by Tim Dorsey
Pfft-pfft-pfft. Tight forehead pattern. The shooting arm swung without intermission. Pfft-pfft. Pfft-pfft . . .
A freshman dropped where he stood. Targets moving now, Guillermo in a calm pirouette. Pfft, pfft, pfft. Pfft-pfft . . .
A crash through the coffee table.
Pfft-pfft-pfft . . .
Backward over a couch.
The last student reached the door and grabbed the handle. Pfft-pfft-pfft. He slithered down the blood-streaked wood with a rising number of exploding back wounds as Guillermo made certain.
Pfft, pfft, pfft, pfft, click, click, click.
Empty.
Guillermo high-stepped over bodies, ejecting an ammo clip and turning off the stereo.
Quiet. Just a light haze with that burnt gunpowder smell.
A toilet flushed.
Guillermo’s head snapped toward the sound. “Who didn’t check the bathroom?”
Three linen jackets shrugged.
The door opened. “What the hell was all that noise?” An unusually short person came out wearing a motorcycle helmet. He saw the room and froze—“Holy shit!”—backing up, slowly at first, before turning in full sprint toward the balcony. He reached the railing and looked down at the distant patio. Cornered.
Four men arrived at a casual pace. Each grabbed a diminutive limb.
“Please! No!”
They began swinging the tiny captive back and forth to build momentum.
“On three,” said Guillermo.
“One.”
“I’m begging you!”
“Two.”
“But I’m just the midget!”
“Three . . .”
Part One
PANAMA CITY BEACH
Chapter One
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Small children shrieked and chased one another around a swing set. One with an autograph-covered plaster cast on his left arm hung upside down from the monkey bars as he had been told so many times not to.
Boynton Beach, closer to West Palm than Miami.
A cork ball rattled inside a referee’s whistle. An adult waved.
Children hopped off playground equipment and, after a period of mild disorganization, formed a single line behind the jungle gym. They followed their teacher back inside a cheerful classroom at Kinder Kollege.
Nap time.
Foam mats unrolled beneath walls of finger paintings with gold and silver stars.
Tires squealed. The teacher went to the window.
Five sedans and a windowless van skidded to the curb outside the chain-link fence. No fewer than twenty people jumped out, dressed in black and white. Dark sunglasses. Running.
As the team raced for the school’s entrance, it shed members at intervals, creating a grid of sentries across the lawn. The teacher was straining for a sideways view from the window when the classroom’s door flew open. Five strangers moved quickly. The teacher moved just as fast, blocking their path. They met in front of the alphabet.
“You can’t come in here!”
The first agent flashed a badge with his right hand and looked at a photograph in his other. “Which one’s Billy Sheets?”
A tiny boy sat up in the back of the room. The agent checked his hand again. He hopped over tot-filled mats and seized the boy under the arms.
The teacher ran after him. “I demand to know what’s going on!”
From behind: “It’s okay, Jennifer.”
She turned to see the principal in the doorway with a look of grave concern, but also a nod to let the visitors proceed.
Moments later, the teacher, principal and all the children were at the windows. Car doors slammed shut in a drum roll. Vehicles sped off, Billy in the middle sedan, growing smaller, staring back at classmates with his hands against the rear glass.
And a look on his face: This is new.
PRESENT DAY, EARLY MARCH
Southwest Florida.
A white ’73 Dodge Challenger sped south over the Caloosahatchee River.
It came off the Edison Bridge into Fort Myers.
The driver’s head was out the window.
“Can you smell it?” said Serge, hair flapping in the wind.
“Smell what?” asked Coleman.
“You know what time of year this is?”
“Fall?”
“Spring!”
“I always get those confused.”
Serge’s head came back inside. “I love everything about spring! Reeks of hope, new lease on another year, blooming possibilities, lush beds of violet wildflowers along the interstate, nature’s annual migration: whooping cranes, manatees, Canadians.”
Coleman cracked a beer. “I’m into spring, too.”
“Who would have guessed?”
“Definitely! High Times named West Florida the ’shroom capital of the country. Each spring they sprout like crazy in cow poo.”
“I still don’t comprehend the allure,” said Serge. “You boil them into a tea, drink a giant tumbler, then turn green with cramps before running into the bathroom and sticking your finger down your throat.”
“Because you can’t let that poison build up in your body. I thought you were smart.”
“I’m overrated.” They continued west on MLK. “So what’s the point of these toadstool ceremonies?”
“To party!”
“But isn’t all that throwing up unpleasant?”
“Some things are worth vomiting for.”
“I think I’ve seen that crocheted on a pillow.”
Early-afternoon clouds parted. Patches of sunshine swept up the street.
“Excellent,” said Serge. “Afraid the game was going to get rained out.”
“Game?”
“Spring training is the best!”
Coleman looked at the running camcorder in the middle of the dashboard. “Your documentary?”
“Haven’t found the hook yet. Because the hook is key. Otherwise it’ll incorrectly look like I’m filming aimlessly.”
A distant siren from behind.
“Shit!” Coleman stuffed a joint in his mouth. “The Man!”
Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo! . . .
Serge checked the rearview. “Just a fire engine.” He hit his blinker and eased to the side of the road.
Traffic blew by.
Serge’s face reddened, cursing under his breath.
“What’s the matter?”
“Look at all these jackasses not pulling over for an emergency vehicle,” said Serge. “When the fuck did this deterioration start?”
Coleman twisted around in his seat. “We’re the only car stopped.”
“Another sign our civilization will soon be covered with dust.”
Coleman popped another beer. “What’s wrong with people?”
More cars sailed by as the siren grew louder.
“These are the first responders,” said Serge. “Our state’s finest, putting their lives on the line for the rest of us every single day, and what thanks do they get? A highway of dickheads who don’t want to miss the next traffic light.”
“It just isn’t correct.”
“Not stopping for these heroes represents an inexcusable affront to the entire community. You might as well walk down the street throwing handfuls of shit at everyone you see.”
“That really happened,” said Coleman. “I saw this TV thing about a guy in Miami—”
“Get a grip,” Serge told himself. “A heart attack will solve nothing.”
“Wait,” said Coleman, looking out the back window. “Another car’s stopping. He’s pulling up behind us.”
“Thank God I’m not alone,” said Serge. “Maybe all isn’t lost.”
Honk-honk! . . . Honnnnnnkkkkkkkk!
“Serge, why is he honking at you?”
“Because he didn’t stop for the fire engine. He just got boxed in behind me from all the other rule-breakers flying by in the next lane.”
Honnnnnkkkkkk! Honnnnnkkkkk!
Serge reached under the seat for his .45 automatic. “No, it’ll only increase work for first responders.” He slid it back under.
Honnnnnnnnnkkkkkk!
Coleman stuck both arms out the passenger window, shooting double birds. “Eat my asshole!”
He came back inside and smiled.
Serge looked across the front seat. “That was Gandhi, right?”
The honking was now nonstop, just leaning on the horn, thanks to Coleman.
Serge closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. “. . . two . . . three . . . four . . .”
“Here comes the fire engine,” said Coleman. The siren whizzed by, dropping in Doppler pitch. “And there it goes.”
Serge opened his eyes and took his foot off the brake. “Finally. Our lives can diverge, and he’s free to go his own separate way toward an anti-future.”
“He’s not going his separate way,” said Coleman, kneeling backward in his seat. “Still right behind us.”
“Because he hasn’t found a gap yet in the next lane to pull around.”
“Then why is he still honking?”
“Involuntary genetic reflex, like getting a mullet.”
“He’s still there.”
“I’ll speed up and open a gap.”
“Still there.”
“Then I’ll slow down and force him to pass.”
“Still there. Still honking.”
Serge took another deep breath. “Okay, I’ll turn down this next side street.”
“I’m amazed,” said Coleman.
“I know,” said Serge. “As the saying goes, the difference between genius and stupidity is genius has its limits.”
“Not him,” said Coleman. “You.”
“What about me?”
“I’ve never seen you go this far to avoid an idiot.”
Serge hit his turn signal. “I’ve completely rededicated myself to a life of nonviolence.”
“But you still have that gun.”
“No need to obsess.”
The Challenger swung around a corner.
“He’s turning, too,” said Coleman. “Still following.”
Serge’s head sagged in exasperation. “And I’ve got a full to-do list.”
“He just threw something out the window.”
“Litter,” said Serge. “A beer can, no less.”
The Challenger pulled to the side of the road behind an aluminum scrap yard. A low-riding Toyota parked behind. The driver got out. Barrel gut, stained tank top. He walked to the Challenger and banged hard on the driver’s window.
Serge stared straight ahead. “Haven’t we been here before?”
Coleman grinned and waved across Serge at the other driver. “I can’t count that high.”
Bam! Bam! Bam!—Right up to the Underwriters Laboratories shatter point. “Get the hell out of the car! I am so going to fuck you up!”
Serge rolled his window down a crack. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Did you tell me to eat your asshole?”
“Not me.” Serge turned. “What about you, Coleman?”
“Might have mentioned it in passing. But I don’t want him to actually do it, if that’s what he’s asking.”
Serge returned to the window slit. “Apparently it was figurative. He’d rather you not eat his asshole. Are we done now?”
The Challenger was a beaut, Serge’s dream car ever since Vanishing Point and Death Proof. Recently restored, new rings and valves. Snow-white paint job, tangerine racing detail. And now shivers up Serge’s neck, as a car key scraped the length of the driver’s side.
Serge grabbed the door handle with his left hand and reached under the seat with his right. “Coleman, I won’t be long.”
SOUTH OF MIAMI
Ringing on a triangle bell.
“Dinnertime!”
Four men, twenty-nine to thirty-five years old, filed in from the back porch where they’d been smoking. Chairs filled around the long cedar dinner table of Cuban-American cuisine in steaming bowls and casserole dishes. Beans, rice, mashed potatoes, yams, plantains. In the middle was a large paella, a slab of roast beef and a ceramic pitcher of milk.
The woman said grace. They made the sign of the cross. Serving bowls passed clockwise.
It was a three-bedroom Spanish stucco ranch house with an orange tile roof and black burglar bars. One of those homes that seemed smaller inside because its owner was from the culture that respected too much contents. Sofas, quilts, pillows, family pictures, magazine racks, display cabinets of china. It used to be an upper-middle-class neighborhood, just off Old Dixie Highway between Palmetto Bay and Cutler. Now it was lower. The home stood out with its regularly maintained yard, because of the men at the table.
The woman stood in a red-and-white checkered apron, slicing meat with an electric carving knife. She offered a generous piece balanced on the tip. “Raul?”
He raised his plate. “Thanks, Madre.”
She was slightly plump at sixty, hair always up in a tall, dark bun with streaks of gray. Her name was Juanita, but they all called her Madre. They weren’t related.
The men ate with manners and strong appetites. Cuban loaves at one end, Wonderbread in its original sack at the other. Bottle of sangria. Idle conversation, weather, sports, relatives’ diseases. Against the wall, eighty bank-wrapped packs of hundred-dollar bills on a dessert cart.
The woman rested back in her chair, sipping wine. She looked to her left. “Guillermo, will you be able to take care of our situation today?”
He washed down a bite with milk. “Yes, Madre. No problem.”
“Good.” She paused and nodded. “Very good.”
Behind her on the kitchen counter, stacks of tightly bound kilo bricks and a yellow raincoat.
“What about civilians?” asked Miguel.
Juanita shrugged. “If that’s what it takes to be certain.” She stood and dug two large wooden spoons into the paella. “Pedro, you’re getting too thin.”
He placed a hand on his stomach. “Stuffed.”
She turned with the spoons. “Miguel?”
He pushed his plate back. “Can’t eat another bite.”
The rest set napkins on the table.
Juanita reached into her apron and handed Guillermo a folded sheet of stationery. “Here’s the list of names he gave me.”
“Glad he’s not working for us.” Guillermo stuck the list in his pocket. “Didn’t hold out very long.”
“They never do,” said Juanita.
Everyone turned toward the head chair at the opposite end of the table.
Juanita stood again. “Is he secure?”
“Won’t be running off anywhere soon.”
“Funny,” said the woman. “Didn’t touch his food.”
A round of laughter.
Juanita walked along the back of the table. Her shoes made a crinkling sound on the plastic tarp under the last chair. She looked down at the tied-up man, a black hood over his quivering head.
Guillermo came over from the other side and yanked off the hood. The man stared up at them with pleading eyes, gag in his mouth.
Juanita simply held out her arms. Two others at the table quickly got up, grabbed the yellow raincoat and slipped it on her. She smiled and patted their involuntary guest on the head, then turned her back.
When she faced him again, the man’s eyes went to what was in her hands.
Juanita leaned fo
rward, placed the electric carving knife to his neck and pressed the power switch.
About the Author
TIM DORSEY was a reporter and editor for the Tampa Tribune from 1987 to 1999 and is the author of nine previous novels: Florida Roadkill, Hammerhead Ranch Motel, Orange Crush, Triggerfish Twist, The Stingray Shuffle, Cadillac Beach, Torpedo Juice, The Big Bamboo, and Hurricane Punch. He lives in Tampa, Florida.
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ALSO BY TIM DORSEY
Florida Roadkill
Hammerhead Ranch Motel
Orange Crush
Triggerfish Twist
The Stingray Shuffle
Cadillac Beach
Torpedo Juice
The Big Bamboo
Hurricane Punch
Credits
Jacket design by Richard L. Aquan
Jacket illustration by Bill Mayer
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ATOMIC LOBSTER. Copyright © 2008 by Tim Dorsey. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition November 2009 ISBN 9780061996931
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