Clownfish Blues

Chapter 27

Sunset

Limos arrived for the festivities along a trendy section of South Beach. There was a ridiculous selection of clubs along Collins Avenue, but many in the late-night set chose one particular art deco building that featured dinner shows. They filed inside and were escorted through the dark to tables dimly lit with those old-style candle lamps with that plastic netting. It was a spirited crowd, as dinner shows go. The nightclub was called Hips, and the sign was trimmed in pink neon.

Dry martinis, cosmopolitans, pork loins with wild mushrooms, laughter, conversation that needed to be loud to compete with other conversation. Topics ranged from shoes to revenge. Some tables were full of friends not talking to each other so they could text people also not talking to their friends in a different club.

The stage lights came on, and blue velvet curtains parted to rousing applause. The first act was a performer in a tight sequined costume with a riot of feathers that extended almost to the ceiling and looked like something out of a parade in Rio de Janeiro. When that subtleness was over, the room filled with the familiar strains of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Everything’s Coming Up Roses,” sung respectively by impersonators of Judy Garland and Ethel Merman.

Finally, the moment they’d all been waiting for. The stage lighting tightened to a single spot in the middle of the blue curtains. A platinum-blond head coyly poked through, followed by the rest of the performer named Marilyn. A four-song set reached its finale.

“Happy birthday, Mr. President . . .”

. . . Later in the dressing room. Cabaret lightbulbs surrounded the mirrors, and autographed photos lined the walls. Marilyn came in, took off her wig and began brushing it out. His real name was Chuck, and his hair was black.

“Darling, you were great tonight,” said Liza.

“Thanks,” said Chuck, wiggling out of a slinky silver dress.

A sudden commotion at the door. “You can’t come in here!”

“But I have to see Marilyn!”

“You’ve been warned before!” said Ethel. “Get out!”

“I brought her roses! . . . Marilyn! Tell them you want to see me!”

Chuck retreated to the back of the dressing room as the rest of the “girls” formed a protective pack. “Leave now before you get hurt!”

“She sang that song especially for me! I really am the president,” said a man with thick brown hair who partially resembled JFK.

The bouncers arrived. Red flowers went flying.

“Let go of me!”

He was dragged out and told never to come back.

“Marilyn! I love you! . . .”

Chuck collapsed in a makeup chair, tears down his cheeks. The others gathered around for support.

“Honey, are you okay?”

“No.” Chuck was shaking. “It just keeps getting worse! He sits in his car for hours outside my apartment, follows me to the grocery store, keeps calling even though I’ve changed my number six times now.”

“You need to go to the police, girl.”

“I’m afraid to provoke him,” said Chuck. “Police warnings only work if someone is at least remotely rational, but he’s certifiably insane.”

“Because he’s an obsessed stalker?”

“No, because he really thinks he’s the president,” said Chuck. “When we first met and I didn’t know he was off his rocker, he showed me family photos in his wallet of Jacqueline and Caroline and John-John. He drives an old black Lincoln convertible like in Dallas, and once I even saw him on a street corner setting up a portable podium with the presidential seal and delivering a speech about America going to the moon.”

“You can’t sit and do nothing,” said Garland.

“I know, I know,” said Chuck. “I just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Dania

The players trotted out in athletic jerseys for the introduction.

The seating at the sports arena was largely empty. Weekdays even more so. At the east end of the facility, high above everything else, stood the glassed-in luxury section. It was the most affordable skybox in all the state. The dining tables were tiered steeply to see all the action. Each had its own closed-circuit television.

A couple sat across from each other with open menus and concentration.

“Dinner at the Dania Jai Alai Fronton,” said Brook. “How many times does this make?”

“I asked if you were okay with it,” said Reevis. “If this bores you, we can go—”

“It’s more than fine,” said Brook. “But you’re starting to worry me. I’ve never seen you so tense.”

“It was a tough day. Tough month.” Reevis scanned the menu. “That’s why I needed to come here. It’s one of my comfort zones.”

A curved basket swung. A kill shot echoed off the wall with a violent clack.

Reevis jumped to his feet. “What the hell was that?”

“Just a jai alai ball hitting the wall.” Brook sat back and appraised her beau. “You sure you’re okay?”

“No!” He grabbed his menu extra tight. “I just finished interviewing a guy in the hospital after he was bitten on the face by a water moccasin he slept with, and yesterday it was the suspect arrested on wildlife charges for bringing a small alligator to a convenience store to trade for beer. You know how I hate covering weird Florida stories.”

“That’s just annoying,” said Brook. “The change in your mood runs deeper than that.”

Reevis considered the prime rib. “I’ll be fine.”

Jai alai players swung cestas. Clack, clack.

Reevis didn’t jump up again, but his shoulders flinched each time.

“You’re far from fine,” said Brook. “You’re not telling me something.”

“Maybe it’s all this craziness with the state lottery,” said Reevis. “It’s like a damn hurricane season, except those storms don’t usually have raided convenience stores, a dead guy hanging from a billboard and another with his head wrapped in scratch-offs.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Brook. “I might have a story for you, and it’s a good bet to get those producers off your back. Everyone loves stories about the lottery.”

“What is it?”

And she explained the whole new legal field of fencing winning tickets.

“You’re right,” said Reevis. “Those producers will definitely go belly-up. I’m calling them right now.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t. I’m in pain . . . Hi, Cricket, do you have a pen handy? . . .”

Brook watched more balls clack off the wall as Reevis laid out the story to the receptive Australian. He briefly covered the phone. “What was that address again?” Brook told him, and he passed it along.

A new set of players took the court. Reevis stuck the phone back in his pocket.

“Feel better?” asked Brook.

“Immensely,” said the reporter. “He was so excited about the story, they might leave me alone for days . . . By the way, who is this other attorney that you’re working with? Do I know him?”

Brook just smiled mischievously. “Ziggy.”

“Ziggy!” Reevis leaped to his feet and took a step back from the table. “Ziggy Blade?”

“Yes, Ziggy Blade,” said Brook. “And I thought you’d find it funny, but what’s with this wild reaction? Now I know you’re hiding something.”

Jai alai players climbed the wall. Clack, clack.

“Okay, I’ll tell you.” Reevis slowly sat back down and lowered his head. “I talked with Serge.”

This time Brook sprang to her feet. “What!”

Other diners turned around.

“Lower your voice,” said Reevis.

“How? When? Where?” Brook gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. “What happened?”

“He turned up on some feature footage that didn’t air,” said Reevis. “I wanted to give him a heads-up. Who would have thought that his old cell number still worked?”

“What was the footage?”

“He was a psychic using a Magic Eight Ball,” said Reevis.

“Can’t believe that slipped your mind.”

“It didn’t,” said Reevis. “I wanted to save you the worry. My heart’s been pounding ever since that call. I think I have post-traumatic stress from the last time we were with Serge. And since Ziggy was also there, when you mentioned his name, well . . .”

A player rolled on the court and came up flinging the ball. Clack.

Brook took a deep breath and looked at her menu again. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m not the superstitious type, but I’m getting this really bad feeling like some disaster is about to happen again.”

“Why?”

“You and I are already together, and I’ve recently talked to Serge, while you’ve been in touch with Ziggy. Not to mention Ziggy’s brother, Coleman, who’s a good bet to be attached to Serge’s hip. It’s like the whole cast of that major fiasco back in Key West is getting together for an explosive reunion.”

“You are being superstitious,” said Brook. “You know Serge. He’s probably off pinballing around the state hundreds of miles away.”

New players in yellow-and-red jerseys took the court. Clack, clack, clack.

“I don’t know,” said Reevis. “It just seems like this is the last normal evening we’re going to have for a long time. It’s a strong premonition in the pit of my stomach.”

“Because your stomach’s empty.”

Clack, clack, clack. The waiter returned.

Reevis handed back his menu. “I’ll have the prime rib.”

“The pompano,” said Brook, then smiled at the reporter. “You’ll feel better once you eat.”

“You’re right.” Clack, clack, clack. “Serge is probably a million miles away right now.”

Meanwhile . . .

A man in a cheetah costume stared out the back window of a limousine as the Dania Jai Alai Fronton went by. The vehicle continued a few more miles until it arrived at a small, windowless nightclub that was hosting a private event.

Others were already there, the sidewalk full of people in line dressed like animals. They formed a veritable Noah’s ark procession of every conceivable creature before entering the club.

The cheetah and panda climbed out of a backseat. Coleman seized Serge by the arm. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating! Did I really just get laid?”

“A more amazing development than if gravity quit.”

“So I really did have sex! Yes!” A panda fist punched the air. “That’s the first time in at least a decade!”

“What about this morning?” asked Serge.

“I mean with someone else.”

Serge pulled out his replacement smartphone. “Coleman, do you realize what’s going on?”

“Good luck?”

“I checked on the Internet.” He tapped the phone’s screen. “We’ve accidently stumbled into some bizarre fringe element that has a fetish for animal costumes, the furrier the better.”

“Fetish?”

“That’s right. And ‘yiffing’ is their slang for screwing in their costumes. In fact, some of them can only have sex with the costumes on.”

Coleman nodded emphatically. “I can wear a costume.”

They went inside the dim club. Anthropomorphic animals paired off everywhere. Livestock, house pets, zoo attractions, beasts of burden, Disney characters. Everyone making small talk and trying to hook up. Most had learned how to drink with straws through the costume heads. Two people in a pony suit made their way to the dance floor. Serge wandered the room in a surreal daze. “I had no idea this was going on . . . Coleman . . . Coleman? . . . Dammit, another manhunt.”

Serge searched the entire club and ended up in the empty men’s room. “Where can that idiot be?” Then a notion. He stepped into the hall and stared at the door to the women’s room. “What the heck, I’m a cheetah.”

An orange-and-white paw pushed the door open. Much nicer accommodations. Sparkling clean with automatic air-freshening dispensers. Oil paintings on the walls. Serge stared at attractive potted flowers along the sink. “I had no idea this was going on.”

A unicorn departed and Serge was left alone, or so he thought. One of the stalls began to rattle. He got down on paws and knees and looked under the door. Two pairs of feet. Panda, gorilla. He momentarily closed his eyes in frustration, then went and leaned against the sink to wait.

A few minutes later, the rattling stopped and the door opened. Coleman saw his pal standing with impatiently folded arms. “Serge, what are you doing in the ladies’ room? Can you believe these flowers?”

“You knucklehead!”

Coleman whispered close to Serge’s ear. “Twice in one day. That’s like a record! And with a really hot one.”

“I’m sure she shits rainbows,” said Serge. “But you did just give me a great idea.”

“Really?”

“Remember when I said you needed a gimmick for our new gig tomorrow? Excuse me a moment.” He walked over to Liv, who’d removed her costume head to freshen up at the sink. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

She winked. “I knew you’d come around.”

“This is a business proposition.”