The lobster was almost under the magnet.
Now just hysterical screaming under the duct tape.
For some unexplained reason, the lobster simply stopped.
The man held his breath. Could he believe his eyes? The lobster began slowly turning around to face him again.
The burglar sagged with a huge sigh.
Then the lobster took a step backward . . .
. . . And flipped over.
There was a loud
The captive looked up. This was no slow-motion, dramatic magnet. It came down with haste and was so powerful that the victim actually leaped off the ground with the magnet still a good foot away.
His face was mashed against it as the claw tongs closed underneath, carrying him into the night sky, legs wiggling like a detached lizard’s tail.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
THE NEXT MORNING
Police cars with lights ablaze continued streaming through the entrance of Alfonso’s Scrap Metal. More were already on the scene, taking notes and photos.
Alfonso had called them immediately to avoid an accessory charge. He played dumb. Not hard given the evidence.
The head detective sat on the other side of Alfonso’s desk in the warehouse office. He crossed his legs and noticed something in the sole of his shoe. He picked out an iron pellet, looked at it a moment and flicked it over his shoulder. “You’re telling me you have absolutely no idea who did this?”
“I don’t even know
“Our people just pulled a guy in a shark suit out of the crusher,” said the investigator. “Was your lounge open last night?”
Alfonso shook his head. “And I made sure everything was turned off before I left.”
“Our captain doesn’t like headlines. If there’s anything at all you can think of—”
A uniformed officer appeared panting in the doorway. “Sir, I just found something that might be important.”
“What is it?”
“The lobster’s upside down.”
The detective quickly stood. “Not again.”
FORT LAUDERDALE
Noon. The kitchen of an eighth-floor condo sat quiet. A laptop was logged on to a chat room, but the person in the kitchen wasn’t paying attention to the online exchange.
Brook Campanella stood at the counter, pressing her left hand down firmly. Her right hand grabbed a molded rubber grip. The silence was broken by a rhythmic grinding noise.
Choco-holic: “What’s the word from that private eye?”
Shitless in Seattle: “He’s narrowed on the address.”
Pirate Fan: “I’ve got my plane ticket.”
Mets Fan: “Leaving in an hour.”
Wasted in Margaritaville: “I’m already here.”
The Fluffer: “Is Lucy going?”
Choco-holic: “See you all in Miami!”
The grinding noise stopped, followed by the sound of metal clanging on a terrazzo floor where nine inches of shotgun barrel had just landed.
Brook Campanella set down the hacksaw and picked up a file, smoothing out the new bore of the sawed-off twelve-gauge.
MEANWHILE . . .
A black Firebird pulled into the parking lot of a busy shopping center.
Coleman looked up from his hurricane glass. “We’re stopping at Food King?”
“Supply run,” said Serge, jumping down from the car. “You know what else pisses me off? People who say ‘an’ historic event. You don’t say ‘an’ history book. The irony is it’s usually only people who think they’re smarter than you and also say ‘incentive-
“The pricks.”
“And companies that say, ‘Your satisfaction is our number one goal.’ ”
“If that’s so, then give us the shit for free,” said Coleman.
“Exactly,” said Serge. “But instead they tell you they’ll come to fix your cable between noon and five, and I say, okay, I’ll pay my next bill between July and November, but they don’t laugh.”
They went through the automatic doors of the supermarket.
“Ooo! Ooo!” said Coleman. “I want to drive the cart! Can I drive the cart?”
“Go crazy.”
Coleman got a running start down an aisle, jumped up on the bar between the back wheels, flipped backward and knocked himself out.
Serge sat his pal up and shook him back into the world.
Coleman stood and grabbed the cart. “What are we shopping for?”
“Required ingredients for my new inspiration,” said Serge. “Things are starting to happen fast, so we’ll also need super-high-energy food.”
“What about Little Debbies?”
“Good thinking.”
They turned up the aisle. “Serge, people are doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Giving us looks. They see us with the single cart and think we’re gay.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“Of course not.”
“But I see what you mean,” said Serge. “Some are glances of abject disgust, while others over-sell their friendliness to compensate for the injustice of our struggle.”
“Here are the Little Debbies.” Coleman grabbed a box off the shelf and set it in the cart.
“Coleman, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m putting it in the cart.”
“You never just put it in the cart.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
