Tropic of Stupid Read online

  Coleman strolled over and took stock of the cluttered work space. There was an awl, a heavy-duty sewing needle, pocketknife, plastic chemical bottle, another smaller container of white powder, superglue, stick of library paste, roll of brown paper towels, red string, a vise, portable drill, plastic bulb syringe, frying pan, and a lighted hobbyist’s magnifying glass on a gooseneck clamped to the edge of the desk. On the floor next to Serge’s chair sat a gasoline can and shopping bag.

  “You doing another science project?” asked Coleman.

  “If you leave me alone.” Serge sliced string with the knife.

  Coleman looked at another part of the desk. An empty box that used to hold a half-dozen baseballs. Serge stared down through the magnifying glass, continuing to cut the stitches on one of the balls. He removed the cowhide cover and discarded the wool-wound cork core in the wastebasket. He set the cover alongside five other covers that were the result of the same process.

  “Why are you taking those baseballs apart?”

  “Because I’m making Serge’s Extreme baseballs. I need them for Lee’s famous Spaceball pitch. Observe.”

  He reached down in the shopping bag and pulled out a small clear sphere attached to a square of wood.

  “What’s that?”

  “A display case for autographed tennis balls. They have them for baseballs, too, but I needed something with a smaller circumference than a baseball.” He snapped the wood base off one of the displays, then twisted apart the two halves of the protective clear plastic sphere where the tennis ball would go. A ribbon of superglue was painstakingly applied around the inside edge of one of the halves, and he twisted them back together again. He grabbed the portable drill with an ultra-small bit and made a hole on the top of the see-through sphere.

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Adding the prime ingredient.” Serge reached beside his chair, sucking up gasoline with the bulb syringe, then squirting it down through the tiny hole in the sphere. When it was half-full, he grabbed the chemical bottle and sucked up some of its contents with the syringe, filling the rest of the sphere. A blob of superglue gel sealed the hole made by the drill.

  “That looks pretty cool,” said Coleman. “The liquids aren’t mixing. The bottom half is brown, and the top clear, like one of those novelty drinks at a funky bar.”

  “Oh, it’s definitely a novelty.” Next, Serge reached for the frying pan. “I had to prepare this earlier because it takes the longest to dry.” He removed a brown paper towel spread across the bottom of the pan and applied library paste to one side. The paper was wrapped around the plastic sphere.

  “What now?”

  “The part I’ve been dreading,” said Serge. “It’s excruciatingly tedious, but I can’t just phone this in.” He fitted the paper-shrouded plastic sphere inside one of the baseball covers. Then his face went over the goosenecked magnifying glass again as he picked up the spool of red string and the thick sewing needle. “There are exactly one hundred and eight double stitches in an official ball.” The needle went through a hole. “I don’t know how people can do this all day. Luckily I only have six balls ahead of me.”

  Two hours later, Serge set the third finished ball aside. “Screw it, that’s enough—”

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Who the fuck’s at the door!” said the prostrate ballplayer tightly gripping the bedspread. “Don’t answer it!”

  “You’re just paranoid,” said Serge. “And I need backstory.”

  He enthusiastically opened the door.

  Standing outside was a man dressed like the Statue of Liberty.

  “Detergent?” asked Serge.

  The man nodded.

  Serge grabbed a small box off the dresser. “Here you go.” He closed the door.

  Coleman looked up. “You didn’t get backstory.”

  “Already know it. That encounter was limited to me trying to be like Christ.” He sat back down at the desk. “Coleman, what do you think?”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “I’ve just made history as the first person to combine the Apollo moon program, Bill ‘Spaceman’ Lee and Molotov cocktails.”

  “This is the part again where you need to explain,” said Coleman.

  “First a little background: The Molotov cocktail is a glass bottle filled with gasoline or other flammable liquid, with a rag stuck in the opening that’s set on fire, and the whole thing is thrown to explode when the glass breaks. Introduced during the Spanish Civil War in 1936, and later named insultingly after Soviet foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov by the Finns after Russia invaded in 1939. The problem with the cocktail is that it’s not entirely reliable. The rag can come loose in flight or the bottle shatters in a way that doesn’t ignite. Also, if it’s after dark and you’re holding a bottle with a flaming wick, you make an easy target for snipers. Some folks decided they needed to go back to the drawing board.”

  “I’m with you so far.”

  “This is where the Apollo program comes in.” Serge carefully packed the baseballs back in the box. “One of the most dangerous parts of a mission is when it’s time to come home and they have to reignite the service module’s engine on the dark side of the moon. The first design objective is to reduce the number of things that can fail. So they got rid of the ignition source, which was like eliminating the risk of a bad spark plug.”

  “How’d they do that?”

  “By using hypergolic fuels,” said Serge. “Which are two different chemicals that automatically ignite on contact without a ‘spark plug.’ The same principle was employed when some jokers developed a new and improved Molotov that eliminated the flaming rag.”

  “Again, how?”

  “The same way I ‘extremed’ my baseballs,” said Serge. “I started by filling the tennis ball holders with gasoline and sulfuric acid, which you can get at any hardware store. Then came that white powder, potassium chlorate. You know about it if you were ever in a high school science class, and the teacher wanted to stimulate interest with an experiment called Growling Gummy Bears.”

  “Except they don’t use real gummy bears?”

  “No, they do. The teacher pours the chemical into a test tube, sticks the bottom over a Bunsen burner and drops in a gummy bear, which produces a bright flame and screaming sound, because the candy’s sugar content is an excellent oxidizer. It’s a feel-good experiment, except my baseballs aren’t feel-good.”

  “You can just buy that stuff?”

  “Yes and no,” said Serge. “It’s all over the Internet from chemical supply houses, but the legality is tricky in certain jurisdictions. Like I need more hassles in my life. So I improvised by going to the grocery store and buying (blank) and sodium-free salt substitute, because I’m hip to ionic bonds. Then I dissolved them in water and poured the mixture in the frying pan with a stack of paper towels in the bottom and let the whole thing dry before gluing the chemically saturated towels around the spheres.”

  “Serge,” said Coleman, “why did you silently mouth that one ingredient?”

  “Because somebody might be listening in the home audience.” He gingerly picked up a ball. “I don’t want anyone trying this in their garage. I’m a responsible person, after all.”

  “You always think of others,” said Coleman. “But how is that like a Molotov cocktail?”

  “Sulfuric acid and potassium chlorate react explosively on contact, like Apollo fuel, so when those plastic spheres break, it puts the acid inside in contact with the chlorate dried into the paper towels on the outside and automatically ignites the gasoline, just like a moon rocket.” Serge turned around toward an empty part of the room. “So don’t try this at home because there are toxic fumes and a high chance of accidental explosion that could maim or kill you.”

  “Who are you talking to?” asked Coleman.

  “The home audience.”

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  “The key to life is pretending you have a home audience that’s
always watching you,” said Serge. “It’s a morale booster, and an incentive to stay self-aware and not pick your nose.”

  Coleman pulled a finger from a nostril. “Having a home audience is cool!”

  “It’s just like Romper Room.” Serge smiled and waved. “Hello out there! I see Jimmy, and Sally, and Zeke . . .”

  Coleman stuck his face next to Serge’s and waved. “It’s me, Coleman.”

  A voice from behind: “What’s going on?”

  “Jesus!” Serge grabbed his heart. “Didn’t know you were up. Don’t startle me like that.”

  “That evil stuff finally wore off,” said Lee. “What have you got there?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Yes, you do. Three baseballs and three covers. And chemicals.”

  “Oh, right. They’re just baseballs. Nothing fishy going on.” Serge grinned abnormally. “When I said before I just wanted to play catch, I changed my mind. I really do want autographs.”

  “Be happy to.” The player reached for one of the balls.

  “No!” Serge’s hands flew out to cover them. “I mean, no, I’ll hold them.”

  Lee signed the balls with his name, date and location: “Earth.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you,” said Serge. “I’ll always treasure these. But right now, Coleman and I have to run an errand.”

  “Okay, I’ll get my shoes on.”

  Serge shook his head. “It’s a boring errand, and you need to stay here in case there are any aftereffects. We’ll be right back and then go get that outrageous barbecue!”

  “If you say so.”

  “I insist.” Serge grabbed the box of balls and headed out the door . . .

  A half hour later, a blue-and-white Cobra arrived at a darkened baseball field on the west side of the county. Serge popped the trunk.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite baseball fan!” said Serge. “Have I got a game for you!”

  The motel robber squirmed down in the bed of the trunk and tried to yell under the duct tape across his mouth.

  “Let me give you a hand.”

  After getting the hostage out and flopping him to the ground, Serge reached deep inside and grabbed one of those cloth folding chairs that parents bring to soccer games. He set it in the right-handed batter’s box next to home plate, and strapped the captive in with nylon rope. “Here’s your bat.” Serge duct-taped it to his bound hands.

  Then he and Coleman went to the middle of the diamond for a strategy conference on the pitcher’s mound. “What should I throw him? He’s a righty, so I’m thinking a slider low and away.”

  “I don’t know,” said Coleman. “Back when you were playing catch with Spaceman, you threw everything over the Indian mound.”

  “Because I was intimidated by greatness and trying to show off.” Serge rotated the ball in his hand. “A common problem among relief pitchers coming into a game is pushing too hard. I’ll just dial it back.”

  “Then I say, ‘Batter up!’”

  Serge faced the plate. “You’re in for a real treat! These balls have been signed by a genuine major league legend!” Serge placed his right foot on the rubber and bore down on the batter with ferocious competitiveness. “Now I’m adjusting my grip on the ball behind my back, so don’t even try to guess the pitch.”

  Serge went into a wildly gyrating windup and let the ball fly. It zoomed through the strike zone and exploded against the backstop in a towering fiery mushroom. The captive thrashed and whined in his chair as he watched the flames flicker against the chain-link fence twenty feet behind him.

  “Steeeee-rike one!” said Serge.

  Another conference with Coleman. “What do you think? He’s behind in the count and probably expecting another curve, so I’ll go with a four-seam fastball this time.”

  “He’ll never expect it,” said Coleman.

  Another crazy windup and release. Another stunning explosion at the backstop.

  “Steeeee-rike two!” said Serge.

  The captive whimpered with bobbing shoulders.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You seemed to have all the confidence in the world when you were pointing your gun at that old-timer baseball fan . . . Oh, I get it, you’re only cocky while victimizing someone weaker. The young, the handicapped, that retiree. You probably even kick small animals. But facing an equal mound opponent like me is a different ball game, right?”

  Just more frantic noises of desperation.

  “Coleman, what do you think?” whispered Serge. “He’s two strikes in the hole, expecting a ball outside, so I’ve got him set up perfectly for the knockout pitch.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I’ll surprise you, too. Step back . . .”

  Serge leaned even farther forward to stare down the batter again. He started his windup, but as his arm came forward, he released slightly early. The captive looked up as the ball traveled in a high, slow arc across the night sky. It fell at a sharp angle, downward through the strike zone.

  Home plate exploded in the most violent fireball yet.

  “Steeeee-rike three!” said Serge. “The Leephus Spaceball pitch gets them every time!”

  “Ewww,” said Coleman. “What a horrible way to go.”

  “I considered that. So mercifully, asphyxiation should come fast and end the misery. Because if you can’t show mercy, there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

  “You really are dedicated to making others happy.”

  “As often as possible.” Serge led Coleman back toward the car. “I guess there’s nothing left to say but ‘Go Sox!’”

  Headlights streamed down U.S. 1 in Boynton Beach, including two on the front of a 1970 Ford Cobra.

  “That barbecue really hit the spot!” Serge sucked hard on a to-go coffee. “Meat practically melting off the ribs. A long wait, but worth it. What did you think, Spaceman?”

  The player patted his stomach. “Almost better than I remembered. And after all this time, they still have those same plastic red-and-white-checkered tablecloths.”

  “I remember the old sign by the jukebox: No dancing during dinnertime.”

  Coleman blazed another fat one and held it toward the back seat.

  Lee’s hands went up. “No, no, no, I’m good.”

  “Tom’s Place!” said Serge. “Now, this is what I’m talking about! Florida has lost way too many historic places, but it’s like a double bonus when someone cares enough to bring one back to life that you thought was gone forever!” Serge didn’t realize it, but he had gotten the gun out from under the seat and was waving it around with zest.

  “What’s with the gun?” said Lee.

  “Did you forget? It’s a cigarette lighter that just looks like a gun—”

  Bang.

  The bullet zinged out the passenger window.

  “Serge, watch it!” said Coleman. “You almost got me again!”

  “Excuse me,” said Lee. “I’d like to get out of the car now, please.”

  “What are you talking about?” Serge twisted toward the back seat with gun still in hand. “We’re having fun!”

  “I just remembered I have to go jogging.”

  “Come on! Hang out a little longer!”

  “Please pull over. It would make me happy.”

  “Alllllllll right. But only because I’ve rededicated my life to the Gospels.”

  The car eased up to a bus stop, and Lee exited as if he were spring-loaded.

  Coleman looked out the rear window and watched the ballplayer running away in the opposite direction, frantically looking over his shoulder at the departing car. Coleman turned back around in his seat. “I didn’t want to say anything, but your hero was acting really weird the whole time we were around him.”

  “They don’t call him the Spaceman for nothing.”

  Chapter 24

  The Next Day

  A few minutes after noon, a white Crown Victoria with blackwall tires drove south on U.S. Highway 1 near Fort Lauderdale. T
he passenger had a newspaper.

  “Here’s that story about the guy arrested for jumping on a pelican,” said Archie. “They caught him because he put it on Facebook.”

  Heather pulled up to a red light. “Where did that happen?”

  “Key West. He leaped off a dock into the harbor.” Archie turned a page. “Talk about your senseless crime.”

  “It’s never boring down here.”

  Archie pointed out the window. “There’s a hooker on crutches.”

  The light turned green. The sedan drove on.

  The next light turned red and the car stopped again.

  Archie pointed again. “There’s someone dressed like the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Those sign wavers for accountants are on almost every street corner these days,” said Heather. “It’s tax season.”

  “He doesn’t have a tax sign. It’s a bigger one with a lot of words,” said Archie. “‘Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .’”

  The light changed, and they sped off as Serge waved at them from under his green spiked hat.

  The Crown Vic pulled into a modest neighborhood, and up the driveway of a ranch house with an anti-maintained yard. The law officers stepped over beer cans on the front steps. The door had a dead Christmas wreath. They knocked. It was quiet at first, followed by a violent hacking cough. “Coming.” Then the sound of a piece of furniture tipping over. “Dammit.” The partners looked at each other.

  A man in a stained white T-shirt opened up, eating a hard-boiled egg. “Who are you?”

  They displayed gold badges at the same time.

  “State agents,” said Heather. “Are you Raúl Dixon?”

  “Since I was born,” said the resident.

  “May we come in?” said Archie.

  “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “Oh, no, no, no, nothing like that,” said Heather. “Just a routine investigation. You’re not a suspect.”

  “Then suit yourself.” He turned unceremoniously back into the house. The agents stepped over a pizza box and took seats on a sofa. Dixon plopped down deep into his own torn La-Z-Boy where the springs had lost their memory. “Now, what’s this all about?”