“It’s the most amazing thing.” Serge affectionately tapped the glass. “You know when lobsters migrate in those cute little lines on the ocean floor in the
“So you’re doing some sort of experiment with lobster navigation?”
“No.” Serge tapped the glass again and turned around. “This is another facet of lobster magnetism. What I’m really interested in is his equilibrium. Familiar with how we humans use our inner ears? Similarly, lobsters have these little sacks of highly sensitive skin. And here’s the nutty part. They eat all kinds of crap on the bottom, but during digestion they filter a single extremely tiny rock into the sack. Gravity naturally makes the rock rest on the bottom of the sack, and the soft tissue there tells the lobster which way is up and down.”
“How does the aquarium come in?” said Alfonso.
“This is where science seriously kicks ass!” Serge reached in the tank and pulled out a single pellet. “Lobsters frequently excrete their ‘equilibrium’ rocks and replace them. So if you dump all the regular gravel out of an aquarium and refill it with iron pellets, it will eventually absorb one into the sack. Then, if you hold a powerful enough magnet over the lobster, the pellet will be pulled up against the tissue along the top of the sack, fooling the lobster into thinking he’s upside down, and he’ll flip over.” Serge tossed the pellet back in the tank with a small splash. “It’s hours of fun for the whole family.”
“But why on earth would you want to flip a lobster over in the first place?” asked Alfonso.
“Why else?” said Serge. “For a trigger mechanism.”
FORT LAUDERDALE
Light rain fell on U.S. 1 as evening traffic passed the strip malls just north of Dania.
Bells jingled at the front of a narrow storefront with a sign that said it was proud to have opened in 1981. The owner looked up from the counter at a petite woman coming through the glass door, which had chipped lettering in reverse: BENNY’S PAWN, GUNS & PACKAGE.
“How may I help you today?”
She pointed down inside the display case. “I want a gun.”
“That was direct.” The owner chuckled. “Ever shot before?”
“No.”
“It’s the perfect time to start.” He leaned forward and reached into the case, grabbing something off a stand. He held it sideways in an open palm. “This is a twenty-five automatic. Lots of women like them because they fit easily in their purses and have a mother-of-pearl handle. In case you’ve heard the rumors, this is top of the line, virtually jam-free.”
“Too small.”
“I like your moxie.” The owner grabbed another pistol. “A nickel-plated Smith & Wesson three-fifty-seven Magnum. And it’s a wheel gun, so if purse size isn’t an issue, you don’t have to worry about it jamming.”
“You said the other didn’t jam.”
“Except when it jams.”
The woman examined the Magnum. “Still too small.”
The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows without comment, and reached under the glass again.
“This is an absolute cannon.” He handed her the heavy weapon. “Colt Python forty-four, the
She reached in her handbag for a credit card.
“You didn’t even ask the price.”
“I don’t care.”
“And there’s a waiting period.”
“How long?”
“Three days.”
“Too long.”
“What? ‘Too long, too small.’ ” The owner whistled. “Jesus, someone must have really pissed you off. But hey, that’s what we’re here for.”
“Does everything have a waiting period?”
“No,” said the owner. “Just the handguns. Anything up there on the wall you can just walk out the door with.”
She raised her arm. “Even that? But it looks like a pistol.”
The owner glanced briefly over his shoulder, then appraised her stature a moment. “How much do you weigh?”
“That’s pretty rude.”
“No, I mean you’re pointing at a twelve-gauge shotgun.”
“Looks like a big pistol.”
“Because it has a pistol grip and minimum-legal-length eighteen-and-a-half-inch barrel, so it doesn’t get hung up going through doorways. That baby’s designed for urban warfare.”
“Perfect. Wrap it up.”
He looked her up and down. “What are you, barely a buck-ten soaking wet?”
“What’s my weight got to do with anything?”
“It doesn’t have a shoulder stock and kicks like a mule. Plus you’ve never shot before.”
She simply handed him her credit card.
“I’ll also need to see your driver’s license.”
She fished it out of her purse. The owner held it under a jeweler’s lamp and jotted down the particulars. Brook Campanella, five six. The state of Florida said she was twenty-five, but the photo looked seventeen, tops. Freckles, straight brown hair, devoid of menace. Could be a kid who gets you popcorn at the movies. He finished with the license and swiped her Visa.
“Okay, everything’s in order,” said the owner. “Want some ammo with that?”
“I guess.”
