Nuclear jellyfish, p.3
Nuclear Jellyfish, page 3
part #11 of Serge Storms Mystery Series
Coleman swayed with a beer and smiled down at the captives. “You guys really bald?”
Serge quickly returned from the Javelin, got on his knees and began emptying shopping bags. “I love Home Depot! Especially the locations open twenty-four hours, when I need them most …” He ambitiously went to the task, starting at their toes and meticulously working his way up with the recent purchases. “Don’t look so bored. Almost done …”
Serge finally stood and pulled a small, threaded adapter from his pocket. “Excuse me again …”
Another quick trip, this time to the sprinkler pump, and he was back, gleefully clapping his hands. “The show’s about to start!” He picked up the camcorder and aimed it at the side of the house. “That PVC junction has a tie-in for auxiliary manual-watering flow, which I utilized with my adapter. More specifically a Y-adapter. Splits into two additional lines, one for each of you. The adapter has a little plastic lever on the front. Right now it’s in the middle, which means both your lines will get water. But push the lever to either side, and the ball valve in the adapter will cut flow to one line and provides extra pressure to the other.”
They stared in confusion. So did Coleman.
“Still no idea?” said Serge. “One lives, one dies-you make the call!” He panned the camcorder down to ashen faces. “I should have my own reality show.”
“But Serge,” said Coleman. “How can a sprinkler system kill?”
“Easier than you’d think.” Serge lowered his eyes toward the contestants. “You’re a couple of worms, so we’re going to have a worm race. If one of you can get to the valve …”-he checked his watch- “… in the next five minutes, and switch it with your nose, you live and your pal dies. If both of you get there at the same time, I guess you’ll be smashing your faces together in a desperate bid for survival.” Serge zoomed in with the camcorder. “If this doesn’t get a million hits on YouTube, we’re lost as a people.”
The skinheads desperately thrashed across the grass, but progress was less than modest.
“Forgot to mention,” Serge called after them. “You’re on an advanced strain of St. Augustine called Floratam. Fun fact: got its name when cross-bred in 1972 by a joint research project from the University of Florida and Texas A&M. Get it? Floratam. Genetically engineered it to be extra chinch-bug resistant, in case you’re planning on sodding anytime soon.”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “I don’t think they care about chinch bugs.”
“They should. Fuck up your yard something fierce.”
“I doubt they’re going to make it to the lever.”
“Oh, they’ll make it to the lever all right,” said Serge. “Just won’t do them any good.”
“Why not?”
“I removed the ball valve from the adapter. No way to cut the flow.”
“Then why’d you tell them they had a chance?”
“Because some types are prone to panic when faced with certain doom.” He fiddled with the camera’s focus. “I like to give the people hope.”
“Still don’t understand how … whatever it is you’ve done here is going to work.”
“Neither will the authorities after I’ve removed my yard-care products of death.”
“I thought you liked to get credit for your projects.”
“I do.”
“But that won’t happen if they can’t figure it out.”
“They’ll eventually figure it out.”
“How?”
Serge pressed an eye to the viewfinder. “Stay tuned for shocking footage at eleven!”
NEXT DAY
The conference room was cavernous and perfectly square, half the size of a football field, far too large for the current Function, making its lack of attendance seem even more so. Exhibitors tended merchandise at folding tables along the walls. The middle of the room was no-man’s-land, an expanse of high-durability carpet that remained empty except for the occasional customer cutting diagonally across for the exit. Droning ducts in the twenty-foot ceiling over-pumped air at a perky sixty-eight degrees.
Three tables sat in the back of the hall by the service exit, the worst possible retail location. Behind them, Steve, Ted and Henry stood silent and idle in an unintentional line. Their tables supported a series of locked glass display cases that nobody was looking into. Mercury dimes, Indian-head pennies, Franklin half-dollars. The trio’s arms stayed firmly folded as they glared across the room at a cluster of customers gathered around prime real-estate tables near the entrance.
“Stamp-collecting fucks.”
“Look at ‘em all smug with their pussy first-day covers and upside-down airplane misprint cocksucking-“
“Shut up,” said Steve. “This is all your fault.”
“Why’s it my fault?”
“Those were supposed to be our tables,” said Steve. “How’d you let this happen?”
“They were there when I arrived.”
“The tables had reserved numbers.”
“They just grabbed ‘em.”
“And you let them?”
“Already had their supplies set up.”
“So shove those adhesive hinges up their ass!”
Ted looked at his watch. “Thought about lunch?”
“Cafeteria here stinks.”
“Your turn to make the takeout run. I’ll watch the dimes.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“What?”
“Don’t look now.”
A gloating man savored his stroll across the middle of the carpet. His tropical shirt had a pattern of airmail postage through the ages. He arrived at the tables and smiled. “I hear it’s Sh-teve now.”
Steve reluctantly returned a nod. “Gary.”
“When’s the nose bandage come off?”
Steve just stared.
Gary solemnly shook his head. “Terrible. Absolutely terrible. What’s happening to this country? That’s what I told the guys when I first heard. It was a woman, right?”
“You have any business here, or are we just wasting oxygen?”
“What’s the matter? I can’t come and say hello?”
“You just did, so why don’t you go-“
Gary looked down. “Nice threads.”
Steve winced. He knew he shouldn’t have worn his buffalo-nickel shirt.
“So,” said Gary. “How are nickels moving these days?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“You’ve obviously been out of the loop. We don’t do buffalo nickels anymore. But I guess they didn’t get the word to you over in pretend collecting land.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think you know what it means.” Steve walked out from behind the tables.
Gary stepped up to his face. “Why don’t you tell me what it means?”
Dugouts cleared. The rest of the coin and stamp vendors poured in from around the hall, encircling the two.
“Maybe I will tell you.”
“Then tell me.”
“Make me.”
“What if I don’t feel like it?”
“I’ll bet you jerk off in that stamp shirt, don’t you?”
“Motherfucker!”
Ted jumped between them. “Guys! Guys! …”
The glass facade of a massive downtown convention center sparkled in the midday Jacksonville sun. Two men approached the front entrance. The plumper one sipped a quart beer from a brown paper bag, and the taller read a computer printout: INTERNET JOB FAIR. Serge opened the door and stepped into air-conditioning.
“Whoa,” said Coleman. “Check the size of this place! I didn’t realize the Internet had so many work-at-home jobs.”
“Better than my wildest dreams,” said Serge. “We’re guaranteed to find super-high-paying gigs in a place this huge.”
They headed across the lobby for the main exhibit hall. A registration desk sat just inside. A woman dressed entirely in tight leather with shiny rivets looked up from a sea of carefully arranged name tags. “Can I help you?”
“More like, ‘Can I help you!” said Serge. “We’re ready to start immediately. I bring to the table alarming sleep patterns, world-class daydreams, an unwilting tolerance of lawn statuary, and sensible shoes. We’d like something in the six-figure range please.”
“I don’t… understand-“
“Our new jobs!” said Serge. “When I heard about your show, I told Coleman, ‘These are our kind of people!’ Not like the others who call police when the first little buffet table tips over on the outgoing president. Not my fault the water in those steam trays was too hot.”
“Sure you have the right show?”
“More than ever!” Serge energetically flapped his computer printout in the air. Then he stopped to appraise the woman’s leather ensemble and gothic tattoos crawling up her neck. He leaned forward, placing his palms on the edge of the desk. “Say, is this one of those porn sites where we have to install twenty-four/seven cameras throughout our house with no blind spots so fringe players can watch Coleman take a dump?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Internet Job Fair!”
“Internet?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard about it. Very big.”
“This isn’t the Internet Job Fair.”
“It isn’t?” Serge looked around the hall, velvet ropes surrounding dozens of stunning motorcycles. Gleaming chrome forks and gas tanks airbrushed with flames and winged skulls. First-place ribbons, gold trophies. He turned back around. “Then what strange existence is this?”
“Southeast Regional Chopper Expo.”
“I thought it was just the motorcycle section of the Internet.” He showed her his printout. “Says today’s date and the convention center.”
“It’s a big building. Maybe down at the other end.”
“Thanks. And I meant no offense about the porn. Just the leather and all those tats, but I’m sure you did what you had to in prison.”
“What?”
They were already trotting down the corridor. Serge grabbed the handle of a massive door. It creaked open. Another conference room, long tables with white linen, metal ice-water carafes dripping condensate. Hundreds of people in leather jackets with affiliate patches taking notes from an overhead projector.
Serge closed the door. They ran to the next room and peeked inside: a potbellied man in a Harley shirt delivering a PowerPoint presentation. Next room, and the next. Just more bikers. Serge’s trot broke into a run. He passed an open door. A large, hair-pulling pile of coin and stamp dealers in the middle of the floor.
Serge finally reached the last door at the end of the hall. Coleman caught up, panting. “Is this where they give us lots of cash?”
“We’ll soon find out.” They went inside a room the size of a small hotel suite. Another reception desk by the door. The man behind it had a fifty-dollar haircut, a stockbroker smile and a resume of rolling back odometers. He looked up from paperwork. Serge grinned. “Can you point me toward the Internet Job Fair?”
The man smiled back. “You’re standing in it.”
Serge looked around. “No, not the sign-up room. The main hall.”
“This is the main hall. Welcome!”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“That’s the beauty of the Internet. It’s all virtual reality: very low brick-and-mortar overhead. Why don’t you start at that table over there and work your way around the room. You’ll have trouble choosing from all the marvelous new careers that await. Seize the day! Opportunity knocks!”
Serge eyed him skeptically, then began making the rounds.
The man at the reception desk filled out forms for the next job fair at the Jensen Beach Econo-Inn. Someone cleared his throat. The man looked up.
Serge leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I think there’s some kind of problem you need to be aware of.”
“What’s that?”
“These so-called job people? They each want me to give them several thousand dollars.”
“And?”
“All the jobs I’ve ever had, the money comes the other direction.”
The man chuckled and shook his head. “That’s the beauty of the Internet. In this new economy, you control your own destiny. So when you give them start-up money, you’re actually believing in yourself.” The man stood and placed a hand on Serge’s shoulder. “You do believe in yourself, don’t you?”
“But I’m not-“
The man squeezed Serge’s shoulder. “Believe!”
“I believe!”
“You’re believing!”
“Can I get a witness!”
“That’s the spirit! Now get over there and-What are you looking at?”
“The little stand in the corner. Is it what I think?”
“What?”
“Free coffee?”
“Uh, sure. Listen-“
“Don’t move!” Serge ran off.
The man looked questioningly at Coleman, who grinned and took a swig from a brown paper bag. “Know where there’s any weed?”
“What?”
Serge ran back with a tall, white Styrofoam cup. “It’s cold.”
“Been meaning to make a new pot.”
“No, I mean that’s good. I can drink it faster.” Serge chugged half in one long gulp. “And you got the giant twenty-four-ounce cups! Usually when it’s free coffee, they’re these little thimbles.” He took another big chug. “Bullshit on thimbles! I can’t resist free coffee, like when I was at that funeral chapel. I wasn’t really at the chapel, just walking by. The door was open, and so was the casket. People crying. Bunch of folding chairs. Guess it was a viewing. Then I see the big silver coffee urn in back. Next thing I know: ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I say: ‘Drinking free coffee.’ ‘Did you know the deceased?’ ‘Not remotely.’ ‘I want you to leave.’ ‘Right after I get a refill.’ ‘No! Get the fuck out now!’ I said, ‘Have some respect: There’s an old dead guy up there.’ ‘That’s my mother!’ ‘Then you have a refund coming. They did a messed-up job. Of course I didn’t know what she looked like before, so maybe it’s a great job.’ ‘Why you-!’ Then all these guys attacked me. Well, tried to, but they didn’t anticipate my triple-threat martial-arts weapons training. I can handle a folding chair like nunchakus. Except I lost my grip and the thing went flying. I tried to explain that the old woman was already dead so it didn’t matter that the Samsonite hit her in the coffin. Things like that always seem to happen when I drink coffee. It’s weird.” Serge looked toward the corner. “I need more coffee. Wait here …”
The man stared with open mouth.
Serge jogged back and chugged. Then he placed his own hand on the man’s shoulder. “I believe in myself all right! In fact, I believe I have a great new business venture that isn’t represented at your fair!”
No answer.
“Don’t you want to hear it?”
Nothing.
“I track down Internet Job Fair scam artists, break into their bedrooms in the middle of the night and shatter their shins with a pipe wrench. I’ll only require a ten-thousand-dollar investment to join your traveling expo. Exceptional bargain if you believe in yourself. You do believe in yourself?”
The man’s mouth stayed open, but nothing came out.
“If you can’t give me the cash, no problem. I’ll just go to a rival job fair, but then of course I won’t be able to guarantee your safety … Jesus, Coleman, look: He’s white as a sheet. Get him some water!”
The man nervously rustling papers. “I-I-I think I can find something in here that pays from the start.”
“Really?” Serge pulled up a chair. “I’m all ears!”
“Internet map sites.” He handed a clipboard across the table. “Here’s one that’s hiring.”
“Map sites?” asked Serge.
“Yeah,” said Coleman, standing over him with his paper bag. “Like Google Earth. I zoomed in on nude beaches at the library, but the boobs were still fuzzy.”
“Coleman, that’s an aerial image site,” said Serge. “I think he means those mapping services that give wrong directions.”
The man behind the desk nodded. “They need street checkers.”
“What’s that?”
“You drive all day with a GPS-laptop and maps, working your way around the state, going up and down every street to check for accuracy and new highway construction.”
Serge looked up from the clipboard. “But I do that anyway.”
“Gas and two hundred bucks a week.”
“They actually pay?” said Serge. “I had no idea this was going on.”
“Most people don’t. But between the big three map sites, there’s at least a thousand people canvassing the country at any moment.”
Serge killed the rest of his coffee and slammed the cup on the desk. “Two hundred isn’t enough. I’ll take the Internet cheat job instead. Just got my concealed weapons permit. Looks pretty real if you don’t know what the real ones look like … ‘Mr. Saturday Night Special!’ … Sorry, been hung up on Skynyrd since I got to town. Brrrrowwwow-wow-wow-wow-wow! Good coffee! Monday Night Football, blue lightbulbs, brick and mortar, thimbles, pipe wrench. Please proceed …”
A bead of perspiration formed on the man’s left temple and trickled down his cheek. He conducted another rapid search under stacks of paper. “Here’s something else. Hotel evaluator for travel-discount website.”
