Clownfish Blues

by Tim Dorsey

  Suddenly the front door of the lounge crashed open. Blinding light filled the bar. Screaming.

  Clementine spun around and shielded her eyes. “What in the living hell?”

  Nigel sprinted through the bar, followed by a Bavarian with a jiggling camera. “Reevis! Thank God you’re safe! . . .”

  Ten minutes later.

  A parked black Suburban rocked to and fro on its suspension.

  Günter wept and cursed in German, repeatedly slamming himself into the door.

  “Easy now,” said Nigel, rubbing the videographer’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right.”

  More anguished wailing.

  “There’s something seriously wrong with you people,” said Reevis. “I had everything under control.”

  “And it was an amazing thing to listen to,” said the producer. “You had them eating out of your hand.”

  “I told you not to listen!” said the reporter. “As we sit here, that recording is evidence of a felony. You need to destroy it now.”

  “Can’t do it,” said Nigel. “It’s all we’ve got.”

  “That’s on you,” said Reevis. “We had the interview in hand before that cowboy nonsense back there. What on earth were you thinking?”

  “Priorities,” said Nigel. “The interview would have been gravy—and don’t think we’re not thoroughly grateful for your efforts setting it up—but we needed confrontation footage.”

  “And where is the footage?” Reevis asked sarcastically.

  “We sort of lost it when they smashed the camera,” said Nigel. “How was I supposed to know that biker was carrying a hammer? What’s that about?”

  Günter sobbed louder.

  “This is everything I was trying to tell you,” said Reevis. “Your antics provoked an unknown variable that nobody could predict or control. That isn’t crime reporting! If you’re in the woods and see a gigantic bees’ nest, you go around it. You don’t say, ‘Reevis, get a big rock and whack that thing open and we’ll film whatever happens next.’ We lost the camera, my interview, and your precious confrontation footage. Am I missing anything?”

  “Wait,” asked Nigel. “Are you saying you actually know where there’s a gigantic bees’ nest?”

  The Apalachicola

  Dry leaves crunched as the tires of a silver sports car rolled slowly along the edge of a forest.

  “Here we are,” said Serge. “Your final Route 66 stop of the day. We’re getting near the end of this episode, and you know what that means? . . . Not even a guess? I’ll tell you! The climax!”

  Serge grabbed some typed pages from the glove compartment. “I can’t thank you enough for being so gracious back at the house and signing a few forms. Sorry, the lawyers. These are simply required to give Aunt May’s relatives power of attorney over your bank accounts in the unlikely event you become incapacitated.” He flipped pages to make sure every signature line was filled. “Yep, all in order. That’s the last step before we begin the big contest. And who, might you ask, are the lucky contestants? Only you! Isn’t that great? Significantly increases your chances. So let’s get on with the show and meet today’s judging panel, which is me!”

  Preston remained still.

  “What? Overcome with emotion? That’s normal. Let me give you a hand.” Serge walked around the car and opened the passenger door. Preston’s head slowly turned as movement began returning to his legs.

  “Perfect timing: The drug is starting to wear off.” Serge helped the young man to his feet. “It has a fast taper, and you should be feeling like new in no time. The ability to speak is the last to return, so don’t sweat that part.”

  Serge guided Preston through baby steps, then grabbed him by the shoulders and carefully leaned him against the front bumper. “Good, you didn’t fall over. Now don’t go anywhere.”

  The lid of the trunk popped and Serge unloaded his gear. He slammed it closed and looked toward the front of the car. Nobody there.

  Serge scanned the forest and spotted the captive trudging away off balance like a primitive robot. He quickly caught up to Preston. “No, no, no, the contest is over there.” Preston whimpered as he was turned around and marched back.

  “Now have a seat,” said Serge.

  Preston defied him by stiffening his legs the best he could.

  “I insist.” Serge kicked out his feet, and Preston fell in a bed of wet leaves.

  The forest filled with the sound of a mallet pounding tent stakes. Thick braided rope went around the hostage’s wrists and ankles. Serge tied the last knot in a clove hitch, leaving Preston spread-eagle on his back.

  “Did you realize chicks waste this stuff by making magazine baskets?” Serge connected wires and cables. “And here’s another minefield that women plant for us. You know how they’re always nagging us to wash our hands? And then you comply and she screams, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ You tell her you’re getting dirt off your hands like she wanted, and she yells, ‘You’re using the decorative soap!’ And I say, ‘It’s soap.’ And she grabs this starfish out of my hands. ‘You ruined it!’ ‘What am I supposed to use?’ ‘Soap!’ So I start reaching for other bars. ‘No, not the frog! . . . Not the flower! . . . Not the heart! . . . Not the strawberry! . . . Not the cupcake!’ Then I finally see an actual bar of soap. She says, ‘What do you think you’re doing? That’s a decorative polished quartz shaped like a bar of soap.’” He grabbed the posthole digger. “Relationships are all about power.”

  Serge finished digging his hole and made a couple quick trips to retrieve the rest of his gear from the car. He cheerfully narrated while finishing the assembly. It was the same explanation as he had given Willard and Jasper. With one exception.

  Serge held a final item in front of Preston’s face. The captive thrashed with wild eyes.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Preston shook his head and gritted his teeth.

  “Don’t be scared,” said Serge. “Most people are freaked out by this, but that’s mainly because they’re already crapping their britches about having to get a root canal. This is just an oval of hard rubber that dentists use to keep a patient’s jaw sufficiently wide so they have room to work and don’t make costly errors that could affect your smile. It’s a safety device. Now open.”

  Teeth clenched tighter.

  “Have it your way.” Serge grabbed the hammer and lightly tapped the middle of Preston’s lips, drawing a trickle of blood as they cut into his teeth. “That was just a test. The next one will affect your smile . . . Okay, you leave me no choice.” The hammer rose in the air.

  The mouth sprang open.

  “I knew you were reasonable.” Serge fit the jaw-spreader snugly in place. “It’s a little uncomfortable at first because your mouth is propped so wide you can’t open it any more to spit the thing out. But that’s just another safety feature.”

  Large eyes stared up from the forest floor in the terror of not knowing.

  “I’ll bet you want to know!” Serge grabbed his laptop and sat cross-legged next to Preston. “But first there’s something I want to know. How can a young, healthy person take complete advantage of an infirm senior citizen? The only conceivable conclusion is that certain people view anyone more vulnerable than them as livestock . . . I know, I know, it’s hard to wrap your head around that conceit, and yet the syndrome is almost an epidemic in our culture. It was impossible for me to fathom as well, until I had an epiphany! You know what made me finally figure it all out? Colonoscopies and psychopaths. It’s so obvious that I feel stupid not making the connection earlier. Ever meet a psychopath?” Serge shook with the creeps as he tapped the computer’s keyboard. “I never, ever want to! But I saw this documentary that said I’ve probably already rubbed shoulders with them many times. When you say ‘psychopath,’ most people think of Manson or Son of Sam, but the vast majority aren’t criminals. Many are actually high-functioning success stories. For example, take a doctor who’s a psychopath. It might give him a God complex and f
earless, interpersonal detachment to perform world-class brain surgery with as little nervousness as if he were clipping his fingernails. Or a hedge-fund trader, corporate raider, tobacco lobbyist, or CEO who uses overseas factories so deplorable they’re forced to fence in the rooftops because workers would rather jump than make another fucking game box.” Serge dramatically held an index finger over the return key. “Ready for your contest?”

  He pressed it. The hostage’s eyes darted erratically as the ground beneath him began to hum.

  “Anyway, the documentary said that one or two percent of the total population are psychopaths. Apparently the gold standard of figuring out which neighbors to keep an eye on is something called the Hare PCL-R test. I took it online, and I got a great score! Then I found out that a great score is not good. Maybe I should have studied harder. Oh well, ever heard of waterboarding? Your contest today is a kooky new variation I dreamed up that I like to call ‘earthworm boarding.’” Serge clapped his hands like they do in kindergarten. “Same principle, except all my procedures have a bonus round that mercifully provides the possibility of escape. So obviously the psychopath test I took was flawed . . .”

  Preston turned his head to the side and watched the soil come alive with dozens of pinkish worms. Then hundreds.

  “. . . And here’s your bonus round: As I explained earlier, the sound waves drive up the worms, which will begin crawling on you and—sorry, this part is a little gross—some will fall in your mouth. But the sonic device behind it all is running on battery power, so if you can outlast the life of the power supply by eating enough earthworms, then they won’t suffocate you. I know you drew one of my most distasteful contests, but on the other hand, they’re an incredible source of protein. Well, that about does it. See you on the flip side . . .”

  Serge began walking back to the car. Preston yelped as the first worm fell in his mouth.

  Serge snapped his fingers and spun around. “I totally forgot! The colonoscopy!” He ran back over and plopped down again. “I can’t leave you hanging in suspense.”

  Preston flopped and vainly tried to spit.

  “I’m trying to tell you something important. Forget about the worm and pay attention!” Serge reached in his captive’s mouth and flung it aside. “Now then, as I alluded earlier, psychopaths are adept at climbing company ladders because they’re easily able to make draconian decisions that would leave the rest of us sleepless for weeks. Did you know that if a colonoscopy turns up a polyp, any doctor will advise you to come back for another test within three years or risk inoperable cancer? Yet some insurance companies refuse to authorize follow-up tests for ten years. Know why? An executive did the harm–profit ratio and decided that at ten years, there was an acceptable fifty percent survival rate—for something that’s virtually one hundred percent preventable with timely screenings. Now, if that isn’t treating the customers like livestock.” Serge nodded to himself with conviction. “A psychopath made that decision.”

  Another worm hit Preston’s tongue. More squirming and gurgling.

  “You’re a real nervous type,” said Serge. “Just relax and work the odds. Of course it all depends on the individual, but this particular contest leaves you a decent twenty to thirty percent survival rate . . . Wow, I just realized something. That’s less than the fifty percent used by those insurance companies.” Serge stared at Preston and tapped his chin. “Give me the unvarnished truth. Do you think I should take that personality test again?”

  Chapter 7

  South Florida

  The airspace over Miami International grew crowded. An American Airlines flight from LaGuardia touched down. Then a United, Southwest, JetBlue, Delta, Virgin Atlantic, Lufthansa. Somewhere in the middle, a smaller private jet from South America landed and taxied to a separate terminal. Six serious men with mustaches got out and marched in cadence toward the customs building.

  They made their way to baggage claim, where a chauffeur held a sign: Mierda Holding Group.

  The men filed into the back of the limo, and the driver climbed in up front. “Where to? . . .”

  It was shortly after lunch as the white stretch cruised down Brickell Avenue and double-parked outside one of the numerous downtown banks that used to launder cocaine money in the eighties, and now just laundered money. The half-dozen men entered the lobby with unwavering precision and approached a teller. One of the bank vice presidents saw them and dashed out of his office.

  “Mr. Pelota,” said the hurried executive, shaking hands. “Great to see you again. Mind if I call you Ocho? What brings you to town?”

  Pelota silently gave him a certified check from the Caymans. The vice president raced behind the counter and practically hip-checked a female teller away from her station. “I’ll take care of this personally.” He looked up. “I’m assuming you want this in hundreds?”

  Ten empty briefcases were passed over the counter, and ten heavy ones came back.

  The limo cruised across the Miami River and north toward Aventura, passing convenience stores of varying ethnicity with numbers of customers dribbling out the doors. All along the route, billboard workers putting up new numbers. They arrived at a local office with a circular illustration on the door: an Indian maiden near a palm tree as a wooden ship approached. The sun was on the horizon, but it was ambiguous about rising or setting. The official seal of the state of Florida.

  The men went inside, and the receptionist had them wait until a low-level bureaucrat in a short-sleeve dress shirt appeared in a doorway, eating a baloney-and-lettuce sandwich. “How can I help you?”

  They simply pushed past him.

  “Wait! You can’t just go in there!”

  “Which is your desk?”

  “The gray one.”

  They pulled up a half-dozen chairs from nearby work areas. Two were being used, and people had to stand up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The wordless looks they received in response convinced them that chairs suddenly were out of style.

  The men gathered around the bureaucrat’s desk. On the corner of the desk was a novelty plastic bird with a pointy beak that occasionally dunked down into a glass of water. The concept was to make people happier. The bureaucrat finished chewing and balled up a piece of wax paper. “Now what can I do for you?”

  “We would like to buy the board,” said Pelota.

  The office worker had grown used to language barriers, but this wasn’t a question of accents. “Buy the board?”

  “Yes.” Pelota leaned to read the official laminated badge clipped to the worker’s shirt. “Mr. Foote.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

  Pelota turned and looked back at the door they had just come through. “This is the Miami office of the Florida State Lottery?”

  “Yes, it is . . . but if you could just explain a little more.”

  “We want to buy the whole board. Every number.”

  “Of . . . what?”

  “The lottery.”

  “Let me get this straight: You want to buy a ticket for every single number in the lottery?” The bird dunked in the water. “But there are over twenty million different combinations.”

  Pelota didn’t need to say anything. Ten briefcases were promptly opened on the floor.

  “Holy God! Is that what twenty million looks like? . . . How can you guys carry that much cash around Miami and not feel scared?” Foote gazed into six sets of vacant eyes. “Oh.”

  “Sell us the board,” said Pelota.

  “You do realize that the lottery pays a lot less?”

  “Except it’s rolled over five weeks now.”

  “What if there are several winning tickets?” asked Foote.

  “We’ve done the math,” said Pelota. “The board, please.”

  “Look, I would if I could, but there just isn’t any mechanism,” said the employee. “The only way we sell tickets is from the machines in the stores. The lottery has a strict policy against mass sale
s because it would discourage individual players.”

  The silence lasted only seconds, but it was effective. “I am familiar with computers,” said Pelota. “If one is so inclined, anything can be achieved.” He pulled several packets of bills from a briefcase. “How much do you make a year?”

  “Put that away!” Foote glanced around quickly and lowered his voice. “I can’t take your money, and even if I did, the system is completely firewalled.”

  “They’ve hacked into the Pentagon,” said Pelota.

  “Our system’s better. The lottery’s pretty important in Florida.”

  Pelota’s mouth firmed. “I am growing weary of you.”

  “Please relax,” said Foote. “Here’s what I would do in your shoes: Our lottery forms are good for up to ten numbers, and if you can hire enough people and hit enough stores, you just might be able to cover the board before Saturday night’s drawing.”

  “Do you feel lucky?” asked Pelota.

  “Why?”

  “Because you have just placed a large bet.” Pelota stood up and snapped the plastic bird’s neck and left the building.

  Port St. Joe

  Serge parked in front of a gingerbread cottage.

  An antique Ford pickup with three people in the cab pulled in behind him. Lou Ellen jumped out. “We got your phone call!”

  “Is she okay?” asked Willard.

  “What about her caretaker?” asked Jasper. “And the money?”

  Serge smiled and opened his trunk. “You have nothing to worry about anymore. Everything’s been taken care of.” He handed them a small suitcase.

  “What’s this?” asked Willard.

  “The money I’ve already recovered. You should be able to retrieve the rest with these documents.” He waved a stack of pages from the glove compartment. “They give Aunt May and you power of attorney over her former caretaker’s bank accounts. And if the authorities poke around, all they will see is the reversal of large transfers of money from her life savings that can only be explained by a predatory scheme on the part of her health worker. Nobody would ever suspect her.”