Torpedo Juice полностью

“There,” said Serge. “Now go forth and be a nuclear physicist.”

He faced the room as a whole and spread his arms. “The entire problem is this victim mentality. When did that start? Life’s not turning out the way they said it would when you were in first grade. You’re not the president or a movie star or playing center field for the Yankees. Guess what? They lied! Move on! You come from incredible stock! Immigrants who chewed through it all and spit it out with thanks: Ellis Island, Manifest Destiny, the dust bowls, Normandy, and for what? For a society that now encourages everyone to choose up excuse teams: My attention span’s a little off, sometimes I’m nervous, sometimes I’m tired, insults make me sad, I was unfairly labeled slow in school when I really just didn’t want to do any work, a diet of super-size French fries turned me into a human zeppelin, your honor, so I need to be given a lot of money….”

A person standing along the back wall grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the refreshment table and picked up a pot of coffee.

Serge stopped and pointed. “Put… the coffee… down!”

The pot returned to its stand.

“Just look at your speaker tonight,” Serge continued. “I’m a complete mess. But so was every successful person who ever got off the boat and climbed to the top. Watch those cable biographies for any length of time and you realize that the most accomplished people were every bit as weird as Son of Sam. The difference? Choice. Choosing to harness your peculiar energies. Me? I could be home right now giving into my all-consuming urge to construct the world’s largest ball of pencil shavings. But I choose not to. I choose to be here with you fine people. Sure, I’ve been thinking about it the whole time I’ve been standing up here, boxes of new pencils, electric sharpeners, the special adhesive you use, that twelve-year-old little fucker from Iowa who got on Leno with his pitiful five-foot ball that I’m sure had a false basketball core but just can’t prove it…. I forgot what I was talking about. Thanks for coming.”

They gave Serge a standing-O as he walked down the aisle to the back of the room, taking up a position by the door to shake hands like a pastor.

“Great talk…”

“Loved it…”

“So moving…”

Molly couldn’t have been prouder of her husband. He was really helping people. How could she ever have doubted he was a social worker?

Serge shook more hands. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “That’s very kind of you.” “Thank you….”

Coleman walked over. “You’ve never said anything about pencil shavings. When did that start?”

“While I was up there talking. I realized I’ve never been on the Tonight show…. Thank you…. Thank you very much….”

The audience was almost completely gone, just the deputies left. Molly swept crumbs into the trash from her cookie tray.

Gus shook Serge’s hand. “Enjoyed the talk, especially how you connected with the kids.”

“Thank you.”

Molly came up with her clean tray, and Serge took her by the arm.

The deputies watched the couple leave the room, Coleman bringing up the rear.

“Something’s not right there,” said Gus.

“He was pretty strange.”

“It’s not that,” said Gus. “I remember something from somewhere. Just can’t put my finger on it.”

32

THE NIGHT WORE on. Only a few fishermen left on the bridge over Bogie Channel. One added fuel to a camping lantern. Headlights hit him. A late-model rental car rolled slowly over the span toward No Name Key.

Gaskin Fussels came off the bridge barely above idle speed. No light except his high beams. A form appeared. Fussels hit the brakes. A miniature deer clopped across the road. Fussels’s heart pounded in his ears. The rental began moving again. It was quiet the rest of the way down the long, straight dark road. Fussels slowed when he came to the end of the no-trespassing driveway. The muscles in his arms resisted instructions to turn the steering wheel. His chest heaved. The fear of not continuing overrode the panic instinct, and he turned onto the dirt road. The overgrowth was thick, almost forming a canopy, full of glowing animal eyes. The sedan quietly pulled around the back of a stilt house. Fussels knew he couldn’t stop to think about it. He slipped out of the car and left the door ajar, creeping across the yard and tiptoeing up the stairs. He reached the sliding glass door and froze when he saw flickering light. Scarface playing on the big-screen TV with no volume. He cupped his face to the glass and scanned the room. Nothing. He grabbed the glass door’s frame and lifted carefully. He cringed when it made a loud metal snap, but at least it was out of the track. He was in.