by Tim Dorsey
“Untie me! Untie me! . . .”
“Really?” said Serge. “It’s working for you, too?”
“Hurry!”
“Well, I did give you my word.” Serge flicked open a pocketknife and slashed the bindings.
The ex-husband grabbed his chest. “There’s something seriously wrong. What’s happening to me?”
Then he suddenly began running in figure eights through the trees, flapping his arms and speaking in tongues: “Arrrgreeeebloooghpppfffazzz! . . .”
“I must be getting old,” Serge told himself. “I’m not up on the latest dance moves . . . On the other hand, it’s never too late . . .”
Serge joined his captive, chasing after him through the rows, flapping his own arms and babbling: “Arrrgreeeebloooghpppfffazzz! . . .”
The ex-husband hit the dirt and flopped like a landed fish. “Blalalalalalalalalalalalala! . . .”
Serge flopped next to him. “Blalalalalalalalalalalalala! . . .”
The captive leaped up again and took off into the trees, arms now windmilling. “Yayayayayayayayayayay! . . .”
Serge windmilled his own arms. “Yayayayayayayayayayay! . . .”
But Gil was now running faster than anyone could keep up.
Serge stopped and listened as the yelling trailed off over a hill. “I’m jealous. He must have gotten luckier crystals than me.”
Chapter 20
Miami Women’s Legal Aid Clinic
Word was getting around. The waiting room had never seen so many clients. They all leaned forward in their chairs and strained to hear the commotion coming from some unseen part of the building. The receptionist got up and closed the door to the hallway.
In the last office, Brook stared slack-jawed at the angry mob on the other side of her desk, quarreling nonstop and spewing epithets.
“Please be quiet . . .”
They didn’t miss a beat, shouting away.
“Quiet . . .”
It only got worse.
“Everyone! Shut the hell up!” Brook’s fist hit the desk. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
Silence. Stunned eyes turned toward her.
“I’m sorry I had to speak to you that way,” said Brook. “But you have to listen to me. These are serious offenses. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor, and if everyone agrees not to file charges, we’re only talking about a little community service. Do you understand?”
The combined staffs of the nail and beauty salons began to nod.
“But here’s the most important part, and you absolutely have to do exactly as I say,” Brook continued. “This war ends now. You’ll be on probation, so that means no more vandalized cars, no more dead rats in mailboxes, no more cars doing doughnuts on front lawns, and definitely no more lasers. Are we in agreement?”
The crowd exchanged nasty glances, but reluctantly began to nod again.
“Good.” Brook stood up. “Now make the peace . . . Go on, hug. It’s a non-negotiable condition of me representing you.”
The staffs tentatively embraced, then thanked Brook and departed. The door closed.
The door opened.
Jacklyn Lopez escorted Danny into the office.
Brook stood up with a big smile. “Did Jacklyn tell you?”
Danny looked back and forth at the two attorneys. “You really want to hire me?”
“Without a doubt. You’re sharper than most law students I know,” said Brook. “And you’re working your way through Miami-Dade College at what? The food court? We can do better than that.”
“You want to pay me for more referrals?”
“No, we’re not asking you to chase ambulances,” said Jacklyn. “Just stuff around the office.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Danny. “It’s just that a lot of my community is under-served in this area, and you take cases others won’t touch. But you’ll still work with people I bring in on my own?”
“If it’s like that, sure, we always want to help,” said Brook. “Anyone who comes to you purely of their own volition—”
“Already got a few,” said Danny. “Actually a bunch.”
“That was fast.”
“Word’s out about you in the neighborhood. It’s all good.” She opened her purse. “The business with the forfeiture sealed the deal. The fact that you wouldn’t divulge the names of your illegal migrants in open court earned their complete trust in a way no outsider could ever hope for.”
“I’m flattered.”
Danny pulled her hand from the purse and slid a stub across Brook’s desk.
“A lottery ticket?”
“A winning ticket.”
“Good Lord!” said Jacklyn.
“Don’t get too excited,” said Danny. “It’s one of the smaller pots, Fantasy Five, just several thousand.”
“What are you doing with it?” said Brook. “More perplexing, why are you giving it to me?”
“A neighbor of mine wants you to cash it in. And I’ve got a dozen more in here just like it.”
“Why me?”
“Like I said, word’s getting around.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Brook examined the ticket in her hands. “Why doesn’t your neighbor cash it himself?”
“Because you have to show ID and do all the tax stuff. Except he isn’t trying to avoid taxes.”
“And I’m guessing deportation,” said Jacklyn.
“I keep telling everyone not to waste their hard-earned money on these stupid tickets, and then Hector wins that thing, and the whole block scrambles to the nearest bodega . . . His only other option is to go to these shady brokers that run dubious convenience stores, and they take a cut.”
“You do realize that I’ll be taking a cut, too,” said Brook. “Pro bono starts with constitutional violations and ends at lottery winnings.”
“But it’ll be a smaller cut, and it will go to you.”
“Haven’t done anything like this before,” said Brook. “Never even thought of it.”
“I’ve heard of situations where someone is buying up investment property and wants to shield their identity so the prospective sellers don’t raise their prices. So they create some kind of trust where a law firm’s name shows up on everything.”
“Sharp. That’s why I just hired you.” Brook set the ticket down. “But this is more than just a name change in a public file. This is actually taking possession of money. I can still wrangle that, but your neighbor will need two lawyers.”
“Why?”
“I’ll represent the client and draw up the contracts with the other attorney, who will be assigned legal ownership of the ticket and cash it in on behalf of his client, which is me,” said Brook.
“Sounds awfully complicated.”
“We need the firewall created by a second layer of attorney–client privilege,” said Brook. “It may even set a precedent.”
“Got anyone in mind?”
Brook reached for the phone. “Let me do some calling around.”
Cassadaga
A doorbell chimed.
Trish opened it before the sound had finished. She threw her arms around Serge’s neck. “You’re back! You’re safe! Is everything okay? What happened?”
“I have much to report!” He hurried past her and opened his picture book on the parlor séance table. “These things actually work! Who would have thought?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Crystals! The magic water!” He found the right chapter and jabbed his index finger at an illustration. “I’ve just had the most intense spiritual experience of my entire life! My soul shot through the cosmos like the ending of a Kubrick movie!”
“You actual drank the water?”
“Of course! And now I need more crystals immediately!” He began stomping his feet like a child. “Must have crystals! But where can I get them? Right, every single place in town! . . . Be back in a second . . .” He ran for the door.
“Serge, stop! Calm down!” Trish ca
ught up to him from behind and grabbed his arm. “Now just come back to the table with me and point out in the book exactly which crystals you drank.”
“Okay, this one . . .”—flipping pages—“and this one, and these two over here. That’s it.”
“You sure you didn’t use any other stones?”
“I’m certain.”
Trish sat back in her chair. “Hate to tell you this, but those stones are completely benign and without any effects, pro or con.”
“But my complete transformation!”
“Just the power of suggestion.” She broke into a smile. “And your great natural energy level.”
“But the book said—”
“I’ll let you in on a secret,” said Trish. “The unspoken rule around here is don’t speak about it.”
“About what?”
“Believe in crystals or not, it’s all harmless fun and games,” said Trish. “Nobody gets hurt.”
Serge pouted. “So I didn’t attain a higher plane of consciousness?”
“I think you’re already there.” She chuckled. “Someday you’ll have to tell some of us around here your secret.”
“Crap.” Serge picked up a broken piece of his Eight Ball. “First I got cheated out of quarks and now this travesty.”
Trish was about to say something, but suddenly paused with a nagging feeling. She was forgetting something. But not for long.
Up on her feet: “Serge, what happened to my ex-husband?”
“Oh, him?” He picked up the dislodged and dripping Eight Ball message nugget. “Had a great talk. He’s fine.”
“You let him go?” Heart racing again. “I mean, I didn’t want you to— . . . but I thought at least—” She ran to the window. “Where the hell is he?”
“Could be anywhere,” said Serge. “You sure these crystals are just paperweights? I really think I felt something.”
She hysterically grabbed his shoulders. “What am I supposed to do? He could be coming back here right now!”
“Seriously doubt it.” Serge dabbed a finger into the Eight Ball water on the table and touched it to his tongue. “Maybe this stuff will work.”
“Stop it! I’m really freaking out!” Trish heaved in a cascading anxiety attack. “Why do you say you ‘seriously doubt it’?”
He held up the geodesic nugget. “I was quoting the Eight Ball, or what’s left of it.”
“Dammit, Serge, I’m having a heart attack!” She fell into a chair with hands over a crying face.
“Whoa, easy now,” said Serge. “He sincerely seemed to have a thorough change of personality after sharing gem water.”
“Like that’s supposed to reassure me.” Trish grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “I told you those crystals you used don’t do anything!”
“Well, we did drink different crystals.”
“Different?” She wiped her eyes. “Which ones?”
“Well, the turquoise variety in this picture looks familiar, except it also came in a yellowish-green clump that looked nice in the light. And this one, and this one . . .”
Trish’s blood pressure whipsawed as she turned glossy pages. “What else?”
“That baby for sure,” said Serge. “Couldn’t resist the translucent burnt-orange hue. And this one.”
She turned more pages. “Is that all?”
“And that ruby-red baby,” said Serge. “Reminded me of pink grapefruit juice.”
“Holy—” Trish stood and stared at a wall in general. “This may be a first for the crystal community.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Serge, you couldn’t have picked a worse assortment of rocks if you had tried.”
“Worse? But I thought you said they didn’t do anything?”
She sat rod straight and flipped to the back of the book. “The crystal culture might be a lot of make-believe powers and practices, but you’re still dealing with actual minerals that react in the physical world according to the laws of science. Even the guy who wrote this book knows that.”
“I’m not following.”
“While these authors are cashing in by telling people that drinking crystal waters will make them glow with good fortune and spiritual balance, they still have to worry about lawsuits.” She found a page with a giant exclamation point inside a big red warning circle. “Here’s a list of crystals that under no circumstances should you ever drink, or even pour on your skin. All the ones you gave him are here. For instance, adamite, which is zinc arsenate hydroxide.”
“Are you saying it contains arsenic?” said Serge. “Interesting.”
“Here’s lópezite, an even bigger no-no. Galena here contains lead, and cinnabar is a pleasantly unassuming name for mercury sulfide.”
“I gave him mercury?” said Serge.
“Plus, torbernite is radioactive,” said Trish. “It’s another dirty little secret of crystals: many contain heavy metals, which are some of the most toxic substances you can introduce into the human body. That’s why all professional spiritualists keep one foot in the real world and know which stones to handle with care or avoid altogether.”
“Utterly riveting,” said Serge. “I never got that far in the book. Please tell me more!”
“As opposed to mystical powers, each of the crystals on this no-fly list has its own documented adverse neurological reaction,” said Trish. “Administered in that kitchen-sink batch you gave him, and it’s all uncharted waters, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
“That’s quite an eye-opener.”
“Wait,” said Trish. “What’s this?”
“What?”
“You told me you didn’t get this far in the book.” She held it up. “So why is the warning page dog-eared?”
“It is?” said Serge. “Then I must demand a refund. Some browsing customer obviously did that in the store.”
A pause to stare. “If you say so.”
“Hey, guys, check this out!”
Serge looked down the hall. “Coleman’s up?”
“Drinking Schlitz and watching cartoons.”
“Hurry or you’ll miss it!”
“Hold your horses!” Serge slowly rose with a strain of patience. “Coleman’s one of the few people to voluntarily pursue an assisted-living lifestyle . . .”
The pair entered the kitchen. “What’s so important?”
Coleman giggled and pointed at the TV with his beer.
“That isn’t cartoons,” said Serge. “You never watch the local news.”
“I was flipping channels, and they had amateur cell-phone videos of something that happened today. They’re about to show it again.”
They all gathered round. The news station ran a banner across the top of the screen: Florida Man Exclusive. Beneath it—with spots strategically blurred out—a naked man ran through traffic, flapping arms, banging on windows and babbling incoherently.
Trish gave a wary glance sideways.
“Hey, it’s not like I forced him to drink it at gunpoint,” said Serge. “Some people just see a gun and automatically infer.”
The man on the screen was now scrambling over hoods of cars and clawing at his skin, before darting into the intersection. The station stopped the video clip just before the moment of impact with the dump truck. It cut to a location shot:
“This is Ashley Zahn reporting live from the scene of today’s tragedy on the outskirts of Cassadaga. And while toxicology reports are still pending, police sources suspect the epidemic of the new designer drug flakka . . .”
“Trish,” said Serge. “You didn’t mention he was also a drug abuser.”
Chapter 21
After Dark
High beams of a black SUV split the ominous night on Highway 98. Nothing but trees and lawlessness. An oncoming semi truck whizzed by on the two-laner, rattling the car. Then wisps of fog. Every now and then, eyes glowed on the center line before darting off into the brush.
It became less isolated as they saw more and more headlights. The vehicle creste
d a hill and found the reason. A country store near the Wakulla River. Only place open for miles at this hour.
The SUV pulled into a parking lot full of pickup trucks with abnormally large tires. They went inside, and Nigel headed for the beer case. “You get the shovels.”
They approached the counter.
“Shovels and beer?” said the grizzled clerk. “You boys burying something?”
“No!”
He scanned in the purchase. “Then you must be digging something up.”
“W-w-why do you say that?”
The clerk shrugged. “It’s Friday night.”
Nigel and Günter rushed out of the store.
The next customers stepped up to the counter.
“Anything else?” asked the clerk.
“Just the shovels and beer.”
The SUV took off into the woods. Günter popped the cap off a Beck’s and began chugging.
“Give me one of those,” said Nigel. A green bottle upended.
The Suburban flew over hills and screeched around desolate turns, deeper into nature. Deeper into the beer. They took the fork at Tate’s Hell. A bottle flew out the window and shattered on the sign. “Fuckin’ A! . . . That’s what they say around here, right?”
Nigel turned up the brightness on the vehicle’s instrument panel and watched the odometer, counting down the last 5.7 miles to X-marks-the-spot. They slowed to a crawl when the last tenth turned over. “We’re here!”
“A-Ooooooooo!” Günter bayed at the moon. “Werewolves of London!”
It had been a twelve-pack. The contents of ten were back in the mist, with the final two in their hands as they opened the back of the vehicle for digging implements.
“Just a second,” said Nigel, pulling back the mat over the wheel well. “Take this.”
“A gun?”
Nigel tucked his own pistol in his waistband. “They sell them everywhere in the state. I bought these last week during our confrontational exposé on the dangers of gun shows.”
“Why?”
“To be on the safe side.” Nigel popped his last beer and staggered toward the woods. “Those gun people were scary.”
