by Tim Dorsey
“Coleman, do something useful and hand me your lighter.”
Marijuana smoke streamed out the panda’s eyes and ears. He tossed Serge his Bic.
Serge flicked it, and the ring of fire came to life. He leaned a cardboard sign against the support post: Kwik Lube, No Waiting. Large cheetah feet carefully paced off steps. Then he got down in a sprinter’s crouch. Customers stepped out of stores and became silent during the tense anticipation.
“Now!” Serge took off running and dove through the ring of flames, landing with a somersault on a padded mat. He hopped up to a smattering of polite applause.
“See?” He spread big white hands. “Nothing to it.”
Coleman spit out the joint. “Serge . . .”
“Wait, the audience wants more.” He paced backward on the opposite side before running and diving again. Cars honked. The crowd grew.
“Serge . . .”
“Not now! I owe it to my fans!” He took off running.
The panda shrugged. He uncapped a longneck Budweiser and stuck it through the mouth hole.
Serge landed again to more applause. Another dive, and another.
“Serge . . .”
“Dammit, Coleman! What is so important?”
“You’re on fire.”
“I know! The public loves me!” Serge suddenly stopped and sniffed inside his costume head. “What’s that smell? Why is my ass hot?”
Coleman pointed with the beer bottle. “Your tail.”
“Shit, I’m on fire!” He began running in frantic circles, trying to reach behind and swat his backside with furry paws. “Coleman, do something!”
More people gathered as Serge ran screaming in a circle, chased by a panda splashing beer on his butt.
Fifteen minutes later, all was quiet again. A panda and a cheetah sat on a bus bench. Serge held the end of his charred tail. “Crap, I was really starting to like this outfit.”
A black stretch limo pulled up across the street. A gorilla threw his sign in the backseat and got in.
Coleman watched as the vehicle pulled away. “What’s that about?”
“The scenarios are endless.” Serge stopped to reflect. He looked at the smoldering metal ring in the parking lot and the gymnastics mats, and then down again at his blackened tail. “The economy can’t be this complicated. Am I overthinking this? Coleman, tell the truth: Am I acting appropriate?”
Another panda shrug. “Look at all the people getting their oil changed.”
A cheetah head began to nod. “I thought so. I just like to regularly perform self-awareness checks to make sure my behavior is still coloring inside the lines. Once again, the all-clear signal.”
“You mentioned some higher-paying gigs.”
“We start tomorrow,” said Serge. “And if you insist on being a panda, you’re going to need a gimmick.”
The limo returned and pulled to a stop in front of the bus bench. The tinted back window rolled down. A gorilla head stuck out. “Aren’t you going to the Furries’ Ball?”
“What?” asked Coleman.
“I mean, you’re not just sign-spinners,” asked the ape, “right?”
“I would agree with that statement,” said Serge.
“Knew it,” said the gorilla. “There aren’t many spinners out here in full costume. So you’re actually into the whole lifestyle?”
“Panda for life,” said Coleman.
“Got a Cheetos monkey on my back,” said Serge.
“I’ll give you a ride.” The back door opened. “There’s plenty of room.”
Coleman looked at Serge. “What do you think?”
“A gorilla unexpectedly offering a ride in a limo. In some cultures, that’s a sign of good luck.”
They climbed inside. The limo drove off.
“It’s got a full wet bar!” yelled Coleman. His head whipped toward the gorilla. “Please tell me it’s free.”
“Of course.”
“Hot damn! This is definitely good luck.”
“Hold on.” Serge looked at the gorilla again. “Your voice. It was muffled when you were talking to us at the curb. Are you a . . . ?”
“Girl?” said the ape. “Yeah, I get that a lot because of the masculine animal choice. Most of the other gals go for softer stuff like puppies or bunnies . . . Whew, it’s getting a little hot.” She removed the primate head.
“Dear God!” yelled Coleman. “She’s, she’s . . .”
Yes, she was. A drop-dead beauty with sandy-blond hair and dark brown eyes.
Coleman rushed back with a drink and wedged himself between Serge and the girl.
Panda and cheetah heads came off. A black-and-white paw extended. “My name’s Coleman.”
She shook. “Liv.” Then she leaned closer. “You like to yiff?”
“Yippie!”
“No, silly.” She laughed. “You know, yiffing. I pegged you two as yiffers. I’m a pretty good judge of these things. I just love men who yiff. So am I right?”
“Yiffie ki yay!” yelled Coleman.
“Life’s short,” said Liv. She took Coleman by the paw. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“If you’re new to it, just follow my lead.”
“Anything you say.”
She looked back at Serge. “Want to join us?”
“I’m still processing.”
Liv grinned. “Feel free to jump in anytime.” She led his pudgy pal to the middle of the limo and got down on the floor.
“What do I do?” asked Coleman.
“First, put your head back on,” Liv said as she donned her own. “It doesn’t work without the head.”
“I totally agree.”
“Okay, now . . .” She felt around his costume.
“Whoa!” said Coleman.
“Wait, where is it?” She continued probing between Coleman’s legs. “Something’s wrong.”
“Everything’s A-OK here.”
“If you yiff, you’ve got to have a flap.” Liv indicated a spot in the middle of the gorilla suit. “Here’s mine.”
Coleman became woozy. “I—I—I . . .”
“No problem,” said Liv. “There’s a small paring knife at the wet bar . . . and I’ll just cut a little slit here, where you can add Velcro later for when you go back to work the street.” She put the knife away. “There. Now you have your yiffing flap.”
“I—I—I . . .”
“I really like the top,” said Liv. “Do you mind?”
“I—I—I . . .”
It was a clumsy start getting everything aligned, but soon the limo’s chassis began to rock.
Serge’s eye bugged out and he braced himself with both arms against the edge of his seat, watching a silverback gorilla furiously hump a panda on the floor. “Christ on a surfboard! What kind of strangeness am I looking at?”
Chapter 27
Sunset
Limos arrived for the festivities along a trendy section of South Beach. There was a ridiculous selection of clubs along Collins Avenue, but many in the late-night set chose one particular art deco building that featured dinner shows. They filed inside and were escorted through the dark to tables dimly lit with those old-style candle lamps with that plastic netting. It was a spirited crowd, as dinner shows go. The nightclub was called Hips, and the sign was trimmed in pink neon.
Dry martinis, cosmopolitans, pork loins with wild mushrooms, laughter, conversation that needed to be loud to compete with other conversation. Topics ranged from shoes to revenge. Some tables were full of friends not talking to each other so they could text people also not talking to their friends in a different club.
The stage lights came on, and blue velvet curtains parted to rousing applause. The first act was a performer in a tight sequined costume with a riot of feathers that extended almost to the ceiling and looked like something out of a parade in Rio de Janeiro. When that subtleness was over, the room filled with the familiar strains of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Everything’s Coming
Up Roses,” sung respectively by impersonators of Judy Garland and Ethel Merman.
Finally, the moment they’d all been waiting for. The stage lighting tightened to a single spot in the middle of the blue curtains. A platinum-blond head coyly poked through, followed by the rest of the performer named Marilyn. A four-song set reached its finale.
“Happy birthday, Mr. President . . .”
. . . Later in the dressing room. Cabaret lightbulbs surrounded the mirrors, and autographed photos lined the walls. Marilyn came in, took off her wig and began brushing it out. His real name was Chuck, and his hair was black.
“Darling, you were great tonight,” said Liza.
“Thanks,” said Chuck, wiggling out of a slinky silver dress.
A sudden commotion at the door. “You can’t come in here!”
“But I have to see Marilyn!”
“You’ve been warned before!” said Ethel. “Get out!”
“I brought her roses! . . . Marilyn! Tell them you want to see me!”
Chuck retreated to the back of the dressing room as the rest of the “girls” formed a protective pack. “Leave now before you get hurt!”
“She sang that song especially for me! I really am the president,” said a man with thick brown hair who partially resembled JFK.
The bouncers arrived. Red flowers went flying.
“Let go of me!”
He was dragged out and told never to come back.
“Marilyn! I love you! . . .”
Chuck collapsed in a makeup chair, tears down his cheeks. The others gathered around for support.
“Honey, are you okay?”
“No.” Chuck was shaking. “It just keeps getting worse! He sits in his car for hours outside my apartment, follows me to the grocery store, keeps calling even though I’ve changed my number six times now.”
“You need to go to the police, girl.”
“I’m afraid to provoke him,” said Chuck. “Police warnings only work if someone is at least remotely rational, but he’s certifiably insane.”
“Because he’s an obsessed stalker?”
“No, because he really thinks he’s the president,” said Chuck. “When we first met and I didn’t know he was off his rocker, he showed me family photos in his wallet of Jacqueline and Caroline and John-John. He drives an old black Lincoln convertible like in Dallas, and once I even saw him on a street corner setting up a portable podium with the presidential seal and delivering a speech about America going to the moon.”
“You can’t sit and do nothing,” said Garland.
“I know, I know,” said Chuck. “I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
Dania
The players trotted out in athletic jerseys for the introduction.
The seating at the sports arena was largely empty. Weekdays even more so. At the east end of the facility, high above everything else, stood the glassed-in luxury section. It was the most affordable skybox in all the state. The dining tables were tiered steeply to see all the action. Each had its own closed-circuit television.
A couple sat across from each other with open menus and concentration.
“Dinner at the Dania Jai Alai Fronton,” said Brook. “How many times does this make?”
“I asked if you were okay with it,” said Reevis. “If this bores you, we can go—”
“It’s more than fine,” said Brook. “But you’re starting to worry me. I’ve never seen you so tense.”
“It was a tough day. Tough month.” Reevis scanned the menu. “That’s why I needed to come here. It’s one of my comfort zones.”
A curved basket swung. A kill shot echoed off the wall with a violent clack.
Reevis jumped to his feet. “What the hell was that?”
“Just a jai alai ball hitting the wall.” Brook sat back and appraised her beau. “You sure you’re okay?”
“No!” He grabbed his menu extra tight. “I just finished interviewing a guy in the hospital after he was bitten on the face by a water moccasin he slept with, and yesterday it was the suspect arrested on wildlife charges for bringing a small alligator to a convenience store to trade for beer. You know how I hate covering weird Florida stories.”
“That’s just annoying,” said Brook. “The change in your mood runs deeper than that.”
Reevis considered the prime rib. “I’ll be fine.”
Jai alai players swung cestas. Clack, clack.
Reevis didn’t jump up again, but his shoulders flinched each time.
“You’re far from fine,” said Brook. “You’re not telling me something.”
“Maybe it’s all this craziness with the state lottery,” said Reevis. “It’s like a damn hurricane season, except those storms don’t usually have raided convenience stores, a dead guy hanging from a billboard and another with his head wrapped in scratch-offs.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Brook. “I might have a story for you, and it’s a good bet to get those producers off your back. Everyone loves stories about the lottery.”
“What is it?”
And she explained the whole new legal field of fencing winning tickets.
“You’re right,” said Reevis. “Those producers will definitely go belly-up. I’m calling them right now.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No, it can’t. I’m in pain . . . Hi, Cricket, do you have a pen handy? . . .”
Brook watched more balls clack off the wall as Reevis laid out the story to the receptive Australian. He briefly covered the phone. “What was that address again?” Brook told him, and he passed it along.
A new set of players took the court. Reevis stuck the phone back in his pocket.
“Feel better?” asked Brook.
“Immensely,” said the reporter. “He was so excited about the story, they might leave me alone for days . . . By the way, who is this other attorney that you’re working with? Do I know him?”
Brook just smiled mischievously. “Ziggy.”
“Ziggy!” Reevis leaped to his feet and took a step back from the table. “Ziggy Blade?”
“Yes, Ziggy Blade,” said Brook. “And I thought you’d find it funny, but what’s with this wild reaction? Now I know you’re hiding something.”
Jai alai players climbed the wall. Clack, clack.
“Okay, I’ll tell you.” Reevis slowly sat back down and lowered his head. “I talked with Serge.”
This time Brook sprang to her feet. “What!”
Other diners turned around.
“Lower your voice,” said Reevis.
“How? When? Where?” Brook gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. “What happened?”
“He turned up on some feature footage that didn’t air,” said Reevis. “I wanted to give him a heads-up. Who would have thought that his old cell number still worked?”
“What was the footage?”
“He was a psychic using a Magic Eight Ball,” said Reevis.
“Can’t believe that slipped your mind.”
“It didn’t,” said Reevis. “I wanted to save you the worry. My heart’s been pounding ever since that call. I think I have post-traumatic stress from the last time we were with Serge. And since Ziggy was also there, when you mentioned his name, well . . .”
A player rolled on the court and came up flinging the ball. Clack.
Brook took a deep breath and looked at her menu again. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I’m not the superstitious type, but I’m getting this really bad feeling like some disaster is about to happen again.”
“Why?”
“You and I are already together, and I’ve recently talked to Serge, while you’ve been in touch with Ziggy. Not to mention Ziggy’s brother, Coleman, who’s a good bet to be attached to Serge’s hip. It’s like the whole cast of that major fiasco back in Key West is getting together for an explosive reunion.”
“You are being superstitious,” said Brook. “You know Serge. He’s probably off pinballing arou
nd the state hundreds of miles away.”
New players in yellow-and-red jerseys took the court. Clack, clack, clack.
“I don’t know,” said Reevis. “It just seems like this is the last normal evening we’re going to have for a long time. It’s a strong premonition in the pit of my stomach.”
“Because your stomach’s empty.”
Clack, clack, clack. The waiter returned.
Reevis handed back his menu. “I’ll have the prime rib.”
“The pompano,” said Brook, then smiled at the reporter. “You’ll feel better once you eat.”
“You’re right.” Clack, clack, clack. “Serge is probably a million miles away right now.”
Meanwhile . . .
A man in a cheetah costume stared out the back window of a limousine as the Dania Jai Alai Fronton went by. The vehicle continued a few more miles until it arrived at a small, windowless nightclub that was hosting a private event.
Others were already there, the sidewalk full of people in line dressed like animals. They formed a veritable Noah’s ark procession of every conceivable creature before entering the club.
The cheetah and panda climbed out of a backseat. Coleman seized Serge by the arm. “Tell me I’m not hallucinating! Did I really just get laid?”
“A more amazing development than if gravity quit.”
“So I really did have sex! Yes!” A panda fist punched the air. “That’s the first time in at least a decade!”
“What about this morning?” asked Serge.
“I mean with someone else.”
Serge pulled out his replacement smartphone. “Coleman, do you realize what’s going on?”
“Good luck?”
“I checked on the Internet.” He tapped the phone’s screen. “We’ve accidently stumbled into some bizarre fringe element that has a fetish for animal costumes, the furrier the better.”
“Fetish?”
“That’s right. And ‘yiffing’ is their slang for screwing in their costumes. In fact, some of them can only have sex with the costumes on.”
