” Coleman covered the phone. “They’re patching me through.”

  “Wait a second,” said Maria Rojas, placing a hand over the tiny speaker in her ear. “The woman seems to be yelling something. Let’s see if we can make it out….” The camera zoomed even tighter on the top of the bridge. The TV station turned up the volume on the directional microphone pointed at Brenda. The wind whipped strands of wet hair across her eyes. “I don’t want to live anymore!…I can�
�t face myself!…I…fucked…Coleman!…”

  The guys in the bar slapped Coleman on the back. “Way to go, dude!”

  Coleman grinned, then waved them off. “Shhhh! I think they’re putting me through!”

  On TV, a police negotiator held a waterproof phone at the end of a long pole. He inched toward Brenda, urging her to take it. Brenda finally agreed and answered it tentatively.

  “Uh, hello?”

  “Hey, baby!” said Coleman. “What’s shakin’?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Coleman! Your sugar daddy! Remember our special night?”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  The cameraman pointed over the side of the bridge to catch Brenda’s fatal plunge into the stormy sea.

  It was like a tomb inside the pub. Coleman quietly closed the cell phone and picked up a pretzel. The others stared at the floor and the ceiling. Rain pattered.

  The station cut to an older man behind an anchor desk. “We must remind our viewers that Eyewitness Five news brings you the best in live, unedited coverage and cannot be responsible for content….” He shuffled papers and turned to a second camera, so the station could show it had a second camera. “In other news, a suspected drug kingpin was found shot to death execution-style in his home on No Name Key. Police have sealed off the area, and aren’t commenting. However, sources close to the investigation, who are those same police officers, have told us that they’re closing in on the suspect as we speak…. In sports, more arrests…”

  The screen door creaked open. A soaked Gaskin Fussels stuck his head inside.

  The gang jumped off stools and ran to the door. “Get in here!”

  They dragged him to a table and sat him down. Gaskin closed his eyes and began weeping. “He’s dead.”

  “We know he’s dead,” said Sop Choppy. “It was just on TV.”

  “What happened?”