Shark Skin Suite

by Tim Dorsey

  Brook spun in alarm. “What?”

  “Our jury consultant thinks so, too.”

  “You want me to question a witness at the beginning of my very first trial?”

  “Got to start sometime, so best to get it out of the way.” Shelby idly moved refried beans around a plate. “Besides, you and her are a much more sympathetic fit than if I do it.”

  “But I get . . .”

  “Get what?”

  “When I’m super nervous, like just before speaking to a large group—”

  “You throw up? That’s normal.”

  “No, diarrhea.”

  Shelby stared.

  “But that’s not the bad part,” said Brook. “It’s lead-up panic: Can I run out of the room and make it in time?”

  “We’ve definitely been putting in too many late hours together.” Shelby grabbed a Q&A script. “Let’s go over direct again. I’ll play Ruthy this time . . .”

  An hour later, the sound of vacuum cleaners outside the conference room. Brook yawned again as she strolled in a circle around the table, reviewing documents interspersed with notecards of legal strategy. “I think we’ve covered it all.”

  “You can go,” said Shelby. “I just want to look back over a couple more things.”

  “But you need your sleep, too.” Brook tossed half a burrito in the trash. “Opening arguments are in two days, and we need to get our body clocks back among the living.”

  “I said you could go.”

  She pulled out a chair. “Then I’m staying.”

  Shelby held a manila folder with an adhesive tab. Grand-Bourg Holding Group.

  “What’s that?” asked Brook.

  “I don’t know.” Shelby flipped through papers. “These are the discovery documents that don’t fit any other category. They don’t fit anything, almost as if they’re from another case that accidentally got mixed up down in the mail room.”

  “Looks like financial spreads and random international corporate recordings.”

  “Ownership issues, but it’s gibberish.” He reached one of the last pages and stopped. Then he flipped back to the front of the file and pulled out a page. He held them side by side.

  Brook leaned over his shoulder. “Notice something?”

  “Not sure.” One was printed on rice paper and the other had an official-looking stamp from Aruba. “Why would that money . . . ? And then over here . . . ?”

  “The mortgages?”

  “No, Consolidated itself.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.” He picked up the phone.

  “Who are you calling at this hour?”

  “Just leaving a voice mail with our firm’s private investigators.” A finger pressed touch-tone numbers. “I won’t be getting up till at least noon, and I’d like them to start looking into this first thing.”

  “What do you think they’ll find?”

  “Who knows? The point is, I don’t want any surprises in the courtroom.” He inexplicably hung up.

  “Why’d you do that?” asked Brook. “You didn’t leave a message.”

  “If it’s something we could use, then our investigator poking around might tip them off.” Shelby slapped his cheeks to restore alertness. “I’m half-loopy from lack of sleep. It’s probably nothing.” He began dialing again . . .

  SOUTH OF TAVARES

  Serge slowly rose from his knees in religious awe.

  “It’s just a building,” said Coleman. “Like a little house.”

  “Get a grip,” Serge told himself. “I need a positive ID before I let myself become effectively excited.” He grabbed a piece of glossy paper from over the sun visor.

  “What’s that?” asked Coleman.

  “Screen grab I printed out from Cool Hand Luke.” Serge walked to the front of the building and raised the picture for comparison. “The film crew took meticulous sets of photos out here before constructing an exact replica of the prison camp out in Stockton.”

  Coleman leaned over. “Your picture looks the same as the building. What’s it mean?”

  “Time to get excited!” He chugged a travel mug and slipped on mirrored sunglasses.

  Coleman sluggishly followed Serge to where he repeatedly ran up and down four blue steps to a porch.

  “Okay, this field also has a house,” said Coleman. “I’ve dug it. Can we go to a bar now?”

  “Not just any house! It’s where the warden lived.” Serge turned at the top of the steps and ran back. “Can’t believe it’s still standing. Strother Martin paced right here on this porch, except in California.”

  “I’m still bored.”

  “Coleman, we’re working.”

  “Running up and down steps?”

  “I’m in training to be a lawyer.” Serge panted as he completed another short lap. “Everyone else just goes to law school. That’s why I’ll have the edge. That’s enough running.”

  The air was still, nurturing the kind of humidity that made people taste their own salt. Serge stood with hands on hips and stared silently across the dark field from behind mirrored sunglasses.

  “Can you see anything with those things on at night?” asked Coleman.

  “No.” Serge maintained his gaze with a stone face. “These were worn by Morgan Woodward, who had one of the greatest nonspeaking roles in film history as Boss Godfrey, who shot Luke in the climactic scene.”

  “That’s nice,” said Coleman. “But what’s any of this have to do with being a lawyer?”

  “This is what.” Serge popped the trunk and grabbed a shirt collar. “Out you go!”

  A bound and gagged man flopped to the ground. “Since I don’t have a law degree, I can’t practice in court. But I found a giant loophole that says I can be a fixer.” Serge dragged the man up the steps and handcuffed him to a railing.

  “What’s a fixer?” asked Coleman.

  “Every gigantic law firm has one.” Serge retrieved a cooler from the backseat. “It’s a lawyer who’s a breed apart: somebody with a law school education and the balls of a bounty hunter. So they pull them out of the courtroom to work in the field.”

  “What do they do?”

  “A fixer is a one-man rapid-response team that gets his arms around a crisis before it blows out of proportion, like if someone’s being blackmailed or throws a punch at a formal gala, or if a political rival mails a box of his own doo-doo to the mayor before realizing the idea isn’t as sparkling as it first seemed. They deal with the chaos of reality as opposed to the artificial order of the courtroom.”

  “You’re going to be a fixer?”

  “I finally realized it’s what I was destined for my entire life.” Serge stared down through his sunglasses at the hostage. “I know the law and the street. As long as I stay out of the courthouse and only practice in the field, I’m not committing any crime.” He kicked the whining captive in the ribs. “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Who is that guy, anyway?”

  “A particularly ugly case.” Kick, slap. “Did you know that lawyers have created a legal form of blackmail? It’s true. What you do is sue someone over an insignificant pretext—like a limited-partnership glitch or intellectual-property theft—but there’s an overt hint that certain embarrassing evidence will inevitably surface. That’s the real issue. Those revelations won’t prove anything illegal but will be absolutely catastrophic in terms of reputation and income, like all those Christmas-party cell-phone videos floating around the Internet involving candy-cane dildos.”

  “I’m collecting those.”

  “Then the suing party offers to settle and includes a confidentiality clause, which is really a de facto bribe to keep silent, and it’s all legally bulletproof.”

  “This is really going on?”

  “More than you’d think,” sa
id Serge. “There was actually one case in the news where these lawyers forgot the confidentiality clause and simply faxed a monetary request to keep quiet. Naturally they were arrested for extortion, and the TV legal pundits had a chuckle-fest: ‘Ho-ho-ho, they didn’t understand how to work our tricky little bribe scheme.’ And the rest of us are watching at home with disgusted looks: ‘This is what flies for okay in your culture?’ . . . Coleman, get my stopwatch from the glove compartment.”

  Coleman wiped his brow as a bird of prey circled overhead. He returned from the car. “Here you go, Serge . . . How’d you land this case, anyway?”

  “Mahoney. The big firms have in-house fixers, but the smaller ones outsource on an as-needed basis. He was skeptical when I suggested the fixer gig, but business is starting to trickle in.” He bent down and glared into the captive’s eyes from a range of three inches. “I’m going to remove the duct tape now and I expect you not to scream.”

  Rip.

  “I’ll fucking kill you!”

  Serge bashed him with a wicked uppercut, then applied fresh tape. He climbed the porch steps and stared out at nothing particular. “ ‘What we have here is failure to communicate.’ . . . I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  “What did this dude do?” asked Coleman.

  “Fooled around on his wife and got divorced. Then he wouldn’t pay child support, so she almost went broke and started a home-based business. Apparently she had a knack for it because it took off and money came pouring in. Something to do with party planning.”

  Coleman’s ears perked. “People actually pay you for that?”

  “Not like you think. Anyway, the ex-husband gets wind and wants a cut and threatens to show some private bedroom photos they had taken during better times, which wouldn’t go over big with the soccer moms at little Tommy’s birthday. Enter the confidentiality clause.”

  “So this is the ex-husband?”

  “No, that would be witness-tampering, which is wrong.” Kick, kick. “This is the lawyer.” Serge crouched again in front of his guest. “Will you keep quiet this time if I take off the tape?”

  The attorney had had enough. He nodded weakly with blood streaming from both nostrils.

  “Great! Because we’re coming to my favorite part of the movie!” Serge hopped with joy as he placed his cooler on the porch between them.

  Rip.

  A brief cry. Serge opened the thirty-six-gallon insulated box and removed a tray. The captive’s eyebrows twisted in confusion. “Please don’t hit me, but I have no idea what’s going on. Who are you?”

  “I’m a fixer, and we’re going re-create the Paul Newman scene where he takes a bet to eat fifty hard-boiled eggs.” Serge pulled the first egg out of the tray. “I know it’s not how fixers usually operate, but there’s a new breed of cat in town . . . Oh, and I couldn’t lay my hands on that many hard-boiled eggs in a pinch, so I went to the deli at Publix and bought deviled eggs . . . Coleman, ready?”

  Coleman nodded and clicked the stopwatch.

  “Open wide!” Serge crammed the first egg into the attorney’s mouth. He grabbed a second egg and popped it in his own mouth, licking his fingers. “Actually that’s pretty tasty . . . Open up again . . .” Serge detected another question on the attorney’s face. “What? You didn’t think I was going to let you have all the fun? See, this is what’s happening here. We’re forming a bond. And I’m hoping you’re a movie buff, because I can get pretty hung up on my favorite flicks. If you are a buff, we’ve got hours of fun ahead. Well, maybe not hours. Forget I said that. Did you know some of Cool Hand was actually shot in Florida? The bloodhound chase through the woods used a body double for Newman up at the Callahan Road Prison just north of Jacksonville. Open wide!” Serge continued feeding the captive as he chewed his own eggs. “We’re doing it together, ‘Kumbaya’-style, and if you reach Luke’s record with me, I’ll let you go. That’s my bonus round. More on that later . . .”

  The captive swallowed hard. “That’s it?”

  “Well, there is one little catch.” Serge jammed another egg in his face. “Drop the lawsuit with the confidentiality clause. And persuade your client not to file with anyone else.”

  “How am I supposed to do that—” He was cut short with another egg.

  “Come up with some kind of lie. You’re a lawyer.” Serge chomped and swallowed. “But if you don’t, we’ll keep coming out here until you either see the light or start liking eggs with paprika . . . Coleman?”

  “What? Oh.” He looked down at a sweep second hand. “Twenty minutes . . .”

  Twenty minutes later:

  Coleman giggled at Serge, laid out on the warden’s porch. “You look pregnant.”

  “It’s not a joke,” said Serge. “My tummy feels all fucked up. What was I thinking?”

  “The other dude looks in worse shape. Listen to him moan.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t have my warrior constitution.” Serge slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. “Prussian stamina is essential to reenacting classic Florida movies.”

  “Is he going to die?”

  “No, but he might wish he would.”

  “You’re not waxing this dude?” Coleman sulked. “I thought this was another of your science projects.”

  “It is.”

  “Just eggs?”

  “Maybe I’m losing a step with age.” He reached into the cooler again for a cocktail mixer, deftly adding a menu of ingredients before vigorous shaking.

  “What’s that?” asked Coleman.

  “Something to wash it down. It’s not healthy for him to eat that much without a beverage.” He poured the shaker’s contents into a martini glass and took a seat on the porch next to the prostrate lawyer. “Hey, film buddy, this will make you feel much better.”

  The attorney held his bulging stomach and grimaced. “What are those fumes coming out of the glass?”

  “A little dry ice. I saw it in the Tom Cruise movie Cocktail, and I’m a sucker for panache.”

  The barrister hesitated.

  “Listen,” said Serge. “If I wanted to kill you, there’s a whole arsenal in my car.”

  The lawyer looked in the drink again. “You say this is okay?”

  “I guarantee you’ll feel totally different after drinking that.”

  “I’d do anything to get rid of this stomach ache . . . Here goes . . .” He drained the conic glass.

  “Guess that wraps it up here,” said Serge. “I know I mentioned hours of stimulating movie conversation, but I just remembered I have to go watch Absence of Malice, another Paul Newman Florida flick about the law and journalism. Am I jazzed!” Serge unlocked the handcuffs and headed back to his car. “Well, toodles!”

  The longest pause. “Just like that? . . . You mean I’m free to go?”

  “Free as a naked jaybird.” Serge pointed toward his car with a thumb. “Unless you want to join us for the Miami Absence of Malice tour.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  The Cobra began driving away from the warden’s residence. Coleman looked out the back window at the attorney staggering from the porch holding his stomach. “I don’t believe it. You actually let someone go.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “But what if he tells on us?”

  “Let him try.” Serge angled his muscle car toward the vandalized entrance gate. “That’s one of the keys to my new breed of fixer: Make the intimidation so weird and embarrassing that even if it is revealed, it’ll be laughed out of the room: ‘I want to report a stomach ache because a Paul Newman fan made me eat deviled eggs.’ ”

  “And we used mirrored sunglasses at night and a stopwatch.”

  “Exactly.” Serge uncapped a bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

  “By the way . . .” Coleman cracked a warm Schlitz. “What did you give him to drink?�
��

  “That? Just a belly-soothing mixture of banana extract, guava, soy, virgin olive oil for the stomach lining and . . . oh, and just a tincture of pool chlorine. Those were the fumes, so I had to fib and say it was dry ice.”

  “Pool . . . ? Isn’t that poisonous?”

  “Oh, no! I mean maybe . . . well, yes—but only in a severely higher dosage than I administered—we swim in chlorinated pools all the time and swallow a lot of the water with little effect.”

  “Hey, the dude back there is grabbing a tree. He’s starting to vibrate. You sure the chlorine didn’t poison him?”

  “Without a doubt.” Serge turned the steering wheel toward the chain-link opening. “I checked all the swimming-pool concentration tables to be safe.”

  “Then why did you put it in at all?”

  “Yeah, why did I?” Serge asked himself. “Uh, right. Did you know that each individual egg has one hundred and ninety-eight milligrams of phosphorus, one hundred and thirty-eight of potassium and one hundred and thirty-two of sodium, plus a bunch of sulfur?”

  “No.”

  “And that’s just a single egg.” Serge shook his head with disbelief. “If you eat fifty—and who in their right mind would do that?—the last thing you want to drink is chlorine.”

  “Why not?”

  “The valence of the outer electron shell. I know I’m talking to a wall here . . .”

  “You are.”

  “ . . . But all those chemicals in eggs react aggressively with chlorine, releasing a tremendous amount of heat and creating sodium chloride, potassium chloride, et cetera . . . Very gaseous in the reaction.”

  “Never heard of them,” said Coleman as a tiny man in the background burped with violence.

  “Trust me: Those chemicals are out there.” Serge stopped at the gate and turned around in his seat. “Besides rocketing internal temperature, all those just-created salts would throw electrolyte balances off the chart, nervous system going haywire, organs shutting down, violent tremors, unconsciousness, worse.”

  “Electrolytes?”

  “Very important to keep your precious bodily fluids in the safe zone. For instance, doctors about to perform some surgeries had to stop recommending certain hilariously aggressive bowel-evacuating solutions for the night before—if you’re out there in our audience and took them, you know who you are—because people were dying from electrolyte crashes. And that was from a well-trusted over-the-counter product.”