Clownfish Blues

by Tim Dorsey

  The pair plunged down the road’s embankment through mossy ground cover, aided by a D-cell baton flashlight.

  “This way, I think,” said Nigel. “Günter? . . . Günter! What are you doing waving that gun?”

  “Thought I heard something.” He crouched and took aim. “Shine that light over there.”

  The beam hit a tree and an unimpressed bird.

  Bang.

  The bird took flight.

  “Why’d you shoot at an owl?”

  “His intentions were unclear.”

  “Well, knock it off. We might need those bullets. These automatics only hold sixteen.”

  Onward. Scraping themselves on branches. Falling down, tearing their pants.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Nigel.

  The cameraman stifled giggles. “This whole mess. Now that we’ve calmed down, it’s pretty hilarious if you think about it.”

  “Günter! We’re not out of this yet! . . .” Snort. “We still have to—” Then he was cracking up as well. “You’re right. It is funny.”

  Günter held his last bottle up to the moonlight. “How much you got left?”

  “About half.”

  “Same here . . . On three: one, two, three!”

  They guzzled the last of their beers together, followed by the sound of bottles breaking on trees. Laughter again as they threw arms over each other’s shoulders like war buddies, blustering forward dragging shovels.

  They found themselves in a clearing. An erratic flashlight beam bounced around trees and dirt.

  Günter turned in a circle. “Where’s the grave?”

  “Remember, it was by a clump of trees?” said Nigel, curiously pointing the flashlight at his own face. “And a fallen log?”

  “I’m starting to get worried again.” Günter leaned on his shovel. “What if the cops— . . . Can’t even think about it.”

  “I feel the same. The beer isn’t cutting it.” Nigel reached in his back pocket for a sterling-silver flask.

  “What’s that?”

  “Emergency supply to fortify our nerves.” Nigel took a swig and cringed. “Wasn’t sure how hairy this would get. Try some . . .”

  Günter sniffed the pungent open cap. “What is it?”

  “Sour mash, from someplace they called Tennessee.”

  “Never tried it,” said Günter. “I’m a gin man.”

  “So am I, but they told me everyone in the state drinks this stuff.”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “At the gun show.”

  Günter glugged and coughed. “That’ll sure clear your sinuses. Which way?”

  “Let’s try this direction,” said Nigel, setting off north.

  The pair wove through the woods for a half hour, meaning they were ten minutes from the road.

  “That way looks familiar . . .”

  They staggered southwest, then east, northwest, south—“Why can’t we find it?”—north again, southeast. If you could chart the flight of a moth, that was the course of their search.

  The two stopped again. “Where’s that flask?” asked Günter.

  “Me first.” Nigel took a slug before passing it. “Stuff grows on you.”

  Günter drew a big sip, looked around and scratched his head. “It’s the damnedest thing. We were just here the other day.”

  “I could have sworn I’d never forget the spot,” said Günter. “All that digging.”

  “No way the forest could have covered it up so soon. It should be easy to identify with all that freshly disturbed ground.” Nigel stomped his foot, tamping down loose soil, and pointed the flashlight at the ground. “Like this place right here. There’s a clump of trees and a log. It should look exactly like this.”

  “Okay,” said Günter. “We need to find a spot that looks like the one we’re at.”

  “Let’s go.” They set off on another serpentine quest with a zigzagging beam of light that grew dimmer with depleting batteries. After a few cloverleaf patterns in the forest, they returned to where they had just started.

  “Check it out!” Nigel aimed the beam. “It’s a spot that’s just like the other one.”

  “And look! Fresh footprints where someone was just tamping it down!” said Günter, spinning in place. “Who else can be out here? I’m a nervous wreck.”

  “Here’s the whiskey.”

  “Right.”

  They began digging. The task was much easier this time around, since the soil had recently been unpacked. It was sloppy as digs go, but precision wasn’t required. They were down to their hips, then chests . . .

  Günter thrust his spade. “Think I just hit something. Turn on the flashlight.”

  “It is on.” Nigel shook it next to his ear. “I think the batteries are dead. Dig with your hands.”

  The German dropped to his knees and scooped. “Yeah, it’s definitely him. Here’s his nose.”

  “This calls for a drink . . .”

  They cleared a trench around the body, then stood at opposite ends and lifted him by ankles and armpits. “All right, throw him up there onto the ground.”

  The swung the body from side to side to build momentum—“On three. Three!”—and threw him into the side of the hole.

  “What happened?” asked Günter.

  “This isn’t working.” They finished off the flask, and Nigel flung his shovel over the edge. “Okay, I’ll climb out, and you prop him up against the side. Then you join me, and we’ll pull him out together.”

  Heavy grunting, but they finally extracted the corpse, then fell to the ground with it to catch their breath.

  “What now?” asked Günter.

  “I think we’re supposed to take him somewhere else.”

  “Okay, I got his ankles.”

  “I got the other end. Let’s go that way.”

  “Wish that flashlight was still working.”

  “Me, too. Start walking . . . Ahhhh!”

  Thud, thud.

  “Ouch! Shit! . . .”

  “Nigel, I think we’re back in the hole again.”

  They pulled the body out a second time and picked him up. “Let’s go a different direction—”

  It was quiet except for a mild rustling of leaves under their feet. They heard a louder rustling, approaching fast from behind.

  Günter’s head whipped around. “What’s that?”

  Blinding lights came on as a cameraman rushed toward them. An Australian voice: “Why did you kill him?”

  “Ahhhhhh!”

  They dropped the body and fled in different directions.

  “Follow them!” directed Cricket Brisbane.

  The cameraman named Dundee gave chase. “I think one of them went this way . . .”

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Brisbane hit the ground. “Who’s shooting?”

  Dundee killed the lights, ran back and flattened himself next to his producer. “I think they are.”

  Now another direction: bang, bang, bang.

  “Nigel!” Günter called out from behind a tree. “They’re shooting at us!”

  “I know!” yelled another tree. “Where are you?”

  “Over here! Let’s make a break for the car!”

  “Okay, but we’ll have to cover each other!”

  “Now!”

  The pair charged out into the dark forest like Butch Cassidy and Sundance. Bang, bang, bang . . .

  “Dundee!” whispered the producer from Perth. “They’re coming back this way. Make sure you get this.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  Dundee turned on the camera lights, capturing the rival reality team in full stride and blinding them.

  Bang, bang, bang . . .

  And just like that, nothing.

  “Where’d they go?” asked Brisbane.

  “I don’t know.” Dundee cut the lights again.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang . . .

  Muzzle flashes flickered up out of the hole in th
e ground.

  “What the hell?”

  Then a long silence as tendrils of gun smoke dissipated into the trees.

  The Australians cautiously rose. Camera lights came on again as they walked over and stared down into the grave.

  “Are they dead?”

  “Get a close-up.”

  Episode 4

  Chapter 22

  The Gold Coast

  Another hot and bustling day along U.S. 1 in Miami. Sidewalks full of businesspeople on lunch and aimless people on parole. Broken headlight glass in the street, and the rest of the fender bender at the curb. An old man worked the intersections with a cardboard sign: Why Lie? I Want to Buy Beer. A tent sale with balloons, a bicycle with dangling iguanas, a hooker past her sell-by date.

  At every corner, waiting customers spilled out of convenience stores. Above, perpetually updating billboards where the workers might as well just camp out.

  A silver Corvette sat at a red light. Coleman popped a Pabst and stared. “What’s the deal with all those people in line? Did a Stones concert go on sale?”

  “Shhhhh! I’m trying to listen.” Serge turned up the radio. “Lottery’s now projected to break another record by Saturday. I always monitor the lottery when it gets this high.”

  “But you hate the lottery.” Coleman burped. “You said it preys on people least able to afford it.”

  “Plus, my coffee gets cold waiting in line at the counter.” The light turned green, and Serge passed another daunting assemblage that extended into an alley. “But even if you don’t play the numbers, you have to follow the jackpots as a matter of survival down here.”

  Another swig. “How so?”

  “If you live in Florida, a major jackpot is like a hurricane about to make landfall,” said Serge. “Society looks no different than during the final hours of storm preparation. The lottery lines screw up all major infrastructure for basic needs, so frantic people fight through snarled intersections to stock up on water and food, get prescriptions filled, hit ATM machines, and keep their cars full of gas, because God knows if you can’t pay at the pump and have to go inside, you better be wearing comfortable shoes.”

  “Never thought of it that way.”

  “The closer you come to the official drawing of the Ping-Pong balls, the lower the state’s IQ.”

  “But why all the fuss now?” asked Coleman.

  “That stupid Powerball jackpot a couple years ago that broke a billion dollars. Since then, everyone’s had lottery fever. But the Powerball prizes are back down, and Florida’s are up, so we get all the commotion.”

  “Lucky us,” said Coleman.

  “But it’s also the perfect setting for our next episode,” said Serge.

  Coleman looked down at a ripped spot on his shirt, where an employee name tag had been unceremoniously removed a half hour earlier. “At least we got our new jobs out of the way. Working at that supermarket was nerve-racking.”

  “Getting fired after thirty minutes doesn’t count toward an episode,” said Serge.

  “I think it does.”

  “You don’t get to make the call,” said Serge. “You were the one drinking at the register and messing up the lottery tickets.”

  “And you’re the one telling everybody in line not to buy them, then shoving the manager,” said Coleman.

  “That was tough love,” said Serge. “I did another statistical analysis. Did you realize that among all the millions of people who played the lottery last week, there were no winners, yet seven others will be struck by lightning in their lifetimes?”

  “For losing the lottery?” said Coleman. “That’s harsh.”

  “No, that’s not what— . . . forget it.”

  Coleman glanced down again. “Do you think they’re going to want their shirts back?”

  “I’m taking a wild guess that ‘Get the hell out before I call the police’ means the shirts are our severance package.” Serge hit a blinker. “But it’s all for the best. I just came up with a much better idea for our next gig.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll find out when we get to the Party Store.”

  “The Party Store?” said Coleman. “They have everything! . . .”

  . . . An hour after their shopping spree, the silver Corvette sat at another typical South Florida strip mall anchored by a tattoo parlor and a Hungry Howie’s pizza place. Serge stood on the edge of the parking lot with a megaphone. “You’re fantastic! Just keep it up!”

  “I’m having trouble breathing,” said Coleman. “And I’m getting really hot.”

  “That means you’re doing it right,” Serge barked. “Now execute a camel foot and the pancake spin, then a big finish with the inverted butterfly.”

  “Okay, here goes.”

  “Whoa!” yelled Serge. “That’s way too fast!”

  “What do I do?”

  “Slow down!”

  “I can’t!”

  A heavy cardboard sign flew into the air and came down, bonking Coleman on the head. “Ow!”

  Serge ran over and helped his fallen friend up into a sitting position. Then he removed the giant, furry costume head. “Coleman, speak to me.”

  “This sucks.” He rubbed his forehead. “How come I’m the one who has to dress like a panda and twirl a sign for the Chinese lunch buffet?”

  “Because I’m your manager,” said Serge. “Sign-spinning has become an increasingly competitive field. They now even hold conventions with their own version of the X Games. If I don’t teach you the newest technique, there’s no way you’ll survive out here . . .” He pointed across the highway at a gorilla executing a triple Lutz to promote international calling minutes.

  “Can’t I just stand still and wave at cars?”

  “No!” Serge grabbed the panda head. “Now put this back on. There’s much work to do. Many crowd-pleasing routines to learn: the swim, the flop, the gator, the reverse axle, the Heimlich maneuver, the DUI field test, the restless leg syndrome, the Czechoslovakian Dance of Death . . .”

  “I’m just going to wave at cars.”

  Serge seized him by the shoulders. “Get a grip on yourself!”

  Coleman held out a paw. “I think it’s starting to rain.”

  Serge looked up. “Crap, you’re right . . . Hurry! To the bus-stop shelter before your sign starts to smear!”

  They dashed under the metal overhang and the sky cut loose, as it is known to do every afternoon in the Florida summer for fifteen minutes.

  Coleman took a seat with the panda head in his lap. The bench had an advertisement for corrupt personal injury attorneys: No Pain? No Problem! Across the street, a gorilla glared at them from another bench advertising a credit repair service that just made it worse.

  A fingernail scraped at a mustard spot on the panda’s chest. “Serge?”

  “Yes, Ling Ling?”

  “How come it rains every afternoon in the summer?”

  “Temperature differential because land heats up faster than the sea as the sun climbs into the sky, creating a pressure drop and pulling air and moisture in from the ocean.” Serge chugged a giant cup of coffee and gave the gorilla across the street the bird; the gorilla beat its chest. “The rain effect is most pronounced in the summer.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s above your need-to-know.” Serge reached in his pocket and began fiddling with a new cell phone. “But don’t worry. It stops as fast as it starts.”

  “Rain makes me sticky inside this suit.”

  “What are you complaining about? I’m pissed off at filling out official forms.”

  “Forms? Where? When were you filling out forms?”

  “Inside my head. Another flashback.” Serge pressed phone buttons. “I forgot that I’m really angry at all the forms we’re forced to complete. Name, address, emergency contact, page after page, checking off tiny boxes that you’re a U.S. citizen, don’t have artificial joints and understand the terms of agreement.”

  “Who makes you
fill them out?”

  “Everyone with more money,” said Serge. “It’s the American Dream, version six-point-oh: Some dude finally makes it big, and the first day he drives up to his new mansion, ‘Excellent, now I get to make the others fill out forms.’”

  “It’s just not right.”

  Serge nodded with conviction. “I’ll be standing at that counter with the sliding-glass window where they hand you a clipboard, and I say, ‘I’ve been here before,’ and they say they have a new filing system, and I respond, ‘But my doctor referred me—he already has all this info. Can’t you share?’ They say, ‘That’s a different office,’ and I say, ‘It’s the same building, in fact it’s right next door. For heaven’s sake, you have state-of-the-art imaging machines that can produce cross sections of every organ practically down to the cellular level, and yet that wall behind you is a baffling barrier to my date of birth?”

  “What happened?” asked Coleman.

  “The same glare every time, like I’m the one who’s crazy,” said Serge. “But I’m hip to their mind-control scheme. The whole process is no accident. The receptionist herself owns a personal phone with a thousand times the computing power of the entire Apollo program, and yet the clipboard she just handed me has a crappy pen hanging from twisted-up rubber bands, not to mention that all the forms are primitive, tenth-generation Xeroxes so grainy that people haven’t seen resolution this poor since Three Dog Night was big.”

  “Jeremiah was a bullfrog! . . .”

  “Man! Keep it together! . . . So I finally acquiesce, taking a seat in the waiting room to fill out this same shit for the millionth time, and they’ve set me up for failure again! I know they’re all hiding behind the counter giggling: ‘Look! Look! He’s trying to write his e-mail address on that line that’s only a half-inch long! This is too much! Now he’s trying to write his Social Security number on the line that’s only a quarter-inch! I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt!’ . . .”

  “Serge?”

  “Wait! Wait! Wait! . . . Then the receptionist tells the others: ‘Shhh! Pipe down! He’s coming back up here. You guys keep hiding and I’ll stand up and take care of this . . . Ahem, yes, Mr. Storms, thank you for filling out— . . . Wait, you missed this one part, the address of your primary physician . . . Yes, I know he’s next door . . . Yes, I understand it’s the same address as ours . . . No, sir, I’m sure that line on the form is longer than a half-inch . . .’ Then they send me into the bathroom: ‘Look! Look! We asked him to pee again in a cup that’s way too small! And we told him not to eat anything after midnight when it doesn’t matter! This is priceless!’”