Torpedo Juice полностью

“The Beetle completely covered with bumper stickers, seashells, bingo markers and religious figurines.”

They sprinted back up the sidewalk, passing Serge and Coleman. The fastest darted into the street and caught the car at a red light, slapping the fender. “Sixteen!” The slowest ran up behind Serge just in time to take a slug in the shoulder.

“Did you hear something?” said Serge.

“You mean like a yell?” said Coleman.

“Yeah. You heard it, too?”

“No.”

They kept walking.

Leather hands quickly disassembled the rifle. Combat boots ran across the roof and down the stairs.

THE END OF the night. Serge’s favorite time. The critical thirty minutes when the sky goes from its blackest to a tricky tease of light. Serge just had to be at the Southernmost Point, sitting on the seawall, legs hanging over and kicking with hope.

“My stomach’s making that noise,” said Coleman.

“You’re not watching,” said Serge.

The sky ran through a palette of grays and blues, the amorphous view toward the Gulf Stream separating into sky and water. A rooster activated in the distance. Serge stood and stretched. They began walking again, starting to see people, someone on the curb weaving five-dollar hats from palm fronds, someone else setting up a table of conch shells.

Serge picked up one of the largest shells. “May I?”

“May you what?” said the man behind the table.

“I’m going to be in that big conch-blowing contest next month,” said Serge. “I’d like to practice my chops.”

“Just don’t drop it.” The man began unloading another box.

Serge held the shell an inch from his mouth. “Okay Coleman, this is the winning entry for sure. I’ve been polishing it all year. Joe Walsh’s guitar solo from ‘Life in the Fast Lane.’”

“I love that song.”

“Here goes…” Serge pressed the shell to his lips.

Coleman tapped his foot to the catchy tune. Serge blew relentlessly into the third and fourth measures with big Dizzy Gillespie cheeks. The man behind the table looked up. “I’ve never heard anyone play that fast.”

“It’s ‘Life in the Fast Lane,’” said Coleman.

“His face is purple.”

“It gets that way.”

“Do his eyes roll up in his head?”

“Serge!” yelled Coleman.

Serge was still playing, reeling sideways off balance until he crashed into the bushes.

Coleman ran over and shook him. “You all right?”

Serge sat up and blew the spit out of his shell. “They might as well start engraving that trophy.”

They were on the move again, past the Southernmost House, the Southernmost Inn, the Southernmost transient, back around Simonton Street and up to a building that opened in 1962. On the roof, a suntan lotion sign with a dog tugging a little girl’s bathing suit.

Serge opened the door. Most of the gang was already seated around the U-shaped lunch counters of Dennis Pharmacy, comparing lists, spearing sunny-side yolks. Serge and Coleman grabbed stools and menus.

The front door opened again.

“Serge!”

“Joe!” Serge then noticed the eighty-seven-year-old man standing next to the owner of the No Name. “You actually got him to come!”

“I told you I would.”

The old man appraised Serge. “You look like a fucking tourist in that shirt.”

“I know. Isn’t it great? All the toll collectors wear them.” Serge faced the gang at the counter. “Can I have your attention? Our dysfunctional klatch is honored this morning by the presence of the one-and-only Captain Tony! Number thirty-seven on your lists.”

“That’s Captain Tony?” They quickly formed a line, one by one touching him on the shoulder.

The pharmacy window opened; Coleman was waiting behind a young woman with multiple piercings.

“…I’m telling you,” said the pharmacist. “I’ve known this doctor all my life and this isn’t his handwriting….”

“Yes, it is,” said the woman.

“…And he never gives fifteen refills for painkillers.”

“I’ll take one.”

The pharmacist picked up the phone. “You can either leave or be here when the police arrive.”

Two hungry sheriff’s deputies got out of their cruiser and walked toward the pharmacy.

“I thought you told me this was going to be a quiet night,” said Walter.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Gus. There was a piece of paper stapled to the telephone pole on the corner, a photocopy of a penis with a Mr. Bill face. Gus tore it down and crumpled it into a ball. “I’m just glad it’s finally over.” The front door flew open and smacked Gus in the shoulder. “Ow.” A young woman took off down the street.

The deputies went inside and walked past the pharmacist, who smiled at Coleman. “Now, how can I help you?”

Coleman slipped a prescription back in his pocket. “Uh, where’s the rest room?”

The deputies headed for the breakfast counter.

“Hey, there’s Captain Tony,” said Gus. “The legend.”

A naked woman put her hand on Tony’s shoulder.

“He’s still got it,” said Walter.

Serge saw the deputies and energetically waved them over. “Join us!” He turned to the gang. “Some of you make room for hardworking law enforcement.”

“Serge, please,” said Gus. “I don’t want to take anyone’s seat.”

“Nonsense. You’re heroes.”

The deputies grabbed stools, and Gus opened his textbook.