Clownfish Blues

Chapter 17

A Few Minutes Later

Serge shook his Eight Ball and called to the bedroom. “Coast is clear!”

The psychic came out and took a seat at the table. “How’d you get rid of them?”

“Gave ’em what they wanted. I’m a student of character that way.” He set the black ball down and opened the new book he had purchased at the gift shop. “What do you think of this stuff?”

“Crystals?” She grabbed her own clear ball from the middle of the table. “I’m on the fence, but some people swear by them. There are hundreds of varieties with their own vibration levels and energy fields, giving each one specific gifts similar to patron saints: peace, love, creativity, decision making.”

Serge flipped pages. “I loved crystals when I was a kid, but I was looking at little bitty ones with the microscope I got for Christmas. In fact, I used it to examine the whole house. That microscope opened a whole new world for me! I was so excited: ‘Mom! Come quick! You have to see this stuff magnified! All kinds of crazy little creatures are running around!’ Then she’d take a peek and ask what she was looking at. ‘Mom, it’s what you made for dinner.’ That was the end of my microscope period.”

A cell phone rang. Trish checked the caller ID. “It’s the spiritual center’s referral line.” She got up to take it. “Hello? . . . No, I’m sorry, but I’m not taking any more customers today . . . No, I’m sure . . . Well, if it’s an emergency, there are plenty of others on the board who would be happy to see you . . . What? . . . Wait, your voice. Who is this? . . .”

“. . . Then I got a telescope,” said Serge, “and I could literally read a newspaper through our neighbor’s living room window, but I was still too young to process the bedroom scenes . . .”

Madam Bovary hung up and walked to the table.

“What is it?” asked Serge. “Another unsatisfied customer?”

She steadied herself as she sat back down.

“Good God, what’s wrong? You look terrible, and I’m not even psychic.”

“He found me again.”

“Who?”

“My ex. He just called from the spiritual center and is on his way over.”

“Then we only have a few minutes.” Serge noticed her shaking uncontrollably. “I’ve seen the previews to this movie before, so give me the quick version.”

“I’ve called the police, got restraining orders, moved ten times, legally changed my name, but it’s never enough. Once, he even found me through public records when I hooked up to the city water. Except this time I thought I was so far off the grid he wouldn’t stand a chance. But just now he said he saw me on TV when I did that cold-case segment.”

“TV!” said Serge. “That’s the opposite of off the grid.”

“I know, I know, but I’ve never been east of Colorado before. Who would have thought he’d see that show—”

“Has he ever hit you?”

“Hit me, choked me, thrown me down stairs, burned me.” She turned her arm over, and Serge cringed. “Swears he’s going to kill me.”

“If you don’t go back with him?”

“No, says he’ll do it someday anyway, just doesn’t feel like it yet. When we were out west, detectives came around one day asking about his missing first wife, and that’s when I finally split for Florida.”

“I’ve heard enough.” Serge ran to the window and checked out the curtains. “Shit, he’s here. Do you have a car?”

“It’s around back.”

“Hopefully he’ll think the Corvette’s yours. Lock yourself in the bathroom and don’t come out! Now! . . . Oh, and what’s his name? . . .”

Feet ran down the back hallway. Others came up the front steps. Serge ran to the kerosene lamp and turned down the flame. Then he quietly unlocked the front door. “What an episode.”

Outside: “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house in!”

Quiet.

“What? No answer? Is that any way to treat the love of your life?”

The ex tried the knob. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is too easy.” He slowly opened the door and poked his head inside with a bad Jack Nicholson impersonation. “Heeeeeeeere’s Johnnnnnnny!”

The parlor was ultra-dark as he crept inside. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

More svelte steps across the Tibetan carpet. Trip. Thud. “What the hell?”

“Ow!” said Coleman. “I’m trying to sleep.”

The kerosene flame came back to life.

The ex looked up from the floor. “Who the hell are you?”

“Calico Kid Serge. And you must be Gil.”

Gil stood back up and aimed a pistol. “Are you the current loser fucking my wife?”

“No,” said Serge. “Well, not for the last half hour.”

“Son of a bitch!” Gil stormed across the room and pointed the gun between Serge’s eyes. “You’re a dead man!”

Serge put a hand to his mouth and yawned.

“What’s the matter with you? I have a gun!”

“But I have the Eight Ball!”

“What?”

Serge shook the water in the novelty item. “Its power is much greater.” He held the ball’s fortune-telling window toward Gil’s face. “See?”

“Where?”

“There.” Bam. Right in the nose.

It’s not the injury as much as disorientation. A pain source so close to the brain is magnified. Involuntary blinking. Whatever else your hands were doing, they can’t help but drop everything and fly to the center of your face . . .

Ten minutes later . . .

Serge tugged hard on a stretch of rope and yelled down the hall. “You can come out now.”

A wedge of light appeared as a door cautiously opened. “Is it safe?”

“Completely.”

It was indeed safe, but Trish grabbed her heart anyway at the sight of Gil. He was fit to be tied—and he was. The work with the rope defined overkill. Dozens and dozens of loops like a woman left on the railroad tracks in a silent movie. A tube sock duct-taped in his mouth.

“Forget you ever saw this,” said Serge. “I just have to wait for nightfall, and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”

Several Hours Later

A ’62 Ford pickup sat on the shoulder of a rocky road in the Apalachicola National Forest. Two men in overalls began hiking into the woods as the sun went down.

“I sure likes that Serge,” said Willard.

“Mm-hmm,” said Jasper. “Leavin’ us all his expensive gizmos like he did.”

“We’s gonna corner the worm-grunting market fer sure!”

“Where is that stuff, anyway?”

“Claimed it was in the same spot where we laid eyes.”

“I think it’s just behind those trees over there.”

More walking. Moss and peat and toadstools. As they rounded a cluster of pines, the top of the sonar pole came into view.

“Yep, this is the place,” said Willard. “Right where he told us.”

A few more steps.

Willard froze and Jasper bumped into him from behind. “Why’d you stop?”

“Holy infant Jesus! Is that what I think?”

“Looks like a body,” said Jasper.

City folk would have hightailed it out of there, but the brothers had seen a lot of dead stuff in the woods over the years. They crept forward.

“Gross. Look at his mouth.”

“Who you think it is?”

“He’s got a name tag,” said Willard.

“Looks like it’s from an assisted-living center. Says ‘Preston.’”

“Ain’t that the name of the guy who was taking care of Aunt May?”

They paused and looked at each other: “Serge.”

And this is where city folk definitely would have called the police. But back in the hills, you learn early not to wait for someone else to supply the justice. They thought the deed was extreme, but they understood.

“We best get rid of this fella before Serge finds his pecker in a wringer.”

“Least we can do for him.”

They fetched the shovels from the pickup and went to work. Breaking through the forest floor demanded serious back work, but beneath that, the soil was rich, moist and cooperative. They knew they had to go deep because scavenger animals would follow the scent and undo their efforts.

Digging went on into the early night, and a lot of earthworms were flung aside in flying spadefuls of dirt. Finally Willard rested one arm on the end of a shovel and wiped his grimy brow with the other. “Think it’s good enough?”

They were both standing in the rectangular hole, and Jasper stared eye level at the ground all around. “Nothin’ can burrow this far. Give me a boost.”

They got out of the pit and caught their breath. Then they stood at opposite ends of the body, grabbing wrists and ankles, and shuffled back over to the hole. They began swinging Preston.

“On three,” said Willard. “One, two . . .”

Suddenly running footsteps crackled through the leaves, and they were blinded by bright lights.

“Why’d you kill him?” yelled Nigel.

The wide-eyed brothers froze with the body in their hands.

Cassadaga

A psychic peeked out the curtains. “Sure looks dark enough.”

“It’s not just darkness.” Serge shook the Eight Ball. “It’s also waiting for all the nosy people to go to bed.”

Trish jumped as her cell phone rang again.

“Who’s calling now?” asked Serge.

She checked the display as it continued to ring. “I don’t recognize the number.”

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“Hell no!”

“You better.” He checked the advice of the Eight Ball. “You don’t want to vary your routine and have some idiot wandering over here.”

“Okay.” She held it to her head. “Hello? . . . Let me check . . .” She covered the phone and whispered. “It’s for you.”

“Me?” said Serge. “Who is it?”

Shrug.

Serge snatched the phone. “Talk . . . Oh, it’s you . . . But how’d you get this number? . . . You found a business card for Madam Bovary? . . . Where’d you find it? . . . Could you repeat that last part again? . . .” He slowly closed his eyes. “No, I think I’ve pretty much got the full picture. I’ll be there as fast as I can . . .”

Smooth hands grabbed his arm. “You can’t go anywhere. Don’t leave me with him!”

Serge glanced around the room in thought. “Okay, you’ve had enough trauma already . . . Coleman?”

“I’m up for the day!”

“Coleman, stay here and watch the ex-husband,” said Serge. “Even Houdini couldn’t escape from all those ropes and knots, but just in case, here’s a gun.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back soon.” Serge took Trish by the hand. “Plus, I need to do some psychic shopping for Gil anyway . . .”

. . . After a two-hour stretch of high-speed back-road driving, a silver Corvette pulled up to a handmade cabin on the outskirts of Sopchoppy.

Lightning bugs led the way as Serge and Trish headed for the porch.

Jasper flung open the door in advance. “Thank God you came! We’re in a real mess! They say they’re going to the police and pin a murder on us with their TV film!”

“What’s the status?” asked Serge.

Willard gestured inside. “Take a gander for yourself.”

They entered the homestead to find a reality-show producer and his cameraman in captivity.

Trish leaned to Serge. “Does every room in your life contain people tied to chairs?”

“Pretty much.”

“We didn’t know what to do,” said Jasper. “We were trying to bury the body so you wouldn’t get in trouble . . .”

“And they snuck up on us with their camera,” said Willard.

“Everything will be fine now.” Serge paced across the cabin floor. “I just need some time to think . . . Explain again exactly how you were able to track me down.”

“These two fellas were talking a blue streak when we were tying them up,” said Jasper. “I asked how they’d come to be in our neck of the woods, and with such frightful timing. They said they were working with a psychic on a murder, and he led them right to the spot.”

Serge smacked himself in the forehead. “My bad. I’d completely forgotten about you guys . . . These Route 66 episodes have so many moving parts that I probably need to buy some Post-it notes.”

“We watched the tape in their camera and saw that the psychic was actually you,” said Willard. “Then I was searching them and found the business card for Madam Bovary in one of their pockets. Figured I’d give it a try.”

“First, the most important thing,” said Serge. “Do they know where this place is?”

“Doubt it,” said Jasper. “We blindfolded them.”

They heard a car screech up. Fast steps on the porch. Lou Ellen burst through the door. “I came as fast as I could—”

She cut herself off. There was a dramatic pause in the room as Lou Ellen stepped forward. Her alarm would have been the normal reaction to the presence of a pair of bound prisoners . . . Normally . . .

Lou Ellen and Trish pointed at each other. Almost an echo as they spoke at the same time: “Who the hell is she?”

Serge smacked himself again. “I’m definitely buying Post-it notes.”

The women sneered and began to circle each other around the hostage chairs. The men actually thought they heard hissing sounds.

“Stop!” yelled Serge. “This is way too many moving parts! We’ve got some major untangling to do here, so right now it’s time to prioritize and not fixate on itty-bitty misunderstandings that can easily be fixed with candles and soap.”

“He’s right,” said Jasper, stepping in front of his sister. “Let’s you and me go and waits by the cars and give’n him some elbow room.”

They went outside to a chorus of cicadas.

“Now then . . .” Serge faced the captives. There hadn’t been any need to gag the pair. Once tied up inside the cabin, they became oddly quiet. “Let’s take a look at this film you shot.”

He picked up the camera and watched the preview screen. “Nice composition, good jiggling, and I see you subscribe to the visual rule of thirds. Unfortunately all this grave digging must hit the cutting room floor. Steals too much from the denouement.” Serge pressed delete. “If you have an opening for an editor, my hours are flexible. What do you say?”

Nothing.

“Come on!” said Serge. “Where’s all that spunky pushiness I saw back at Madam Bovary’s?”

The producer and his cameraman just stared into headlights.

“Serge,” said Jasper. “First they was yappin’ like their regular nature, then around the time we broke out the rope and they seen my banjo in the corner, they started whispering somethin’ ’bout Deliverance till they was a-trembling and quiet as church mice.”

“I understand,” said Serge. “Deliverance is a classic—”

“Seventies movie . . .” Jasper reached for a book on the fireplace mantel. “Based on this here novel by James Dickey.”

“Wait,” said Serge. “You mention Deliverance and most people default to Smokey and the Bandit and hillbilly sex, because Burt Reynolds starred in that movie, along with Ned Beatty, who . . . well, what’s done is done . . . But you know Dickey? You even have the novel?”

“Dad-gum right I know Dickey, Southern literary lion and poet loreeee-ate.”

Serge regretted the off-guard surprise in his voice. “But that’s high literature.”

“Not quite uppin’ to Faulkner, but good nuff.”

Serge shook his head like a cartoon character. “You can read Faulkner?”

“’Course I can read. Thinks I’m ’literate?”

“Didn’t mean it that way at all,” said Serge. “I mean, Faulkner . . . He’s impenetrable. I could read him, but there’s so little time in my nutty schedule and then there’s the attention issue. Faulkner’s like Finnegan’s Wake in Mississippi.”

“Joyce did have one powerful spell on Billy. Found scribblin’ in the books on his shelves in Oxford.”

“You also know James Joyce?”

“No, Dr. Joyce Brothers.” A laugh. “’Course I’m talkin’ ’bout that lace-curtain Irish mick. Here I was thinking you was smart.”

“How embarrassing,” said Serge. “And I’m the one who keeps telling others not to stereotype.”

“No need,” said Jasper. “Wants to hear my banjo?”

Musical twanging began, and the captives thrashed.

“Finally.” Serge turned toward them and snarled. “Ready to talk?”

They froze again.

“Good grief.” Serge pulled a pistol from under his tropical shirt. “I usually have to get this out when people won’t stop talking.” He jammed the barrel to Nigel’s forehead. “I’m trying to be friendly and start a dialogue here. Work with me.”

“. . . I have to pee . . .”

“Don’t we all,” said Serge. “File that thought. Now, what exactly do you think is going on here? . . . I’ll know if you’re lying and there won’t be a second chance. Ask the others, except you can’t.”

The words came haltingly. “You’re no psychic.”

“Ouch, that hurts,” said Serge. “What makes you think that?”

“The directions you gave were too specific, and the murder hadn’t been reported yet,” said Nigel. “So the only logical conclusion is that you did it.”

“Give the man a cigar!” Serge tucked the gun away.

“Please don’t kill us.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” said Serge. “But it would eliminate some moving parts and bring a clean end to this episode.”

“We’ll do anything!” pleaded Nigel. “Name it!”

“Okay, if we let you go, what are your plans? Broad strokes will do.”

“I swear we won’t tell anyone,” said Nigel. “We’ll destroy all the rest of the tapes from Cassadaga and forget we were ever here . . . Isn’t that right, Günter?”

Emphatic nodding.

“Really?” said Serge. “I can trust you?”

“Totally!” said Nigel. “You have my word!”

Serge thought a moment, then shook his head. “No good. You’ll say anything right now to get out of this.”

Nigel crunched his lips and whined desperately. A puddle formed under his chair.

“Ewwww,” said Serge. “All right, all right, I’ll make you a deal. I know I can’t trust you, so after I release you, go ahead and air what you filmed of me in Cassadaga. Or at least what I haven’t deleted yet. I know you’re just itching to.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“The number one rule in life is to promise everyone they can have everything they want at all times. Our whole presidential cycle depends on it,” said Serge. “Of course you can’t actually deliver on most of the stuff you promised, but in the short term, people you lie to are less douchey.”

“Uh, there isn’t any catch?” asked the producer.

“Oh, there’s definitely a catch.” Serge grinned big. “The TV segment will put the cops on my trail, but I can take care of myself. The catch is you have to leave all of my friends here out of this. Not a peep.”

“You got it.”

A cell phone rang. “That’s mine.” Serge put it to his ear. “Oh, hi, Reevis. I was just thinking about you.”

“Serge, thank God I was able to find you. I would’ve sworn this number wouldn’t work, but this is an emergency!”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. My station just finished downloading some digital footage, but luckily I was able to intercept it.”

“What’s it of?”

Reevis was whispering now: “You’re in some fortune-teller’s place describing the location of a body.”

“Is that all?” Serge laughed.

“How is this funny? These new reality guys are a nightmare!”

“How so?”

“They’re ruining my life! They keep putting me in danger!”

“What! They’ve threatened you?” Serge exclaimed. “Say no more. And put a hold on that tape.”

“No, not threatened—”

Serge hung up and stared at the pair.

“We’re ready,” said Nigel. “Let’s go.”

Serge shook his head. “On second thought, change of plans . . . Willard, blindfold them.”