Clownfish Blues

Chapter 7

South Florida

The airspace over Miami International grew crowded. An American Airlines flight from LaGuardia touched down. Then a United, Southwest, JetBlue, Delta, Virgin Atlantic, Lufthansa. Somewhere in the middle, a smaller private jet from South America landed and taxied to a separate terminal. Six serious men with mustaches got out and marched in cadence toward the customs building.

They made their way to baggage claim, where a chauffeur held a sign: Mierda Holding Group.

The men filed into the back of the limo, and the driver climbed in up front. “Where to? . . .”

It was shortly after lunch as the white stretch cruised down Brickell Avenue and double-parked outside one of the numerous downtown banks that used to launder cocaine money in the eighties, and now just laundered money. The half-dozen men entered the lobby with unwavering precision and approached a teller. One of the bank vice presidents saw them and dashed out of his office.

“Mr. Pelota,” said the hurried executive, shaking hands. “Great to see you again. Mind if I call you Ocho? What brings you to town?”

Pelota silently gave him a certified check from the Caymans. The vice president raced behind the counter and practically hip-checked a female teller away from her station. “I’ll take care of this personally.” He looked up. “I’m assuming you want this in hundreds?”

Ten empty briefcases were passed over the counter, and ten heavy ones came back.

The limo cruised across the Miami River and north toward Aventura, passing convenience stores of varying ethnicity with numbers of customers dribbling out the doors. All along the route, billboard workers putting up new numbers. They arrived at a local office with a circular illustration on the door: an Indian maiden near a palm tree as a wooden ship approached. The sun was on the horizon, but it was ambiguous about rising or setting. The official seal of the state of Florida.

The men went inside, and the receptionist had them wait until a low-level bureaucrat in a short-sleeve dress shirt appeared in a doorway, eating a baloney-and-lettuce sandwich. “How can I help you?”

They simply pushed past him.

“Wait! You can’t just go in there!”

“Which is your desk?”

“The gray one.”

They pulled up a half-dozen chairs from nearby work areas. Two were being used, and people had to stand up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The wordless looks they received in response convinced them that chairs suddenly were out of style.

The men gathered around the bureaucrat’s desk. On the corner of the desk was a novelty plastic bird with a pointy beak that occasionally dunked down into a glass of water. The concept was to make people happier. The bureaucrat finished chewing and balled up a piece of wax paper. “Now what can I do for you?”

“We would like to buy the board,” said Pelota.

The office worker had grown used to language barriers, but this wasn’t a question of accents. “Buy the board?”

“Yes.” Pelota leaned to read the official laminated badge clipped to the worker’s shirt. “Mr. Foote.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

Pelota turned and looked back at the door they had just come through. “This is the Miami office of the Florida State Lottery?”

“Yes, it is . . . but if you could just explain a little more.”

“We want to buy the whole board. Every number.”

“Of . . . what?”

“The lottery.”

“Let me get this straight: You want to buy a ticket for every single number in the lottery?” The bird dunked in the water. “But there are over twenty million different combinations.”

Pelota didn’t need to say anything. Ten briefcases were promptly opened on the floor.

“Holy God! Is that what twenty million looks like? . . . How can you guys carry that much cash around Miami and not feel scared?” Foote gazed into six sets of vacant eyes. “Oh.”

“Sell us the board,” said Pelota.

“You do realize that the lottery pays a lot less?”

“Except it’s rolled over five weeks now.”

“What if there are several winning tickets?” asked Foote.

“We’ve done the math,” said Pelota. “The board, please.”

“Look, I would if I could, but there just isn’t any mechanism,” said the employee. “The only way we sell tickets is from the machines in the stores. The lottery has a strict policy against mass sales because it would discourage individual players.”

The silence lasted only seconds, but it was effective. “I am familiar with computers,” said Pelota. “If one is so inclined, anything can be achieved.” He pulled several packets of bills from a briefcase. “How much do you make a year?”

“Put that away!” Foote glanced around quickly and lowered his voice. “I can’t take your money, and even if I did, the system is completely firewalled.”

“They’ve hacked into the Pentagon,” said Pelota.

“Our system’s better. The lottery’s pretty important in Florida.”

Pelota’s mouth firmed. “I am growing weary of you.”

“Please relax,” said Foote. “Here’s what I would do in your shoes: Our lottery forms are good for up to ten numbers, and if you can hire enough people and hit enough stores, you just might be able to cover the board before Saturday night’s drawing.”

“Do you feel lucky?” asked Pelota.

“Why?”

“Because you have just placed a large bet.” Pelota stood up and snapped the plastic bird’s neck and left the building.

Port St. Joe

Serge parked in front of a gingerbread cottage.

An antique Ford pickup with three people in the cab pulled in behind him. Lou Ellen jumped out. “We got your phone call!”

“Is she okay?” asked Willard.

“What about her caretaker?” asked Jasper. “And the money?”

Serge smiled and opened his trunk. “You have nothing to worry about anymore. Everything’s been taken care of.” He handed them a small suitcase.

“What’s this?” asked Willard.

“The money I’ve already recovered. You should be able to retrieve the rest with these documents.” He waved a stack of pages from the glove compartment. “They give Aunt May and you power of attorney over her former caretaker’s bank accounts. And if the authorities poke around, all they will see is the reversal of large transfers of money from her life savings that can only be explained by a predatory scheme on the part of her health worker. Nobody would ever suspect her.”

“Suspect Aunt May of what?” asked Jasper.

Serge placed a hand on his shoulder. “The less you know, the less you can tell them.” He stared off wistfully into the sky. “Whatever might come up, feel free to pin it on a pair of latter-day Route 66–spirited nomads traveling town to town searching for the soul of America.”

“I want to see my aunt!” said Lou Ellen. “I’ve been worried sick!”

They all went inside and arrived as a group in the bedroom doorway.

Shock and confusion.

A ravaged pizza box sat on a nightstand. Playing cards scattered across the chenille bedspread. Dice and crumpled-up dollar bills. Aunt May tossed a Ping-Pong ball at a nearby table.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” said Willard.

“Playing beer pong,” said Coleman.

Aunt May pointed at the TV. “And watching Reservoir Dogs.”

“You!” Jasper yelled at Coleman. “What kind of person gives a ninety-year-old woman beer?”

Willard walked over to the bed with a congenial smile and reached for the aluminum can she was holding. “I’ll just take that from you, Aunt May.”

She sneered down at his hand and growled like she would bite.

“Hold on.” Lou Ellen sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

A Ping-Pong ball flew. “Farts,” said Aunt May. “We had a contest.”

“No, not that,” said the younger woman. “Is it . . . marijuana?”

Coleman and Aunt May in unison: “No!”

The old woman picked up a game controller and switched the TV to a streaming version of Grand Theft Auto: Vice City . . . Tap, tap, tap. “Die, bastards, die!” Tap, tap, tap . . .

Serge stopped and stared curiously at a section of wall where there had been some kind of game of darts without a board. Then another direction. “Coleman, why is the vanity mirror broken?”

The old woman threw another white ball. “I did that.”

Her relatives rushed bedside. “Dear God!” “Did you have an accident?” “Are you hurt?”

“No accident.” May raised her beverage. “I used my cane. It was cool.”

Serge’s head sagged to his chest. “I thought there was no possible way to foul this up.” He grabbed a meaty arm. “Don’t think we’re not going to discuss this later!”

Coleman looked back at the bed. “But this is the only job I’ve ever liked.”

Aunt May sat up in alarm. “Where are you taking him?”

“Everything will be fine,” Serge assured her. “The assisted-care center will be sending a properly vetted person out soon.”

“But I want Coleman! He’s the best caretaker ever!”

Serge tugged his colleague toward the door and turned apologetically toward the others. “Sorry it got a little messy at the end.”

“No problem,” said Lou Ellen. “We really appreciate all you’ve done.”

“Oh!” Serge looked back a last time. “Almost forgot. Our next episode is about to start, so we’re officially out of the grunting racket . . . Willard, Jasper, I want you to have all my advanced worm equipment.”

“But it cost a bundle,” said Jasper.

“We can’t accept that,” said Willard.

Serge held up a palm. “Please, it’s the least I can do for all your hospitality.”

“If you insist,” said Jasper. “But we’re fixin’ to stay here with Aunt May a spell till we’re sure her new arrangements are to our likin’. Might not be able to get back there for a few moons.”

“Family comes first. You do what you have to.” Serge was walking toward the door when Lou Ellen ran up and gave him a hug from behind. “Will I ever see you again?”

“Anything’s possible,” said Serge. “But you should be looking for someone who’s better suited for you.”

“Where am I going to find anyone as kind, charming, intelligent, humorous, fun-loving . . .”

“True, true,” said Serge. “Except there’s a lot you don’t know about me and Coleman.”

“Coleman?”

“We come as a package,” said Serge. “In a way, I’m his caretaker. He’d never last without me.”

“See?” said Lou Ellen. “You’re so compassionate.”

“True again. But trust me on this: There’s a significant downside to getting mixed up with us. Don’t be fooled if it’s not apparent for a long time—”

“Hey,” said Coleman. “It completely slipped my mind, but I think you need to get your aunt’s toilet fixed. I didn’t do anything unusual.”

Serge slowly closed his eyes. “Or you may find the downside much sooner.”

The relatives all gathered on the front porch to bid the out-of-towners farewell.

Serge saluted from the driver’s seat. “Just remember the place where we first met. You’ll find all the gear still there.”

Everyone waved as the Stingray sped off.