Clownfish Blues

Chapter 29

The Next Day

The official press conference announced another lottery rollover, resulting in the biggest jackpot yet of the already record-breaking year, but nobody knew how high it would go before Saturday night’s drawing.

At that very moment in a South Florida penthouse, a Jamaican man with dreadlocks hit the pause button on the remote control. He leaned and stared at the tall numbers on the official lottery tote board. “If only I could get hold of one of those tickets . . .” Then Rogan resumed channel surfing. Click, click, click. Rerun, rerun, rerun. Three’s Company, One Day at a Time, Different Strokes, credit-card travel perks, flooring installed, online education for less. Something caught his attention. He stopped clicking. On the screen:

A potbellied man in a tie-dyed T-shirt swayed Zen-like to sitar music. He had a scraggly beatnik beard and John Lennon glasses.

“You think most lawyers are scum? I agree! So score the karmic representation you deserve at the cosmic court where the age of Aquarius is still alive . . .” He began singing off-key: “‘. . . Please allow meeee . . . to introduce myselffff . . .” Singing stopped. “Ziggy Blade here. DUI? Bankruptcy? Divorce? Hash pipe found during routine traffic stop? Who says it was yours? Come on down and let yourself move to the smooth legal groove with the Blade-man . . .” He thrust his fingertips to within inches of the camera in a trippy, 3-D effect, except the camera wasn’t 3-D, so there was no effect. “. . . And as always, we legally cash in all lottery tickets. No appointment necessary in downtown Hialeah. Call the number below now!” Ziggy pointed down at red flashing digits superimposed across his legs.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Rogan told himself. “This is my competition? This is the lawyer who’s been horning in on my territory?” The man with the dreadlocks put pen to paper to write down the phone number, but it quickly disappeared. “Damn, I wish he’d show that number again.”

“That number again . . .”

It began flashing and Rogan began writing. He underlined the name Blade three times and got on a burner phone.

Nightfall

Another dinner engagement with Brook.

Reevis was picking her up at her office. He waited in his car, catching up on e-mail. His mind drifted back to thoughts of an Easter pageant in first grade when his mom made him wear a stupid hat that was a basket of little chickadees, held in place by a large pink ribbon tied under his chin. He told himself: Let it go.

Reevis stared out the windshield at nothing in particular, just idly in the direction of the nail salon. There was a reflection off the window, so he didn’t notice it at first. He slowly leaned forward. “What the—?”

Inside the salon, cardboard arrows leaned against two chairs. A panda and a cheetah getting pedicures.

“Are you sure you want to keep the heads on?” asked the nail specialist. “It must be stuffy in there.”

“We’re Method actors,” said the cheetah. “We must stay in character.”

“Serge,” said the panda. “Why are we getting this done anyway? You always bite your nails. I mean your fingernails.”

“I’m always fascinated when I don’t understand a major cultural phenomenon,” said the cheetah. “I’ve seen hundreds of these nail places everywhere and can’t grasp how they survive. Yet customers are always coming and going. Why would anyone pay good money when they can just bite?”

“They can’t reach their feet?” said Coleman.

“But I’m starting to understand the allure of the pampering treatment.”

“They are being pretty nice to me.”

“Especially considering the condition of your toes.”

“What’s wrong with my toes?”

“Coleman, my toes are no picnic, but yours are a house of horrors. The big one’s going the wrong way like a hit man’s nose, and the mutant little one’s like a blind mole rat, not to mention the volume and composition of all the material you’re been storing up between them. What is that?”

“Just stuff.”

“The poor woman working on you is like a dental hygienist with a patient who didn’t brush after barbecue and corn on the cob.”

Two women looked up from their feet and smiled. A bright pinpoint of light swept across a wall.

“Did you see that?” asked Coleman. “What was it?”

“A laser,” said Serge.

“What would they use a laser for in here?” asked Coleman.

“I don’t care, but I’m next in line for it.” He checked a wall clock. “And we have just enough time before that appointment to meet our new client.”

“What client?”

“Don’t you remember anything? I got a call from Mahoney.”

“The private detective?” asked Coleman. “What did he say?”

“He was talking to himself in the third person, but I was able to translate that he had an important case for us.”

“I thought that being furry sign-spinners was our job for this Route 66 episode.”

“Sometimes they had two jobs when Linc and Tod went separate ways, except I’m not letting you out of my sight,” said Serge. “Besides, in the end everything always pieced together . . .”

. . . Out in the parking lot, journalistic curiosity got the better of Reevis. He left his car and stepped inside the salon.

The panda turned. “Look who just walked in.”

“Reevis!” said the cheetah.

Being on TV was starting to get Reevis recognized on the street, so it wasn’t that unusual. “Uh, do I know you?”

The cheetah’s head came off. “It’s me, Serge!”

“Ahhhhhhhh!” Reevis fell back against the plate-glass window.

Serge hopped out of his chair with cotton balls between his toes.

“Mister,” said the pedicurist, “I’m not done.”

“I’ll pay in full anyway,” said Serge. “Something’s come up and I have to put my cheetah feet back on.”

Reevis ran over. “Serge, Jesus!” He suspiciously glanced out the window. “What are you doing showing your face around here?”

“Thought you’d be more happy to see me.”

“It’s not that.” Reevis watched a police car drive by. “We need to get you out of sight!”

Serge passed a few twenties to the nearest woman. “Keep the laser warm.”

Reevis tugged a furry arm as they left the salon. “Let’s get going. You can duck down in my backseat until I can think of something.”

“Hold your horses,” said Serge. “Why should you be so worried if I’m not?”

“That’s what worries me.”

From another direction: “Reevis, who are your friends?”

“Ahhhhhhh!” He spun around. It was Jacklyn, leaving for the day.

“Something I said?” asked the lawyer.

“No, you just startled me.”

“Don’t be so nervous,” said Jacklyn. “So what’s the deal? You’re now striking up conversations with sign-spinners?”

“No,” said Serge. “Reevis and I go way back, very long history between us . . . Isn’t that right, Reevis?”

A look of terror.

Jacklyn got out her car keys. “Where do you know Reevis from?”

Serge nonchalantly twirled his cheetah tail. “Here, there, solved a mystery together in the Keys, tracked down landmark movie locations, fled ruthless murderers, got hit with fish falling from the sky, nothing special.”

Reevis slipped into a full-scale panic attack, but Jacklyn began laughing. “Nice sense of humor on you . . . and not a bad ring-of-fire trick.”

Serge looked over at the blackened ring still standing in the parking lot. “I can do a special performance, if you’d like.”

“No, I have to get going.” She hitched up the strap on her purse. “Late for a class.”

“Class? What are you taking?”

“Actually I teach.”

“Like at a college?”

She shook her head. “Women’s self-defense.”

“Now I’m seriously impressed,” said Serge. “That’s so important these days. Most men don’t realize it, but women are living in an entirely different world—a whole extra level of danger that requires constant vigilance and precautions that men never have to think about. Mainly because we’re the problem. On behalf of my gender: Our bad.”

“Now I’m impressed,” said Jacklyn. “You’re right, most men don’t realize it, but you seem to understand.”

“The things I’ve seen!” Serge waved a white paw in the air. “Every day you probably pass a dozen bone-deep crazies out in public, maybe even stop and talk to one in a parking lot. A guy can look perfectly normal and charming, but you never know which dinner date will end in a cloud of Mace. Us men, on the other hand, have it so easy. If a woman turns out to be batshit, you can just tip over a rack of potpourri jars in the Pottery Barn and run away.”

Jacklyn had been taking new notice of Serge as he talked. His banter, his eyes, and of course the Latin thing. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come with me to my class?”

“Unfortunately I have to get to my own self-defense class,” said Serge.

“You take self-defense?”

“No, that’s where I’m meeting a new client. She’s a stalking victim.” He threw up his paws. “Men again.”

“Where’s this class?”

“Gold Coast Mixed-Arts Academy.”

“That’s my class,” said Jacklyn. “Listen, if you don’t mind and have any extra time, could you guys also stand in as live partners for the women to practice on? It’s so much better than stuffed dummies.”

“Say no more,” said Serge. “Anything we can do to make up for everything.”

“Then let’s go.”

The silver Corvette followed Jacklyn’s MINI Cooper south on U.S. 1 until it arrived at another strip mall. In the middle of the building, a large plate-glass window filled with sweaty activity.

After changing into her spandex workout suit, Jacklyn looked out over a room of chaotic bobbing and jumping. “Okay, girls, let’s get started! . . .”

The kinetic energy ceased, and the women formed disciplined rows. They came in all shapes and sizes and ages, but most had ponytails.

“I’ll start tonight by going back over the basics that you’ve already heard a hundred times, because it’s all about repetition and practice until everything’s second nature.” Jacklyn formed an aggressive posture. “First, never ever let yourself be taken to a secondary crime scene. That indicates he has intentions with a very low order of survival. Even if you’re facing a gun or knife, there’s a better chance making a stand right where you are, kicking, scratching, screaming. Next—and this is for the same reasons as the first—do not let yourself be bound. No handcuffs, plastic wrist ties, rope, duct tape. You must explode like a wildcat because your life depends on it . . .”

“Jesus,” Coleman whispered to Serge. “Is this stuff really going on?”

“Unfortunately, more often than you’d think.”

“. . . Third, this is not a fight. The moment you’re able to incapacitate your assailant using our training techniques, run and yell like crazy. Getting in extra punches and kicks out of anger is movie bullshit that increases your exposure.” Jacklyn waved for Serge and Coleman to join her. “And speaking of incapacitating, I have a couple of volunteers who have graciously agreed to help us tonight.”

A woman in a blood-drive T-shirt raised her hand. “Are animal costumes something new we should be watching out for?”

Jacklyn chuckled. “No, they just got off work. So while they’re changing, why don’t you start on the regular bags.”

The women lined up in front of three human-shaped sacks dangling from chains. Serge flinched at the battle cries that accompanied violent thrusts.

“Yahhh!” “Yahhh!” “Yahhh! . . .” Punching throats, stabbing eyes, kneeing groins.

“Screw it,” said Coleman. “I’m keeping the suit on. Padding.”

“At least use this helmet and mouth guard,” said Jacklyn.

Minutes later, they all quietly gathered around their instructor. “The benefit of using live volunteers is that you never know how your attacker will grab you, so some of their vulnerable spots won’t always be open,” said Jacklyn. “You need to train your reflexes to automatically find what’s available. But remember, they’re live volunteers, which means no full follow-through . . . Michelle, can you come up here? . . . Turn around . . . Coleman, stand behind her and pick a random way to grab her.”

“Like this?” he mumbled through the mouth guard, seizing her around the waist.

“Yahhh! Yahhh! Yahhh!”

Coleman curled up on the floor. “My nuts.”

“Okay, maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” said Jacklyn. “Girls, go back to the other bags for now.”

The front door opened, and one of the larger members of the class came in with a gym bag. “Sorry I’m late.”

Serge looked puzzled at Jacklyn. “I thought this class was just for women.”

“It is, but she’s a drag queen. We don’t judge.” The instructor helped Coleman up from the floor. “He’s been having some problems with a fan lately.”

“By any chance would his stage name happen to be Marilyn?”

“How’d you know?” asked Jacklyn.

“I just found my client.” Serge trotted across the room and extended a hand. “Marilyn, my name’s Serge, and I was sent by the private eye you hired.” He saluted. “Ready to provide extreme help.”

“Nice to meet you. My real name’s Chuck.”

“So some asshole is bothering you?”

“I can’t sleep! I can’t eat! Do you have any idea how stressful it is dealing with a lunatic?”

“Not personally. But I’ve met a lot of people who’ve told me.” Serge slapped Chuck’s back. “Why don’t you fill me in on the details.”

“It started about two months ago— . . . Oh my God!” He ran around and hid behind Serge. “There he is now!”

“Where?”

“In the parking lot!”

“You mean that JFK-looking dude sitting in the Lincoln convertible with a dozen roses?”

“That’s him! He follows me everywhere, but I didn’t think he knew about this class. That’s why I asked you to meet me here.”

“So what’s his shtick? A presidential impersonator?”

Chuck shook his head. “He actually thinks he’s the president.”

“You mean he’s abnormally deep into the role, like those Civil War reenactors who take it way too far and forget to have sex?”

“No, listen to me: He’s completely unhinged,” said Chuck. “That’s what makes me so scared. He’s under a full-blown delusion that he’s Kennedy!”

“Delusional? Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Serge pumped fists in the air. “Delusions are my specialty. This will be fun!”

“Fun?” said Chuck. “I’m under siege! All the bouncers at my club have his picture, so he can’t get in there anymore. But the rest of my life is a nightmare!”

“When do you perform next?”

“Tomorrow night at ten.”

“Tell the bouncers to let him back in the club.”

“What!”

“All your problems will soon be over,” said Serge. “Trust me.”