Clownfish Blues

Chapter 30

The Next Morning

A late-model arctic-white Mercedes-Benz was an odd sight in the neighborhood. In fact, the largely abandoned industrial area didn’t see much traffic at all, except the twenty-four-hour pedestrians moving with less verve and direction than zombies. Dobermans barked behind fences topped with barbed wire to protect tanks and drums of manufacturing chemicals.

The Mercedes pulled into a parking lot that baked in the unfiltered sun. Five Jamaicans with dreadlocks got out. It was the job of the last one to unfold a silver reflective screen and place it in the windshield.

A small concrete-block building with burglar bars sat in the back of the lot. A hand knocked on the door.

“Be right there!”

For once, it was answered promptly. Ziggy Blade was all smiles as he held the door. “Come in! Come in! Thank you for calling! Pleasure to meet you! . . . My secretary’s out sick today . . .”

Ziggy parted a curtain of beads and led them into the back half of the one-room office. He quickly unfolded Samsonite chairs. “Mi casa es su casa. Please, all of you have a seat . . .”

They remained on their feet and stared with vacant eyes.

“Or stand,” said Ziggy.

They sat down in unison.

Ziggy took a deep breath and found his own chair behind his desk. “Now then, you mentioned on the phone something about lottery tickets. I’m not sure I completely understood.”

“We want to buy winning lottery tickets,” said Rogan.

“That’s what I heard on the phone,” said Ziggy. “I’m not sure how long you’ve been in the country—and by the way, we’re so glad to have you despite what you might have heard—but how it works is you buy your tickets at the stores. Supermarket, convenience, they’re all over the place.”

“We’ve lived here a long time,” Rogan said evenly. “And we know how to play the lottery in the stores.”

“Then I’m not exactly sure what my role is.”

“We’ve seen you on TV. You cash in lottery tickets for people who can’t come forward. We highly respect your discretion. We’ve asked around.”

“Well . . .” Ziggy chuckled. “The glowing testimonials can get a little embarrassing when you’re at the top, but they’re always appreciated.”

Rogan opened his jacket to remove an Uzi, and the rest of the men followed his lead.

“Whoa!” said Ziggy. “What are all the guns for?”

“We know about cashing in other people’s lottery tickets because that’s our line of work,” said Rogan, stretching out his arm with the machine gun. His voice raised in volume and menace: “You simply decided to move in on my territory? Just who in the fuck do you think you are?”

Ziggy stared motionless with wide, bloodshot eyes. Then he cracked up with uncontrollable giggles. He held up a hand—“Sorry, just give me a second”—the laughter subsided and he wiped away tears. “As your attorney, this is probably unprofessional, but you have dreadlocks, so I’m sure you’ll understand. I just scored some radioactive hydroponic pot and it’s kicking my ass. I’m practically hallucinating and hearing things I’m sure you didn’t say. But put any worries aside—when it’s time to get cracking, I’m all business.”

“Motherfucker!” screamed Rogan. “How dare you mock me! Anyone else insulting me like you have has ended up praying for death!”

Ziggy cracked up again and began slapping his desk. “Stop! You’re killing me! . . . I’m definitely calling my weed guy and getting some more of this shit . . .”

Rogan’s shooting arm became rod-straight, as did all the others.

Ziggy held out a plastic tube. “Bong hit?”

“What?”

“Of course, you’re driving.” Ziggy concealed the smoking tube back under his desk. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

Rogan abruptly changed the trajectory of his thoughts. He sat back in his chair and studied the attorney, thinking to himself: I was wrong about the bozo in that TV commercial. Now it’s obvious how he was able to muscle in on my turf. He has balls the size of coconuts.

The Uzi was stowed back inside his jacket, and the others followed again. “You have my respect. I hope I have yours.”

Suppressed laughter. “Totally.”

Rogan gave a slight nod, a signal to the others.

Ziggy had been tripping out on the sight of the guns so that he completely forgot about all the briefcases the men had carried into his office. And now they were popping open on his desk to reveal an obscene amount of cash.

“Whoa!” said the lawyer. “I’m definitely calling that weed guy back.”

Rogan allowed the effect of the money to settle in. “I wanted you to see how serious I am.”

“About what?”

“We are going to become business partners. It’s not negotiable.”

Ziggy had never seen so much cash, even on TV. “You sure you have the right lawyer?”

The leader nodded. “You come highly recommended.”

“I do?”

“On TV, you advertised that you cash in winning lottery tickets,” said the leader. “And as I mentioned earlier, we do the same, but our connections have become unreliable as of late. I’d like to start bringing you our winning tickets.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“To launder money.”

Ziggy covered his ears and made a high-pitched beeping sound—“Didn’t hear that, didn’t hear that, beep, beep, beep . . .”

The leader looked around oddly at the others.

Ziggy dropped his hands. “Let me explain attorney-client privilege. You’re free to tell me anything you’ve done in the past, but the privilege doesn’t extend to unlawful acts you’re planning in the future.”

“But you will do this thing for us?”

“Like ringing a bell.”

“One more item,” said Rogan. “This is my territory. Any other tickets that come your way from your TV commercials or otherwise are mine. You’ll still receive a cut. I’m sure a businessman of your stature will see the mutual benefit.”

Another fit of giggles. “Why not?”

“That’s very good. That’s what we like to hear.” He pulled a brown envelope from his jacket and tossed it on the desk. It slid into Ziggy’s lap.

“What’s this?” He looked inside. “Trippy!”

“Your retainer,” said Rogan. “How much flow do you get?”

“Depends on how lucky people are.” Ziggy thumbed through the cash. “Some hit the Fantasy Five, or one of the big scratch-offs. A few thousand on a slow week, maybe five figures on the better-than-average, unless someone hits a really big one, then we’re looking north.”

“You’re probably already taking five percent off the front end.” Rogan began standing. “We’ll give you another five. Buy some furniture.”

“How will I get in touch with you?”

“You won’t. You’ll hear from us.” He walked toward the bead curtain and turned around. “When you do business with us, your word is your bond. From now on, you will not cash in anyone else’s tickets without running them through us . . . I will take your silence as your word.”

Giggles.

Rogan rolled his eyes. “I will take that as silence.”

They let themselves out.

Ziggy went to the front window and watched the Benz drive away. “Where’s that number for the weed guy?”

Biscayne Boulevard

The same perpetual rhythmic sound came from a dozen directions at two-second intervals. It filled the store. Chss-chss, chss-chss, chss-chss, chss-chss.

It was one of those new copy shops where you could do almost anything. Send faxes, mail overnight packages, buy colorful gift bags and greeting cards, order posters, connect to wireless Internet. You could even make copies.

Coleman was stoned and tipsy at a display for office supplies. He repeatedly discharged a staple gun into the air until an employee asked what he was doing.

“Nothin’.”

He wandered over to an unoccupied copy machine. There were buttons to press. He changed all the settings for the next customer—darkness, contrast, magnification. There were little organizers next to each printer with scissors and tape and complimentary paper clips. Coleman decided to load up on rubber bands.

Serge stood at the service counter, handing over cash and running a program on his phone. Someone bumped into him from behind.

“Coleman, there you are. What have you been doing?”

Coleman reached into his pocket, producing a wad of rubber circles, and put them back.

“Case solved,” said Serge.

“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

“I explained back in the nail salon,” said Serge. “Working on that case for Mahoney.”

“But why a copy shop?”

“It’s the coolest thing ever!” Serge clasped his hands in effervescence. “This place has one of those new 3-D printers that I’ve been reading about. I found all kinds of tips online about what you can make with them. Shot glasses, birdhouses, clips to seal opened bags of pretzels, combs, Star Wars figures, dildos, and combinations of the last two. But I’m thinking, where’s the imagination? The possibilities are mind-numbing, so I decided to brainstorm and download some images to my phone, which I just sent to this store. For only a few bucks, that guy in the back room is whipping up my idea right now!”

“What is it?”

“A surprise,” said Serge. “But think historical significance.”

“Far out.”

“And I’m going to need some of your rubber bands.”

“But they’re mine.”

“What possible use could you have for that many?”

Coleman swayed and looked toward his pocket. “Play with ’em.”

“We’ll negotiate later.” Serge turned around and leaned with his back against the counter. “I love copy shops! Know why?”

“Paper?”

“Multi-cultural harmony.” Serge nodded to himself. “I might just be the first person to recognize it, but copy shops are the ultimate bellwether of ethnic relations. We may eat different food, wear different clothes, but every race and creed needs copies.”

“Never thought about it that way.”

“And that’s the mistake CNN makes. Every time there’s some civil unrest somewhere, reporters descend and visit all kinds of businesses for interviews with the common man—breakfast diners, Starbucks, massage parlors—but never a copy shop.” Serge waved an arm over the room. “Look at the arching bridge of humanity! Those Muslim women over there, that Asian guy, the African Americans, Latinos, whites and, not pictured, Eskimos. See, everyone receives shit in the mail that needs duplication, and we’re all bonding under that oppression together, brothers and sisters! At least until there aren’t enough available copy machines, then it could get tribal.”

“. . . Sir? . . . Sir! . . .”

Serge turned around. “What?”

“Here’s your purchase.”

“Oh, thank you.” Serge looked down into the bag. “Excellent work. May I ask you a question?”

“I guess.”

“What happens when there aren’t enough copy machines? What do the people do?”

“Uh, wait?”

“God bless America! . . . Come on, Coleman!”

They hopped back in the Corvette and headed south to Miami Beach as night fell. The lights of the Miami skyline filled the air with electricity as Serge picked up the MacArthur Causeway.

Coleman chugged a bottle of Mad Dog. “So that dude back at the self-defense class is really being stalked?”

Serge gritted his teeth. “I hate stalkers!”

Stretch limos jammed Collins Avenue all the way up nightclub row. Serge accepted a ticket from the valet and went inside a dinner-show lounge called Hips. They waited for their eyes to adjust in an ultra-dark room with a flickering array of candle lamps, martini glasses and lobster. Faces glowed with anticipation. Stage lights came on, curtains parted. Applause for the Barbra Streisand experience.

“Is that also a dude?” asked Coleman.

“You’ll get the Audubon field guide later.”

“. . . The way we were . . .”

The show swelled toward a highly anticipated climax. A brown-haired man sat quietly in the dark as a baby spotlight hit the curtains and a head of platinum-blond hair.

“. . . Diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . .”

Serge elbowed Coleman. “It’s time.”

The vocals dropped to a sensuous whisper. “. . . Happy birthday, Mr. President. Happy birrrrrrrrrthday to youuuuuuuu . . .”

The crowd was on its feet as Marilyn disappeared through the curtains, and the house lights came up.

The gals crowded around Chuck in the dressing room. “That was incredible.” “Honey, you keep getting better with age.” “You’re back to your old self!”

Knock, knock, knock.

One of the performers opened up. “Who are you?”

“I need to see Marilyn,” said the stranger. “She’s expecting us.”

From behind: “It’s okay, Liza,” said Chuck. “They’re friends.”

Serge strolled over. “Just remember what I told you. From this point forward, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I can’t thank you enough—”

Suddenly an explosive commotion at the door.

“I have to see Marilyn!”

“Hey, you can’t just barge in here like that.”

“Marilyn! I brought these roses for you.”

Streisand blocked his path. “Get out before you get hurt!”

Serge glanced down. “Coleman, quick, give me rubber bands.” Serge reached into the bag from the copy shop.

“So that’s what that thing is.”

“Marilyn, tell them it’s okay! You sang that song again for me! . . .”

The gals formed a protective phalanx. “We’ll call the police!”

Coleman laughed. “Serge, where did you get the idea?”

“Soon as I saw those three-D printers, I said to myself, ‘History has just come alive.’”

“Marilyn, I love you! . . .”

Serge approached the defensive formation from the back. “Girls, I’ve got it from here.” They parted and let him through, wearing a plastic Halloween-style mask held over his face with the skimpy rubber bands.

He stepped up to the man with the roses. “I’ve been looking all over for your presidential ass! Figured if I hung around Marilyn long enough, you were bound to show up.”

The brown-haired man stumbled backward in terror. “Oh my God! . . . Not you!”

“That’s right,” said Serge. “Lee Harvey Oswald.”

“Get away from me!”

“We’ve got business. How about a pamphlet? ‘Fair Play for Cuba.’”

The bouquet flew into the air, and JFK took off through the club, crashing into people and knocking over tables.

Serge was right behind him leaping over chairs. “Destiny knocks!”

“Stop following me!”

Serge pulled up short at the front door and cupped hands around his mouth. “Meet you at the grassy knoll.”