Clownfish Blues

Chapter 6

The Sawgrass Lounge

Reevis Tome entered the joint. It was one of those places where you could still smoke. He coughed and stopped to let his eyes adjust. All heads around the oval bar slowly turned. Bikers, barflies, suckerfish. They looked the baby-faced reporter over and returned attention to their highball drinks. Some smirked at first. That was the Reevis Effect.

He took a seat away from the others, at the end of the bar nearest the door, indicating a level of discomfort. Again, a Reevis tactic. An auburn-haired bartender strolled over.

“What can I get ya?”

“Diet Coke.”

She had some mileage but she was sweet. “Coming right up.” Reevis always did better with the women bartenders in knife-and-gun clubs, especially if they were moms. She came back with a soda. “That’ll be a buck.”

Reevis handed her two dollar bills. Another strategy. He raised the soda. “What’s your name?”

“Clementine.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you.” She left and went back to taking orders from rough trade at the other end.

Minutes passed. Laughter. Someone stuck money in the juke and punched up “Kaw-Liga.” That would be a Hank Williams song, both junior and senior, but this was the original recording from 1952. More time passed. Reevis quietly finished his drink. That was his approach. Wait.

Sets of malevolent eyes occasionally gazed down the bar at Reevis, without concern of being noticed. Reevis noticed. Peripheral vision. It was the first thing he did in unfamiliar waters. Chart all points of potential confrontation. This time, an out-of-work plumber facing spousal battery, a middle-rung crack dealer bearing battle scars, and two bikers with probationary patches on their jackets. The last always carried a hammer on his belt, but he wasn’t in construction.

Outside in the Suburban: “What’s he doing in there?”

“He ordered a soda a few minutes ago, but since then nothing.”

Nigel pounded his door panel. “Why did I let him talk me out of bursting in with the camera?”

“What are we going to do?” asked the videographer.

“Okay, I know a way to make this work,” said Nigel. “Turn the camera on me.”

A lens focused on Nigel’s face.

An urgent, hushed tone: “Our reporter has fallen into the hands of dangerous elements. We must go in now!”

Nigel jumped out of the Suburban, followed by the cameraman. He raced toward the lounge. “Remember to make it jiggle.”

“It’s jiggling,” said Günter.

Nigel reached the door and was just about to open it . . .

“Hold up!” Günter placed a hand to the side of his head, where a small earpiece provided an audio feed from Reevis’s lapel mike.

“What is it?”

“I think the kid is making some kind of progress,” said Günter. “We should retreat and wait to see how it plays out.”

“Okay,” said Nigel. “Put the camera on me.”

“You’re on.”

“Pull back! Pull back!” Nigel sprinted for the Suburban, and a jiggling camera followed.

Inside the bar, Reevis had raised a single finger.

The bartender strolled over with a smile. “Another Diet Coke?”

“Sure.”

A refilled glass was set in front of him. “Thanks, Clementine.” Two more dollars.

She began to walk away.

“Oh, excuse me?”

She turned. “Yes?”

“Well, uh, I’m a local reporter, and I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” said Reevis. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What is it?”

“I’m supposed to do a feature on an old crime case that was never solved. A woman went missing about four years ago, and I heard maybe her car was abandoned behind this lounge?”

“The Dupuis case?”

“You know about it?” said Reevis.

“Shoot yeah. It was the big talk in here for months,” said Clementine. “People still bring it up once in a while.”

Reevis slipped out a notebook as casually as possible. “What do you remember about that night?”

“I was busy working and didn’t notice much, but I do know someone who can help you. The Mouth of the South.” Clementine toweled up a wet spot on the counter. “She’s over there right now. I’ll introduce you.”

A minute later, Reevis sat at the darkest, smokiest end of the bar. Next to him was a row of stools with several older women who seemed to have history. They favored mixed drinks. Beside one glass lay a leather cigarette case with a picture of an Irish setter.

“Maddy,” said Clementine. “This is a nice local reporter named— . . . I didn’t get your name . . .”

“Reevis.”

“Reevis,” repeated Clementine.

Maddy laughed. “You don’t look old enough to be a reporter. You don’t look old enough to be in a bar.”

Reevis grinned sheepishly. “I get that a lot.”

From the corner of the reporter’s eye: a plumber was nonplussed by his presence, a crack dealer incensed by his existence. The two bikers weren’t currently taking account, but they would soon respectively become nonplussed and incensed.

“Maddy,” said Clementine. “He was asking about the Dupuis thing.”

“Holy Jesus! Don’t get me started on that! I could talk all night!”

Reevis got out his notebook. “I have all night.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with the missing woman’s car,” said Reevis. “Police had a suspect who was found driving it.”

“Sanchez!” said Maddy. “He wins the putz-of-the-year award. Boy, did he step in it that night!”

“Why do you say that?”

“The guy’s a regular in here . . .”

“. . . A regular pest, if you ask me,” said the woman sitting next to her.

“But nobody’s asking you,” said Maddy. “I’m telling the story here . . . Now I lost my place.”

“He was a regular,” offered Reevis.

“Worked landscaping, but unsteady.” Maddy slipped a new Parliament from her leather case. “By the end of the evening always bugging people for a dollar. Usually had mulch on him.”

“There’s one part that I’m trying to figure out,” said Reevis. “Police pulled him over in the early hours, and he gave them two contradictory stories. First, he said the owner lent him the car, then after he found out she was missing, he told them he found it abandoned behind this place and just stole it . . . You can see how that would make a big difference ruling him in or out—”

“Caprice, blue,” said Maddy. “No, green, definitely green.”

“You have a good memory,” said Reevis.

“A photographic memory,” clarified Maddy.

“You saw the car?”

“Of course. It was sitting right out back for hours,” said Maddy. “Sanchez definitely stole it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because at the end of the night, he was stomping up and down the bar, yelling, ‘Yep, I’m gonna steal me that car. I’m stealing that car! Anyone dare me to steal that car?’ and the rest of us are like, ‘Stop getting mulch on us . . .’”

Reevis could feel the heat from the eyes across the bar. The regulars became more hostile in their glares. The only thing holding them back was Clementine’s de facto approval of the young reporter. You don’t shit where you eat, and you don’t cross bartenders in your zip code.

Reevis gathered his thoughts. “But tell me about when you actually saw the car.”

“Sanchez keeps pestering me, raising his hands to heaven and saying, ‘It’s a sign from God!’ Tells me it’s brand new, driver door open, keys in the ignition, and a holy glow inside telling him the saints wanted him to have the car. I said that was the dome light, but he won’t stop until I finally say, ‘Okay, okay, if you’ll promise to leave me alone.’ So he takes me out back, and sure enough, there’s this factory-spanking-new blue Caprice. I mean green; the yellow crime lights throw you off every time. And it was sitting there just like he said, door open, light on, keys, ready to roll.”

Reevis was bolt upright. “What happened then?”

“I told him not to steal a car with blood all over the interior.”

“You saw blood with your own eyes?” Reevis scribbled furiously. “What else?”

“Kittens.”

The reporter raised his head. “Live cats were in the car?”

“No, the little stuffed ones that people make rows of in their back windows. Not me, personally, but what are you going to do?”

“Okay, and Sanchez?”

“I kept warning him about the blood, but he just jumped in the car and said, ‘Screw it, I’m stealing it anyway!’ And then he drove off. The next thing we knew, he was all over the news as prime suspect in a murder. Everyone in here laughing at the TV: Sanchez with that goofy, hapless expression during the perp walk. That’s when police take a suspect—”

“I’m familiar with a perp walk,” said Reevis. “So what happened then? I understand he was ruled out pretty quickly.”

Maddy nodded as she sipped watered-down Canadian Mist through a straw. “Police came in the bar to interview me. They said Sanchez had changed his story—that at first he had been partying in the bar with the victim, and she lent him the car . . . I cut them off and said Sanchez was an idiot but not a murderer, and the missing woman had never been in the bar, period. Not that night or any other. Then I told them about seeing the car abandoned with door open and the keys and the blood, and Sanchez not listening to me and speeding off in the thing.”

“So that’s when they ruled him out?”

“Not at first.” Maddy pulled another long menthol from her cigarette case. “They said if everything I told them was true, it makes no sense for Sanchez to admit to partying with the victim the night she went missing and make himself the last person to see her alive. Well, I read a lot of mysteries, so I said, ‘It makes perfect sense. When he thought he was just facing auto theft, he tried to lie his way out, but when it turned into a murder rap, he thought, ‘Can I go back and take the stolen-car beef, please?’” She leaned closer and dropped her voice in secrecy. “You know who you should really look into? A guy named Larouche who works at the body shop up the street.”

Reevis wrote diligently in his notepad. “Why?”

She formed tight, earnest lips. “I don’t like him.”

“How is he involved in the case?”

“He’s not. He’s dating my daughter.”

Reevis removed the tip of his pen from the pad. “Maddy, you’ve been more than helpful, and I don’t want to impose, but could I ask you a favor?”

The bottom end of her straw searched for scotch around the ice cubes. “Name it.”

“My company sent a film crew because they think there’s still a lot of public interest in this case. Would you possibly mind repeating what you just said on camera?”

“For you, no problem,” said Maddy, signaling the bartender for a refill. “But you’ll need to clear it first with Clementine . . .”

. . . Outside, in a black Suburban. “What’s going on?” asked Nigel.

The sound man cupped both hands over his earphones to hear better. “There’s a lot of background noise, but it seems like he actually might get our camera into the bar after all.”

“Well, I’ll be,” said Nigel. “Keep listening and let me know the second he gets permission . . .”

Back inside, the bartender saw Reevis signal with his finger and came over with a smile.

“Another Diet Coke?”

“Thanks, Clementine. And thanks for introducing me to Maddy. She’s been great—and she’s agreed to an on-camera interview.”

“Well, look at you!” Clementine told Maddy. “Hope you’ll still remember us little people when you’re a big TV star.”

“If it isn’t too much to ask,” asked Reevis, “could we possibly bring the camera in here? I promise to be as low-key as possible and respect your other customers’ privacy. We’ll be completely unobtrusive and stay tightly focused on Maddy. Do you think maybe that might be something you could . . . ?”

Clementine grinned and shook her head with amusement, like he was being silly. “Of course you can film in here. Take as long as you need.”

“Really appreciate it,” said Reevis. “I’ll just go outside and get the crew—”

Suddenly the front door of the lounge crashed open. Blinding light filled the bar. Screaming.

Clementine spun around and shielded her eyes. “What in the living hell?”

Nigel sprinted through the bar, followed by a Bavarian with a jiggling camera. “Reevis! Thank God you’re safe! . . .”

Ten minutes later.

A parked black Suburban rocked to and fro on its suspension.

Günter wept and cursed in German, repeatedly slamming himself into the door.

“Easy now,” said Nigel, rubbing the videographer’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right.”

More anguished wailing.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you people,” said Reevis. “I had everything under control.”

“And it was an amazing thing to listen to,” said the producer. “You had them eating out of your hand.”

“I told you not to listen!” said the reporter. “As we sit here, that recording is evidence of a felony. You need to destroy it now.”

“Can’t do it,” said Nigel. “It’s all we’ve got.”

“That’s on you,” said Reevis. “We had the interview in hand before that cowboy nonsense back there. What on earth were you thinking?”

“Priorities,” said Nigel. “The interview would have been gravy—and don’t think we’re not thoroughly grateful for your efforts setting it up—but we needed confrontation footage.”

“And where is the footage?” Reevis asked sarcastically.

“We sort of lost it when they smashed the camera,” said Nigel. “How was I supposed to know that biker was carrying a hammer? What’s that about?”

Günter sobbed louder.

“This is everything I was trying to tell you,” said Reevis. “Your antics provoked an unknown variable that nobody could predict or control. That isn’t crime reporting! If you’re in the woods and see a gigantic bees’ nest, you go around it. You don’t say, ‘Reevis, get a big rock and whack that thing open and we’ll film whatever happens next.’ We lost the camera, my interview, and your precious confrontation footage. Am I missing anything?”

“Wait,” asked Nigel. “Are you saying you actually know where there’s a gigantic bees’ nest?”

The Apalachicola

Dry leaves crunched as the tires of a silver sports car rolled slowly along the edge of a forest.

“Here we are,” said Serge. “Your final Route 66 stop of the day. We’re getting near the end of this episode, and you know what that means? . . . Not even a guess? I’ll tell you! The climax!”

Serge grabbed some typed pages from the glove compartment. “I can’t thank you enough for being so gracious back at the house and signing a few forms. Sorry, the lawyers. These are simply required to give Aunt May’s relatives power of attorney over your bank accounts in the unlikely event you become incapacitated.” He flipped pages to make sure every signature line was filled. “Yep, all in order. That’s the last step before we begin the big contest. And who, might you ask, are the lucky contestants? Only you! Isn’t that great? Significantly increases your chances. So let’s get on with the show and meet today’s judging panel, which is me!”

Preston remained still.

“What? Overcome with emotion? That’s normal. Let me give you a hand.” Serge walked around the car and opened the passenger door. Preston’s head slowly turned as movement began returning to his legs.

“Perfect timing: The drug is starting to wear off.” Serge helped the young man to his feet. “It has a fast taper, and you should be feeling like new in no time. The ability to speak is the last to return, so don’t sweat that part.”

Serge guided Preston through baby steps, then grabbed him by the shoulders and carefully leaned him against the front bumper. “Good, you didn’t fall over. Now don’t go anywhere.”

The lid of the trunk popped and Serge unloaded his gear. He slammed it closed and looked toward the front of the car. Nobody there.

Serge scanned the forest and spotted the captive trudging away off balance like a primitive robot. He quickly caught up to Preston. “No, no, no, the contest is over there.” Preston whimpered as he was turned around and marched back.

“Now have a seat,” said Serge.

Preston defied him by stiffening his legs the best he could.

“I insist.” Serge kicked out his feet, and Preston fell in a bed of wet leaves.

The forest filled with the sound of a mallet pounding tent stakes. Thick braided rope went around the hostage’s wrists and ankles. Serge tied the last knot in a clove hitch, leaving Preston spread-eagle on his back.

“Did you realize chicks waste this stuff by making magazine baskets?” Serge connected wires and cables. “And here’s another minefield that women plant for us. You know how they’re always nagging us to wash our hands? And then you comply and she screams, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ You tell her you’re getting dirt off your hands like she wanted, and she yells, ‘You’re using the decorative soap!’ And I say, ‘It’s soap.’ And she grabs this starfish out of my hands. ‘You ruined it!’ ‘What am I supposed to use?’ ‘Soap!’ So I start reaching for other bars. ‘No, not the frog! . . . Not the flower! . . . Not the heart! . . . Not the strawberry! . . . Not the cupcake!’ Then I finally see an actual bar of soap. She says, ‘What do you think you’re doing? That’s a decorative polished quartz shaped like a bar of soap.’” He grabbed the posthole digger. “Relationships are all about power.”

Serge finished digging his hole and made a couple quick trips to retrieve the rest of his gear from the car. He cheerfully narrated while finishing the assembly. It was the same explanation as he had given Willard and Jasper. With one exception.

Serge held a final item in front of Preston’s face. The captive thrashed with wild eyes.

“Open your mouth.”

Preston shook his head and gritted his teeth.

“Don’t be scared,” said Serge. “Most people are freaked out by this, but that’s mainly because they’re already crapping their britches about having to get a root canal. This is just an oval of hard rubber that dentists use to keep a patient’s jaw sufficiently wide so they have room to work and don’t make costly errors that could affect your smile. It’s a safety device. Now open.”

Teeth clenched tighter.

“Have it your way.” Serge grabbed the hammer and lightly tapped the middle of Preston’s lips, drawing a trickle of blood as they cut into his teeth. “That was just a test. The next one will affect your smile . . . Okay, you leave me no choice.” The hammer rose in the air.

The mouth sprang open.

“I knew you were reasonable.” Serge fit the jaw-spreader snugly in place. “It’s a little uncomfortable at first because your mouth is propped so wide you can’t open it any more to spit the thing out. But that’s just another safety feature.”

Large eyes stared up from the forest floor in the terror of not knowing.

“I’ll bet you want to know!” Serge grabbed his laptop and sat cross-legged next to Preston. “But first there’s something I want to know. How can a young, healthy person take complete advantage of an infirm senior citizen? The only conceivable conclusion is that certain people view anyone more vulnerable than them as livestock . . . I know, I know, it’s hard to wrap your head around that conceit, and yet the syndrome is almost an epidemic in our culture. It was impossible for me to fathom as well, until I had an epiphany! You know what made me finally figure it all out? Colonoscopies and psychopaths. It’s so obvious that I feel stupid not making the connection earlier. Ever meet a psychopath?” Serge shook with the creeps as he tapped the computer’s keyboard. “I never, ever want to! But I saw this documentary that said I’ve probably already rubbed shoulders with them many times. When you say ‘psychopath,’ most people think of Manson or Son of Sam, but the vast majority aren’t criminals. Many are actually high-functioning success stories. For example, take a doctor who’s a psychopath. It might give him a God complex and fearless, interpersonal detachment to perform world-class brain surgery with as little nervousness as if he were clipping his fingernails. Or a hedge-fund trader, corporate raider, tobacco lobbyist, or CEO who uses overseas factories so deplorable they’re forced to fence in the rooftops because workers would rather jump than make another fucking game box.” Serge dramatically held an index finger over the return key. “Ready for your contest?”

He pressed it. The hostage’s eyes darted erratically as the ground beneath him began to hum.

“Anyway, the documentary said that one or two percent of the total population are psychopaths. Apparently the gold standard of figuring out which neighbors to keep an eye on is something called the Hare PCL-R test. I took it online, and I got a great score! Then I found out that a great score is not good. Maybe I should have studied harder. Oh well, ever heard of waterboarding? Your contest today is a kooky new variation I dreamed up that I like to call ‘earthworm boarding.’” Serge clapped his hands like they do in kindergarten. “Same principle, except all my procedures have a bonus round that mercifully provides the possibility of escape. So obviously the psychopath test I took was flawed . . .”

Preston turned his head to the side and watched the soil come alive with dozens of pinkish worms. Then hundreds.

“. . . And here’s your bonus round: As I explained earlier, the sound waves drive up the worms, which will begin crawling on you and—sorry, this part is a little gross—some will fall in your mouth. But the sonic device behind it all is running on battery power, so if you can outlast the life of the power supply by eating enough earthworms, then they won’t suffocate you. I know you drew one of my most distasteful contests, but on the other hand, they’re an incredible source of protein. Well, that about does it. See you on the flip side . . .”

Serge began walking back to the car. Preston yelped as the first worm fell in his mouth.

Serge snapped his fingers and spun around. “I totally forgot! The colonoscopy!” He ran back over and plopped down again. “I can’t leave you hanging in suspense.”

Preston flopped and vainly tried to spit.

“I’m trying to tell you something important. Forget about the worm and pay attention!” Serge reached in his captive’s mouth and flung it aside. “Now then, as I alluded earlier, psychopaths are adept at climbing company ladders because they’re easily able to make draconian decisions that would leave the rest of us sleepless for weeks. Did you know that if a colonoscopy turns up a polyp, any doctor will advise you to come back for another test within three years or risk inoperable cancer? Yet some insurance companies refuse to authorize follow-up tests for ten years. Know why? An executive did the harm–profit ratio and decided that at ten years, there was an acceptable fifty percent survival rate—for something that’s virtually one hundred percent preventable with timely screenings. Now, if that isn’t treating the customers like livestock.” Serge nodded to himself with conviction. “A psychopath made that decision.”

Another worm hit Preston’s tongue. More squirming and gurgling.

“You’re a real nervous type,” said Serge. “Just relax and work the odds. Of course it all depends on the individual, but this particular contest leaves you a decent twenty to thirty percent survival rate . . . Wow, I just realized something. That’s less than the fifty percent used by those insurance companies.” Serge stared at Preston and tapped his chin. “Give me the unvarnished truth. Do you think I should take that personality test again?”