Clownfish Blues

by Tim Dorsey

  “Preston?” said the old woman. “Where is he?”

  “They called him back to the main office.”

  “You mean in Panama City?”

  “No,” said Serge. “This is the big main office. The one I oversee.”

  “But then who’s going to take care of me?”

  “Aunt May,” said Serge. “I’d like you to meet your new assisted-living specialist, Coleman.”

  Coleman sipped from a large aluminum can and stared at a hand-sewn curtain featuring songbirds. His brain heard voices through the beer fog. His big round head slowly swiveled toward them. “What?”

  “It’s only temporary,” Serge told the woman. “Until your relatives arrive. But he’s one of the best in the business . . . Coleman, do me a favor and grab another pillow for her head.”

  “But she didn’t do anything to us.”

  “No, you idiot! Under her head.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief. I didn’t want to do the other.” Burp. Coleman noticed another curtain with canaries, and he started thinking about buffalo wings.

  “Coleman! The pillow!”

  “Right! I’m on it . . . Here you go, Aunt June.”

  “I’m May.”

  “What?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Coleman.” Burp. “What’s your name? April?”

  Serge stood in the doorway rolling his eyes. “I’ll let you two work it out.” Then he was gone.

  Coleman pulled up the quilted chair and looked at the TV. “What are you watching?”

  “Wheel of Fortune,” said Aunt May. “It’s boring.”

  “I see the remote.” Coleman grabbed it off the dresser and began clicking. “Did you know you have pay-per-view?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s where you pay for each show—”

  “No, what’s that in your hand?”

  “The remote.”

  “Your other hand.”

  “You mean my beer? . . .”

  . . . Meanwhile, a vintage silver Corvette raced back toward the Apalachicola National Forest. Preston was in the passenger seat. He needed propping up with a rigid piece of wood inside the back of his shirt. The paralytic agent that Serge had injected into his neck vein prevented speech or movement, but the rest of his senses remained keen.

  Serge punched him playfully in the shoulder. “Glad to have you with me! It’s a long drive, and good company makes it go so much faster. Coleman’s fine, but he tends to zone out, and usually just when I’m zoning in. That’s such a buzzkill!” He raised a travel coffee mug and chugged until it was dry, then punched Preston again. “And, man, am I zoning in right now! I know you can’t talk, but I’m totally ready to, so we have a symbiotic chemistry. You’re a good listener, you know that?” He accelerated to ninety and played bongos on the steering wheel. “Can you dig it? We’re on a Route 66 bender! I know what you’re wondering: What’s Route 66 got to do with Florida? And that’s what everyone thinks! People just assume that all the shows were filmed along the iconic ‘Mother Road’ highway from Chicago to Los Angeles. But the title had broader implications of unstructured life on the road during the post-Kerouac zeitgeist. I hate people who use the word ‘zeitgeist’ and yet I just did. That makes me a complicated, non-one-issue voter. So the Route 66 producers roamed all over the country and—hold on to your hat—near the end they filmed a dozen shows in Florida, including the double-episode series finale in Tampa! I guess they knew the show was winding down in the winter and figured, ‘Do we want to shoot in Detroit or Daytona?’ Tough choice, right? And they really did go to Daytona. On February seventh, 1964, the whole country watched a Stingray just like this one drive right out onto the sand, next to pounding surf, as amazed visitors do every year along the landmark stretch of beach—and then suddenly, for no reason, they’re at the City Island Library—which is a real place where they actually filmed the scene. But there’s more! If your mind isn’t already freaking blown, they pan to a big Airstream-like trailer sitting at the curb, attached to an ancient pickup cab. And this is what finally convinced me that Linc was the smarter of the two, because Tod looks toward the street and asks what the heck that is. Linc responds it’s the newest thing: a mobile library that brings books to you. And Tod’s brain is all overheating as he stares cross-eyed at a sign painted on the side of the trailer: ‘Volusia County Bookmobile.’ Well, I can tell you I almost hit the darn floor! How many people know that a Florida episode of Route 66 introduced the nation to the concept of the bookmobile? I could go on for hours. Actually, I will. In the next episode they drive to St. Augustine across the Bridge of Lions . . .”

  . . . Back in Port St. Joe:

  Aunt May was sitting straight up in bed for the first time in months. She needed both hands to clutch the cold metal can. “Preston won’t let me drink this stuff.”

  Coleman crunched his own empty can against the side of his head Belushi-style and cracked another. “Plenty more where that came from.”

  “What did you say this movie was called?”

  “Pulp Fiction.”

  “It’s not boring at all.”

  “Hold on.” Coleman pointed. “This is one of the best parts.”

  May leaned forward in bed. “What do you think that nice young man is going to do with that syringe?”

  “Keep watching.”

  Travolta came down with the needle in the heart.

  “Wow, that was intense!” said Aunt May. “I never knew anything before about heroin. Are there other movies like this?”

  “As many as you want to watch.” Coleman popped a fresh can and placed it in the old woman’s hands. “There you go.”

  “You’re a very nice young man.”

  Chapter 6

  The Sawgrass Lounge

  Reevis Tome entered the joint. It was one of those places where you could still smoke. He coughed and stopped to let his eyes adjust. All heads around the oval bar slowly turned. Bikers, barflies, suckerfish. They looked the baby-faced reporter over and returned attention to their highball drinks. Some smirked at first. That was the Reevis Effect.

  He took a seat away from the others, at the end of the bar nearest the door, indicating a level of discomfort. Again, a Reevis tactic. An auburn-haired bartender strolled over.

  “What can I get ya?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  She had some mileage but she was sweet. “Coming right up.” Reevis always did better with the women bartenders in knife-and-gun clubs, especially if they were moms. She came back with a soda. “That’ll be a buck.”

  Reevis handed her two dollar bills. Another strategy. He raised the soda. “What’s your name?”

  “Clementine.”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.” She left and went back to taking orders from rough trade at the other end.

  Minutes passed. Laughter. Someone stuck money in the juke and punched up “Kaw-Liga.” That would be a Hank Williams song, both junior and senior, but this was the original recording from 1952. More time passed. Reevis quietly finished his drink. That was his approach. Wait.

  Sets of malevolent eyes occasionally gazed down the bar at Reevis, without concern of being noticed. Reevis noticed. Peripheral vision. It was the first thing he did in unfamiliar waters. Chart all points of potential confrontation. This time, an out-of-work plumber facing spousal battery, a middle-rung crack dealer bearing battle scars, and two bikers with probationary patches on their jackets. The last always carried a hammer on his belt, but he wasn’t in construction.

  Outside in the Suburban: “What’s he doing in there?”

  “He ordered a soda a few minutes ago, but since then nothing.”

  Nigel pounded his door panel. “Why did I let him talk me out of bursting in with the camera?”

  “What are we going to do?” asked the videographer.

  “Okay, I know a way to make this work,” said Nigel. “Turn the camera on me.”

  A lens focused on Nigel�
��s face.

  An urgent, hushed tone: “Our reporter has fallen into the hands of dangerous elements. We must go in now!”

  Nigel jumped out of the Suburban, followed by the cameraman. He raced toward the lounge. “Remember to make it jiggle.”

  “It’s jiggling,” said Günter.

  Nigel reached the door and was just about to open it . . .

  “Hold up!” Günter placed a hand to the side of his head, where a small earpiece provided an audio feed from Reevis’s lapel mike.

  “What is it?”

  “I think the kid is making some kind of progress,” said Günter. “We should retreat and wait to see how it plays out.”

  “Okay,” said Nigel. “Put the camera on me.”

  “You’re on.”

  “Pull back! Pull back!” Nigel sprinted for the Suburban, and a jiggling camera followed.

  Inside the bar, Reevis had raised a single finger.

  The bartender strolled over with a smile. “Another Diet Coke?”

  “Sure.”

  A refilled glass was set in front of him. “Thanks, Clementine.” Two more dollars.

  She began to walk away.

  “Oh, excuse me?”

  She turned. “Yes?”

  “Well, uh, I’m a local reporter, and I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” said Reevis. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “What is it?”

  “I’m supposed to do a feature on an old crime case that was never solved. A woman went missing about four years ago, and I heard maybe her car was abandoned behind this lounge?”

  “The Dupuis case?”

  “You know about it?” said Reevis.

  “Shoot yeah. It was the big talk in here for months,” said Clementine. “People still bring it up once in a while.”

  Reevis slipped out a notebook as casually as possible. “What do you remember about that night?”

  “I was busy working and didn’t notice much, but I do know someone who can help you. The Mouth of the South.” Clementine toweled up a wet spot on the counter. “She’s over there right now. I’ll introduce you.”

  A minute later, Reevis sat at the darkest, smokiest end of the bar. Next to him was a row of stools with several older women who seemed to have history. They favored mixed drinks. Beside one glass lay a leather cigarette case with a picture of an Irish setter.

  “Maddy,” said Clementine. “This is a nice local reporter named— . . . I didn’t get your name . . .”

  “Reevis.”

  “Reevis,” repeated Clementine.

  Maddy laughed. “You don’t look old enough to be a reporter. You don’t look old enough to be in a bar.”

  Reevis grinned sheepishly. “I get that a lot.”

  From the corner of the reporter’s eye: a plumber was nonplussed by his presence, a crack dealer incensed by his existence. The two bikers weren’t currently taking account, but they would soon respectively become nonplussed and incensed.

  “Maddy,” said Clementine. “He was asking about the Dupuis thing.”

  “Holy Jesus! Don’t get me started on that! I could talk all night!”

  Reevis got out his notebook. “I have all night.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with the missing woman’s car,” said Reevis. “Police had a suspect who was found driving it.”

  “Sanchez!” said Maddy. “He wins the putz-of-the-year award. Boy, did he step in it that night!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The guy’s a regular in here . . .”

  “. . . A regular pest, if you ask me,” said the woman sitting next to her.

  “But nobody’s asking you,” said Maddy. “I’m telling the story here . . . Now I lost my place.”

  “He was a regular,” offered Reevis.

  “Worked landscaping, but unsteady.” Maddy slipped a new Parliament from her leather case. “By the end of the evening always bugging people for a dollar. Usually had mulch on him.”

  “There’s one part that I’m trying to figure out,” said Reevis. “Police pulled him over in the early hours, and he gave them two contradictory stories. First, he said the owner lent him the car, then after he found out she was missing, he told them he found it abandoned behind this place and just stole it . . . You can see how that would make a big difference ruling him in or out—”

  “Caprice, blue,” said Maddy. “No, green, definitely green.”

  “You have a good memory,” said Reevis.

  “A photographic memory,” clarified Maddy.

  “You saw the car?”

  “Of course. It was sitting right out back for hours,” said Maddy. “Sanchez definitely stole it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because at the end of the night, he was stomping up and down the bar, yelling, ‘Yep, I’m gonna steal me that car. I’m stealing that car! Anyone dare me to steal that car?’ and the rest of us are like, ‘Stop getting mulch on us . . .’”

  Reevis could feel the heat from the eyes across the bar. The regulars became more hostile in their glares. The only thing holding them back was Clementine’s de facto approval of the young reporter. You don’t shit where you eat, and you don’t cross bartenders in your zip code.

  Reevis gathered his thoughts. “But tell me about when you actually saw the car.”

  “Sanchez keeps pestering me, raising his hands to heaven and saying, ‘It’s a sign from God!’ Tells me it’s brand new, driver door open, keys in the ignition, and a holy glow inside telling him the saints wanted him to have the car. I said that was the dome light, but he won’t stop until I finally say, ‘Okay, okay, if you’ll promise to leave me alone.’ So he takes me out back, and sure enough, there’s this factory-spanking-new blue Caprice. I mean green; the yellow crime lights throw you off every time. And it was sitting there just like he said, door open, light on, keys, ready to roll.”

  Reevis was bolt upright. “What happened then?”

  “I told him not to steal a car with blood all over the interior.”

  “You saw blood with your own eyes?” Reevis scribbled furiously. “What else?”

  “Kittens.”

  The reporter raised his head. “Live cats were in the car?”

  “No, the little stuffed ones that people make rows of in their back windows. Not me, personally, but what are you going to do?”

  “Okay, and Sanchez?”

  “I kept warning him about the blood, but he just jumped in the car and said, ‘Screw it, I’m stealing it anyway!’ And then he drove off. The next thing we knew, he was all over the news as prime suspect in a murder. Everyone in here laughing at the TV: Sanchez with that goofy, hapless expression during the perp walk. That’s when police take a suspect—”

  “I’m familiar with a perp walk,” said Reevis. “So what happened then? I understand he was ruled out pretty quickly.”

  Maddy nodded as she sipped watered-down Canadian Mist through a straw. “Police came in the bar to interview me. They said Sanchez had changed his story—that at first he had been partying in the bar with the victim, and she lent him the car . . . I cut them off and said Sanchez was an idiot but not a murderer, and the missing woman had never been in the bar, period. Not that night or any other. Then I told them about seeing the car abandoned with door open and the keys and the blood, and Sanchez not listening to me and speeding off in the thing.”

  “So that’s when they ruled him out?”

  “Not at first.” Maddy pulled another long menthol from her cigarette case. “They said if everything I told them was true, it makes no sense for Sanchez to admit to partying with the victim the night she went missing and make himself the last person to see her alive. Well, I read a lot of mysteries, so I said, ‘It makes perfect sense. When he thought he was just facing auto theft, he tried to lie his way out, but when it turned into a murder rap, he thought, ‘Can I go back and take the stolen-car beef, please?’” She leaned closer and dropped her voice in sec
recy. “You know who you should really look into? A guy named Larouche who works at the body shop up the street.”

  Reevis wrote diligently in his notepad. “Why?”

  She formed tight, earnest lips. “I don’t like him.”

  “How is he involved in the case?”

  “He’s not. He’s dating my daughter.”

  Reevis removed the tip of his pen from the pad. “Maddy, you’ve been more than helpful, and I don’t want to impose, but could I ask you a favor?”

  The bottom end of her straw searched for scotch around the ice cubes. “Name it.”

  “My company sent a film crew because they think there’s still a lot of public interest in this case. Would you possibly mind repeating what you just said on camera?”

  “For you, no problem,” said Maddy, signaling the bartender for a refill. “But you’ll need to clear it first with Clementine . . .”

  . . . Outside, in a black Suburban. “What’s going on?” asked Nigel.

  The sound man cupped both hands over his earphones to hear better. “There’s a lot of background noise, but it seems like he actually might get our camera into the bar after all.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Nigel. “Keep listening and let me know the second he gets permission . . .”

  Back inside, the bartender saw Reevis signal with his finger and came over with a smile.

  “Another Diet Coke?”

  “Thanks, Clementine. And thanks for introducing me to Maddy. She’s been great—and she’s agreed to an on-camera interview.”

  “Well, look at you!” Clementine told Maddy. “Hope you’ll still remember us little people when you’re a big TV star.”

  “If it isn’t too much to ask,” asked Reevis, “could we possibly bring the camera in here? I promise to be as low-key as possible and respect your other customers’ privacy. We’ll be completely unobtrusive and stay tightly focused on Maddy. Do you think maybe that might be something you could . . . ?”

  Clementine grinned and shook her head with amusement, like he was being silly. “Of course you can film in here. Take as long as you need.”

  “Really appreciate it,” said Reevis. “I’ll just go outside and get the crew—”