Pineapple Grenade

by Tim Dorsey

  “So Serge really is working for him?”

  “No,” Lugar said sarcastically. “He’s just some nut running around playing spy.”

  “What do we do about it?” asked another agent.

  “It’s gotten too risky now to hire Serge away from Oxnart,” said Lugar. “That might be exactly what Oxnart wants, to get Serge inside with us as a double agent. Or worse, Serge has done something rogue to embarrass the agency. Then it’s a game of hot potato: Whoever hires him last gets the blame. Either way, Oxnart’s setting a trap.”

  “But what if it’s not a trap?”

  “Then we definitely need to hire Serge.” Lugar picked up a lamp and threw it. Agents ducked; it smashed against a wall. “So we run a special ops to learn the angles and decide whether it’s in our best interest to recruit Serge.”

  “What kind of special ops.”

  “Find out where he’s staying. Which means we first need to find out where he is right now.”

  “Where do you think that is?”

  Lugar stared into space. “Probably somewhere on a mission.”

  Midnight

  “We’re on a mission!” said Serge. “Wake up!”

  An orange-and-green Road Runner sat in the dark, just beyond the yellow lights of the turnpike’s toll plaza.

  “Coleman, Coleman, Coleman . . . Wake up, up, up . . . We’re on a mission, mission, mission . . .”

  Coleman remained motionless in the passenger seat, eyes frozen open.

  “Coleman!” Serge violently shook his pal’s shoulders. “Shit, he’s dead! I knew he’d end up overdosing!”

  Tears began rolling down Serge’s cheeks. His head sagged until it rested on the steering wheel. “Why! . . .”

  In the passenger seat, eyes blinked.

  Coleman turned slowly in a deep fog, staring curiously at Serge shaking with sobs: “Why! Why! Why!”—pounding the driver’s-side door with a fist—“My best friend’s dead!”

  “Serge,” Coleman said with a slur. “I thought I was your best friend.”

  Serge’s face snapped to the right. “Coleman! You’re alive!”

  “More than ever.” Coleman came out of it much faster than usual. “That was freakin’ radical, man.”

  “You gave me five heart attacks—I could have sworn you were dead!” said Serge. “Don’t ever do that again! I’d almost blame myself.”

  “You mean just because you scored the drug, talked me into it, then injected my arm?”

  “I’d still feel bad.”

  “So what was that stuff?”

  “You know how normally I’m against drugs, but that was special medicine for a higher purpose.”

  Coleman grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Can I do it again?”

  “No!” Serge declared. “This shit’s very expensive and hard to come by. We only have enough left for the mission.”

  Coleman pouted.

  “I only gave you some to gauge the correct dosage.” Serge folded a map. “So what’s the verdict?”

  “Worked exactly like you told me, down to the last detail,” said Coleman. “I was awake but couldn’t move. Heard and saw everything.”

  “Perfect, because I wouldn’t want my new star pupil to miss the show.” Serge looked at his wristwatch. “It’s time.” He grabbed the gearshift.

  The Plymouth wound through a familiar neighborhood on the edge of the Everglades. It stopped in front of a dingy ranch house with empty beer cans framing the front steps. Another pyramid of cans in the living room window.

  “Be extra quiet,” said Serge. “Grab those bags from the backseat. And don’t slam the doors.”

  They lugged sacks up the front steps. “Serge, this is a whole lot more stuff that usual. What are you planning?”

  “Child’s play.”

  Serge set his bags on the ground and got out a lock-pick set. A few jiggles with the pair of steel tools. Then a few more. “It’s not working. Too rusty.”

  Coleman reached and turned the knob. “It’s unlocked.”

  They crept through the living room.

  Crash.

  “Coleman!” Serge whispered. “Quiet or you’ll wake him.”

  “It’s too dark,” said Coleman. He stepped on something else, making a loud crunching noise. “There’s stuff all over the floor. This guy lives like a pig.”

  Serge clicked on a flashlight. The beam swept an empty wall, then sports and swimsuit posters held up with tape. On the floor, more cans, pizza boxes. A coffee table made from produce crates supported a brimming ceramic novelty ashtray with a hardware ad and breasts.

  “Leave the bags here. I’ll only need my small one right now.” He swung the flashlight. “There’s the bedroom.”

  Serge turned the knob; hinges creaked. The beam hit a bearded face angled back over a pillow, mouth open, snoring like a car that wouldn’t start.

  “Excellent. Still asleep.” Serge handed Coleman the flashlight. “Keep this on me. I need to see what I’m doing.”

  Serge reached in the small sack and arranged supplies out on the night stand. A small bottle with hospital markings and milky liquid. Diprivan. The tip of a syringe went through the port in the lid. Serge drew back the plunger, carefully monitoring calibration marks.

  “Why are you taking so long?” asked Coleman.

  “Because you’re drifting with the flashlight.”

  “Sorry.” Coleman re-aimed.

  Serge was kneeling now, eyes close to the measuring stripes. “Have to make sure we get the same dosage I gave you. But he weighs more, so I’m recalculating in my head.”

  “Is that really the same stuff the doctor gave Michael Jackson?”

  “One and only.” Serge slowly extracted the needle from the bottle. “When I saw those news reports, I said to myself, ‘I know what I can use that for’ . . .” He stood next to the bed, clutched the syringe in both hands, and raised it high over his head. “I also just saw Pulp Fiction again. I love that scene where they inject Uma Thurman in the heart!”

  “Jesus, Serge. You’re going to stab him in the heart?”

  “What? Not a good idea?”

  “You’re the doctor.”

  “Maybe you have a point. If I don’t get it just right, he’ll die immediately. And he’s just the kind of jerk who would do something mean like that to us.” Serge slid a half step toward the foot of the bed and raised the needle again. “One . . .”

  “One,” said Coleman.

  “Two . . .” The needle went higher.

  “Two,” said Coleman.

  “Three . . .”

  “Three!”

  Serge’s fists came down fast and hard. He jumped back.

  “Yowwwwwwwwww!” A bearded face flew up from the pillow. “Motherfucker!”

  Coleman crashed back into a wall.

  Jethro Comstock stared down in bewilderment at a syringe buried to the hilt in the middle of his stomach. Then up at Coleman with the flashlight. “You’re so fucking dead!” He flung the needle from his gut and reached under the pillow.

  “Serge!” yelled Coleman. “He’s got a big knife.”

  The man leaped from the bed. He pinned Coleman to the wall with a burly forearm across the chest, and put the blade to his throat, ready to slash.

  Coleman closed his eyes.

  He heard a knife bounce on the tile floor. The arm across his chest was gone.

  Coleman slowly peeked out one eye, then the other.

  Serge ran around the bed. “Right on time. Give me a hand.”

  They dragged Jethro into the living room and propped him up on a chair. Then began dumping out the contents of the Home Depot bags.

  “What?” said Coleman. “No rope and duct tape?”

  Serge held up the hospital bottle and syringe. “Because this is the rope and tape.” Serge dipped the needle again, but only a fraction of the original dosage.

  “So you’re just going to keep him knocked out?”

  “Not quite.” Serge opened a box and re
moved a small electric fan. “It’s a phenomenon well known in the medical community, but one which has only recently come to the attention of the ailing public.”

  Coleman repaired the joint he’d dropped in the bedroom fracas. “What’s that?”

  “What I replicated back in the car with my test run on you.” Serge grabbed a second fan and a screwdriver. “Anesthesia Awareness.”

  “Thought it was just mellow trippin’.”

  Serge shook his head. “Some patients are put under for surgery. They appear to be totally out, but for unknown reasons, they’re only paralyzed. They can still see, hear, and, most importantly, feel everything going on. But they’re helpless to speak and communicate any discomfort.”

  “That would make getting your legs cut off really suck.”

  Serge snapped his fingers in front of Jethro’s face. “Hello in there. I know you can hear, and you must have oodles of questions, but unfortunately you can’t ask them, so I’ll just go straight to Serge’s FAQ . . . First, we dropped in for another visit because I just spoke with Sally, and you apparently didn’t respond to the courtesy of the red beacon.” He leaned over and gave Jethro another injection in his left arm, then held the bottle to his eyes. “I usually tie up my contestants, but this stuff I’m pumping into you is—you guessed it!—the bonus round. It has a relatively quick half-life. Whenever I’m teaching a lesson, I always like to give my students a way out. After the lesson begins, there’s a good chance you’ll come out of the drug in time and be able to escape—if you’re in decent physical condition, which doesn’t apply to you. Sorry, the FAQ was written for the general population. Next question: When will the lesson begin? Believe me, you’ll know. Now, if you’ll excuse us . . .”

  Serge went to work on the fans, four total. He left two intact, but unscrewed the heads off the others, so there was just the base and the bare rotating post that otherwise would swing fans in an oscillating rhythm back and forth across a room.

  “Coleman, we need every chair we can find . . .”

  A half hour later, everything in place. A configuration of furniture faced the captive at a range of twenty feet. The working fans sat atop the taller chairs. In front of those were the headless ones. They had been lashed sideways with duct tape to other chairs so that if they hadn’t been decapitated, the fans would swing up and down. In front of those, a pair of stools held baking pans.

  “There.” Serge grabbed a gallon jug. “Just about ready . . .” He looked across the room. An empty chair. “Coleman! Where’s our guest?”

  “I think he went in the kitchen.”

  Serge raced around the corner and came back, gently guiding Jethro, who shuffled his feet and babbled blissfully like a toddler testing out new legs and sounds.

  Serge eased him back down into the chair. “Here ya go, big fella. Now stay put this time.” Another injection.

  “Coleman, I need your help. And bring the lighter.”

  They pulled out another pair of chairs, setting one on each side of Jethro, and slid a coffee table up to his knees. Then Serge covered their surfaces with twenty large candles.

  Coleman began lighting them. A warm, flickering glow filled the room. He held the lighter toward another candle with the Virgin Mary on its frosted glass holder, then crouched and stared eye level as he lit the rest. “Serge, there’s all these saints and holy shit. What kind of candles are these?”

  “Santería.”

  “I didn’t know you were into that.”

  “I’m not.” Serge grabbed the gallon jug and walked to the baking trays. “But if I turn up on spy radar, I’m covering my trail by letting them think we’re connected to the Haitians.”

  “The Haitians are involved in this?”

  “And now the moment I’ve been waiting for.” Serge reached in the toy-store bag and removed a box from the Wham-O corporation.

  “I remember those things,” said Coleman.

  “So do I.” Serge ripped cardboard. “Wanted to use these when we were living that summer on Triggerfish Lane, but never got the chance.”

  “I didn’t know they even made those anymore.”

  “Great ideas never die.”

  “But how’s that going to kill him?”

  “Teach him,” corrected Serge. “And the perfect visual aid is the famous giant bubble wand . . .”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Washington, D.C.

  The Capitol.

  Two Marine guards stood rigid in the hall.

  A marathon closed-door meeting of the intelligence subcommittee burned into the wee hours. Only those with the highest clearance.

  Two people sat at the witness table.

  Malcolm Glide leaned toward the microphone. “Unfortunately the Costa Gordan rebels have proven more resilient than we anticipated—”

  “Excuse me,” interrupted Senator Bancroft (D-Iowa). “I thought President Guzman assured us the rebel problem was under control.”

  “I’m afraid Guzman is believing what he wants to. Who can blame him? Guzman’s an indispensable ally in a critical region of our hemisphere that could easily topple like dominoes if he tanks. We’re receiving daily reports of assassination plots being hatched by the insurgents. If only the committee can approve additional funding so the generals can beat back the Communist tide before it reaches American shores.”

  The senator sat back. “I don’t think we need to worry about Communists right now. Our apparatus is stretched thin as it is with the terrorists.”

  “Oh!” Glide nodded buoyantly. “We have terrorists, too.” He turned toward the person next to him at the witness table. “Rip?”

  Director Tide of Homeland Security stood and unfurled a large vinyl thermometer. He pointed at the top, where an extra length of vinyl had been taped on for another color square.

  The senator took off the reading glasses sitting on the end of his nose. “What am I looking at?”

  “The threat level has just been raised again,” said Glide.

  “It’s just red,” said Bancroft. “Like we used to have.”

  Glide shook his head. “It’s a darker red.”

  “I thought we were already at darker red.”

  “That was last time,” said Glide. “This is even darker. Boo!”

  “This is ridiculous is what it is—a political ploy to exploit people’s fears,” said Bancroft. “I find it very interesting that the raising of the threat level conveniently coincides with your political interests, like distracting from oil spills or increased covert funding.”

  “Senator!” Glide said with feigned astonishment, placing a hand over his heart. “A little reverence, please. It’s the national thermometer.” Director Tide held it up again.

  The committee broke out into partisan bickering.

  A gavel banged. “Order! Order!” barked the chairman. “The gentleman from Iowa has one minute remaining.”

  “Thank you,” said Bancroft, turning to the witness table. “I’m afraid I’ll need more proof than you’re offering . . .”

  Malcolm pulled the microphone to his mouth. “Communists.”

  “. . . But I’ve seen the satellite photos,” continued the senator. “And the foreign intelligence services—British, French, Brazilian—they all report the same thing. No rebel movement of any significance.”

  Malcolm slid the microphone closer. “The rebels are . . . in exile.”

  “Isn’t that good?” asked the senator.

  Malcolm shook his head. “Exile is scary. It has an X.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” said the chairman. “Time to vote . . .”

  The tally predictably fell along party lines. No more funding. The room stood. Politicians yawned and checked the time.

  The director of homeland security covered his microphone and whispered sideways to Glide. “What about all those agents we have secretly in the mountains posing as rebels? The committee just cut off their money.”

  “I know.”

  “Then how are we going to
get them home?”

  “We can’t.”

  “But that’s a major scandal.”

  “That’s why I need you to hold another press conference.”

  Three a.m.

  A tiny, glistening bead of liquid appeared at the end of a hypodermic needle.

  A finger flicked the syringe.

  The front door opened.

  “Found him flopping around in the bushes,” said Coleman. He led the staggering, drooling hostage back to the chair and sat him down. “Serge, he broke two of the holy candles.”

  “I’ve got spares.” Serge held up the syringe. “One more injection should do it.”

  He located a vein and hit the plunger.

  “There.” Serge tossed the needle at the wall like a dart and rubbed his palms together. “Time to play! And I’ve always wanted to play with those things since I was a kid!”

  “The giant bubble wand?” said Coleman. “Those are a gas! The stoners and me would always buy one before we tripped.” He moved his hands slowly through the air. “That huge blob pulsing and floating across the field, and one of the heads said it was his soul, and another dude said he was the devil and popped it, and we couldn’t get the first guy to stop crying. Then we pulled out the other giant wand—the one with a hundred holes—and the field was covered with all these tiny bubbles, and the crying guy ran after them, biting the air. He’s now a stockbroker. Serge, do you also have the other wand with the hundred tiny holes?”

  “Right here,” said Serge, pouring soap water into the baking pans. “That’s why I got two sets of fans.”

  He turned them on.

  Air currents. Curtains flowed. Candles flickered down inside their glass holders.

  The fans’ oscillating switches had been turned off, so they remained stationary, blowing straight ahead.

  Then Serge activated the headless fans attached to the other chairs. Their oscillating switches stayed on. Duct-taped to the rotating necks were the Wham-O bubble wands. And since the bases of the latter fans had been secured perpendicular to the floor, their slowly rotating necks dipped the bubble wands down into the baking pans. Then lifted them up ninety degrees, where the regular fans blew out bubbles: a humongous, single blob on the left; hundreds of tiny ones on the right.