Clownfish Blues

Chapter 16

Central Florida

A black SUV left Interstate 4 behind in the late afternoon and began a meandering country drive that seemed to lead nowhere. Reevis’s Datsun was right behind.

The vehicles eventually rolled up a quiet street and parked in front of a tidy cottage.

“Here’s the plan,” said Nigel, laying out the details.

“It’s a stupid plan,” said Reevis. “And just when I thought my profession couldn’t sink any lower. Since when do journalists use psychics?”

“Cops hire them all the time,” said Nigel. “And the viewing public loves them! You’ll be a pioneer!”

“I’ll be a laughingstock!”

“You heard what your editor told you back at the office,” said the producer. “Just give it a try.”

“But whatever happened to the missing-woman case we were supposed to be working on?” said Reevis.

“That’s over,” Nigel said bitterly. “It got solved.”

“It did?”

“Tragically, she’s alive. Mid-life crisis. Been backpacking in Europe.” Nigel looked toward the front porch. “Ready?”

Reevis noticed the happy silk flag. “You sure we have the right address?”

Nigel nodded. “Been here before.”

“You have?”

“I was waiting until we arrived to surprise you.” Nigel eagerly rubbed his palms together. “There’s a second element that will put this segment over the top, television’s version of a daily double, combining two things audiences love the most. Not only are we consulting a psychic about a crime, but we’ll also have a confrontation with a psychic!”

“Please stop,” Reevis said weakly.

“No, seriously,” said Nigel, leading the way up the porch steps. “We paid her to work on a show before we met you, and you’ll never guess! The psychic was wrong!”

“I’m shaken.”

“So was I,” said the producer. “Last time she predicted the body would be found near water with sounds and lights. Just my bad luck that the victim in that case wasn’t dead, either. Turns out the girl ran away with her boyfriend for a few days. So here’s the deal: We start out like everything’s on the level; then, when she’s lulled into false confidence, you pepper her with accusations about the last case. It can’t miss! The scrupulous reporter uncovering a scandalous psychic hoax.”

“I feel ill.”

Nigel pounded and pounded on the front door.

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” said Reevis.

“There a car in the drive.” Nigel tried the doorknob. “Günter, it’s unlocked.”

“I draw the line here,” said the reporter. “I’m not a burglar.”

“Reevis, where are you going?”

“Back to the office.”

“Reevis? Reevis! . . .”

The door to the Datsun slammed, and the reporter drove off.

Nigel looked at his cameraman. “He’ll come around later for the voice-over. Let’s go inside and get some B-roll.”

Günter Klieglyte ran jiggling up the steps and barged through the door without knocking. They stood in an empty parlor.

“I know you’re back there!” yelled Nigel. “Come out now! We want our money back! . . .”

The cameraman ran forward in the dark room and tripped over something on the floor.

“Good God!” said Nigel. “It’s a body! Get a close-up!”

Down the Hall

Madam Bovary arched her back high in a prolonged tremor of ecstasy. Then she collapsed onto the mattress and hugged Serge hard around the neck. “My pirate!”

“You’re welcome.”

“But how was it for you?”

“Great.” Serge rolled off her and caught his breath. “I usually try to think of historic stuff to heighten the experience, but this time it was so vivid.”

“So you now believe in my skills at past-life regression?”

“The Eight Ball says definitely.”

“By the way, my real name’s Trish.”

“Pleasure to meet you— . . . Wait, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“From the other room. Listen . . .”

They both stared at the closed bedroom door.

“. . . We know you’re back there! Give us our money! . . .”

“Oh no,” said the psychic. “Not another.”

“Unhappy customer?” said Serge. “This happen often?”

“Only occasionally, but it’s never pleasant.”

Serge hopped out of bed. “This one’s on me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Let you relax and enjoy the afterglow.” Serge kissed her forehead and trotted toward the parlor. “Just a minute!”

Günter had the camera rolling on a close-up of a prostrate Coleman when Serge came skipping into the room wearing only black Miami Heat boxers. “How can I help you crazy kids? You’ve caught me in a great mood. Out of the blue, I just got fucked stupid by a smoking-hot babe that I only met a few minutes ago. So how’s your own day going?”

“Are you getting all this?” whispered Nigel.

Günter nodded as he kept his face against the rubber eyepiece and panned down to the underwear.

Nigel pointed at the floor. “Why did you kill this man?”

“Coleman?” Serge kicked him in the thigh.

The body sat up with a groan, then conked out again.

“He just has a different day planner,” said Serge. “Anything else?”

“Yes! I’m here to demand the return of two hundred dollars from a fraudulent session that hoaxed a respected media outlet and traumatized the parents of a missing girl.”

“That’s terrible!” said Serge. “I have to make this right!”

“Where’s Madam Bovary? We want to talk to her this very second!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Serge sat down at the table and grabbed his Eight Ball. “She’s been recalled to the Mother Ship.”

“Do we look like saps to you? A UFO?”

“No, Parliament Funkadelic,” said Serge. “Backup singer, great pipes . . . It’s almost supernatural how that band keeps cropping up in my work.”

Nigel pounded the séance table, sloshing fluid in the Eight Ball. “I want to see some hard cash immediately!”

“Tell you what,” said Serge. “I’ll give you a top-shelf session at no charge, and if you aren’t satisfied, money back, no questions asked.”

“Who exactly are you?”

“Madam Bovary’s mentor, the Calico Kid,” said Serge. “Ready for my cosmic report?”

Nigel and Günter gave each other hopeful looks.

“Okay,” said Nigel. “But no funny stuff!”

“You mean like this?” Serge held his hands toward the kerosene lamp, casting a shadow puppet on the wall of a tap-dancing penis.

Nigel elbowed Günter.

“I’m getting it,” whispered the Bavarian.

“Now then,” said Nigel. “We’re working a four-year-old missing-persons case, probably a murder. Owned a motel with her husband and—”

“That’s a trick question,” said Serge. “She’s probably still alive.”

Nigel recoiled. “How’d you know?”

“I’ll do you one better,” said Serge. “A murder that hasn’t even been reported yet.”

“Really?”

Serge gazed strenuously into his Eight Ball. “I see a body in pine needles on the floor of the Apalachicola National Forest. Drive precisely five-point-seven miles from the Sopchoppy spur into Tate’s Hell, and walk two hundred yards east-southeast until you come to a log with a big mushroom-looking fungus. Despite being discovered far from open water, the body will be near a deep-sea transmitter, with a jaw-spreader in the mouth and stomach contents including earthworms and possibly Mallomars. He has a history of working in the health care field, but never fulfilled early aspirations of founding a network of pick-your-own catfish farms in an attempt to woo the affections of the second-chair bassoon at the Met. That Eight Ball is shaky on whether that last part is prescience or coffee, so no money back there.”

Nigel and Günter just stared with open mouths.

“What? Cat got your tongue?”

“H-h-how do you know such specific details about an unreported homicide?”

“Let you in on a little secret if you promise not to put it on the air.” Serge leaned in like they were old pals. “It’s the art of making the general seem specific. Earthworms, sonar equipment, jaw-spreaders? I mean, come on, when haven’t you seen that?” He sat back and grinned.

“Uh, so . . .” Nigel muttered nervously. “You wouldn’t have a name for this murder victim, would you?”

African clicking sounds.