SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel (13 page)

Bilko scratched his scalp. “So that’s why all his head shots in the paper are of people looking down at something.”

Mazerek put his hand on Reevis’s other shoulder. “I’m liking the kid better and better each day.”

Danning pointed forward. “Believe it or not, he’s finally going to start.”

A finger tapped a microphone. “Good afternoon,” said the publisher. “I would like to begin by thanking all of you for the hard work during our restructuring designed to increase efficiencies by combining the efforts of our various media . . .”

The people on the side of the stage applauded. The audience gave him the stink eye.

“ . . . However, there is still much to do.”

Up to now, everyone had been wondering what was on the giant, sheet-covered easel behind him. The publisher turned toward an assistant, which was the signal to remove the sheet.

“Un-fucking-believable,” said Danning.

“A giant thermometer?” said Reevis.

The red on the thermometer rose only a tiny bit from the bulb at the bottom, indicating the temperature of a patient going into hypothermic shock. The publisher aimed a laser pointer at the visual aid.

“This is our current average story output.” The laser went to the top of the display, next to the large number 98.6. “And this is where we need to be to survive in this market . . .”

“I may throw up,” said Mazerek.

E. Strunkend White had placed the laser pointer back in his breast pocket but forgot to turn it off. The audience didn’t hear another word as they stared at the red dot coming through his jacket.

Danning fidgeted and glanced at his Timex. “I got two stories to file.”

“What a farce,” said Bilko. “I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

Another easel was brought out, listing a series of consultant findings.

“Time-motion studies?” said Mazerek.

“They’re tracking how we walk around the office?” said Bilko.

“We’re approaching the iceberg,” said Danning.

The publisher leaned into his microphone. “I know a lot of you are thinking you already have full plates, so we’ve come up with a set of streamlining prime directives.” A fist pounded the podium. “First, cut the number of phone calls per story in half . . .”

And the fist continued to pound with the announcement of each new cost-cutting measure. Apparently that wasn’t enough emphasis. From behind the curtains on the side of the stage, someone emerged and took up a position next to the publisher.

Every jaw in the audience fell.

“Did someone drug my coffee?” asked Danning.

Bilko shook his head. “Are we really seeing this shit?”

“Wish I had a camera,” said Mazerek. “Nobody would ever believe this actually happened at a major Florida newspaper.”

Onstage, someone in a Power Ranger costume stood beside the podium. Each time the publisher announced another directive, the ranger jumped into a new fighting stance and karate-chopped the air.

“No more investigative stories!” said the publisher. “If it’s not breaking, it’s not news!”

The Power Ranger’s hands sliced and jabbed.

Danning turned to Mazerek. “We just hit the iceberg.”

Chapter
EIGHTEEN

MIDNIGHT

H
ialeah.

A blinking neon sign behind barbed wire said that Roscoe’s Haul ’N Scrap was still open for sudden vehicle-crushing needs. Next door stood a small concrete pillbox of a building the size of an office at a no-credit-no-problem used-car lot.

The name of the defunct car dealership remained faintly visible under a new paint job that now read: Z
IGGY
B
LADE,
A
TTO
RNEY-AT-
L
AW (
DUI
S,
T
RAFFIC
C
OURT,
W
ILLS &
D
IVORCE
).

All the windows had burglar bars, and a large steel plate protected the entire doorknob area from crowbars. The lone car out front was a purple Jetta with a C
OEXIST
bumper sticker where each letter was a religious logo. The streetlights had the extra-yellowish haze that said you shouldn’t be here. A pumping stereo went by on the next street, leaving a Doppler effect of barking dogs.

An index finger pressed the doorbell.

A long pause.

The doorbell rang again. And again.

“Maybe he’s not here,” said Brook. “I don’t see any lights.”

“That’s his car. He’s here.” Shelby pressed the button again. “You have to know Ziggy.”

Ding-dong
. Another pause. Then from inside, barely audible through the door: “We’re closed.”

A fist pounded. “Ziggy, open up! It’s me, Shelby. I brought my new partner.”

“Oh, shit.” Then a patter of footsteps running away from the door.

An exchange of looks between the attorneys.

In the back of the office, Ziggy threw open a window and flapped a towel to clear the smoke—“Be there in a second!”—a bottom desk drawer slammed shut with an ashtray full of roaches.

The sound of footsteps again. “Coming! . . .” Ziggy gave his mouth a burst of breath spray and opened with a big smile and bloodshot eyes.

“Ziggy, this is Brook Campanella . . . Brook, Ziggy.”

They shook hands.

“Let’s get inside,” said Ziggy. “I don’t like to leave the door open at this hour.”

The pair entered. Ziggy stuck his head outside a final time, quickly glancing up and down the street, then slammed the door, bolting four locks and propping a chair under the knob.

The building was a single room divided in two with bamboo curtains. The front half consisted of the reception area. Cot, two plastic molded chairs and movie posters.
Twelve Angry Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, My Cousin Vinny
.

Ziggy parted the curtains and led them in back. “Sorry about the mess.” He balled up a Taco Bell wrapper.

“You left a message?” said Shelby.

“That’s right. Have a seat.” Ziggy went to a corner table holding a boom box. “You don’t mind, do you? I love music when I’m thinking.”

Brook looked Ziggy up and down. Nothing working. Short and blubbery, with a scraggle of beard and uncombed hair sticking horizontally out over his ears. A negative genetic experiment crossing Danny DeVito and Allen Ginsberg. His too-tight T-shirt had a picture of Manson over the phrase C
HARLIE
D
ON’T
S
URF.

Ziggy decided the music wasn’t loud enough and gave the volume knob an extra crank.

“ . . . Send lawyers, guns and money! . . .”

“That’s better.” Ziggy walked back to his desk with a slapping of flip-flops and opened a bottle of aspirin.

Brook looked around. The wood-paneled walls were actually rolls of contact paper. A diploma hung crooked. It was a Xerox.

Ziggy pulled some handwritten pages from the top drawer. “I wanted to try out my opening arguments on you. It’s just a rough draft, so don’t hold back on the criticism . . .”

“Ziggy . . .” said Shelby.

“Hold on, okay . . . Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may think this is just a mortgage fraud case, but jettison that thought. It is much, much more: the death of the American Dream! The sovereign individual thrown against the gears of the industrial complex!” Ziggy threw an arm in the air. “The McCarthy hearings! Vietnam! Watergate! . . .”

“Ziggy . . .”

“ . . . J. Edgar Hoover! Iran-Contra! The CIA and LSD!—”

“Ziggy!” shouted Shelby.

Ziggy lowered the arm and looked up from his papers. “You want me to change something?”

“Ziggy, what are you doing?” asked Shelby.

“Giving my opening statement. I just told you.”

“But I’m giving the opening statement,” said Shelby.

“Really?” said Ziggy. “You like it that much? Okay, you can read the first half and I’ll—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m not following.”

“My firm has the case now. I’ve already written my opening remarks.”

“Nobody told me.”

“Jesus, Ziggy, we tell you every time you call the office. You’re not involved in the trial.”

“This is fascist bullshit!” said Ziggy. “I don’t blame you, but you’re going to lose this case because the soul of sixties free-verse oratory has been corporatized.”

“Ziggy, foreclosure has nothing to do with dropping LSD.”

“Yes, it does.” Ziggy shuffled his papers. “You didn’t let me finish. It all ties together. The universe is one.”

“Look,” said Shelby, lowering his voice. “I don’t know who else would have had your kind of passion to pull this case together. I mean those forklifts full of documents . . .”

“I did a little speed.”

“Whatever. The point is, you’ve already contributed more than anyone could remotely expect. Now it’s time for our area of expertise. Unfortunately trials have become a sterile science, and you did willingly sign that contract turning the matter over to us. We’ve already paid your back expenses, so we now have risk exposure, too.”

“But it’s the biggest case I’ll ever have,” said Ziggy. “One of the only cases. Most people just call here for a used car.”

“We’ll give you all due credit in the newspapers and legal journals.”

Ziggy’s eyes became glassy, and his lower lip stuck out. “Can I at least sit at the table? I promise not to say anything.”

“Jeez . . .” Shelby took in the visual totality of Ziggy, thinking,
The jury consultant’s head would melt off his neck.
“I . . . mm . . .”

“Excuse me,” said Brook, “but there are only two chairs.”

“Uh, that’s right,” said Shelby. “The table’s just so long. It’s how they built the courtroom, but otherwise you’d be our first choice . . .”

“You really mean that?”

“Absolutely,” said Shelby, nodding with vigor. “How about we instead keep you apprised of all developments as we lead up to the trial?”

“I’d really appreciate that,” said Ziggy. “It’s always nice to have you visit.”

Beep-beep-beep-beep . . .

“Well, that’s my car’s burglar alarm,” said Shelby, standing up. “Guess we better be going.”

Ziggy followed them to the door. “Nice to meet you, Brook . . . Don’t be strangers . . .”

Whatever had sounded the car’s alarm was gone, and the lawyers drove off without incident.

Ziggy locked back up and grabbed the ashtray from his bottom drawer, poking around for something roach-worthy. He stuck a burnt nub in an alligator clip and blazed it. Then he leaned back in his chair, kicked feet up on the desk and grabbed a manila file. The folder had an adhesive label on the tab:
Grand-Bourg Holding Group.

He flipped through impenetrable spreadsheets and photostats of bank records from murky consortiums incorporated in the Lesser Antilles. He reached one of the last pages and stopped with a perplexed look. He flipped back toward the front of the file and pulled out another page, setting them side by side in his lap. He took a long, thoughtful toke on the roach. Eyes moving back and forth. Addresses, dollar figures, doing-business-as. Another toke, scratching his stomach.

Suddenly his feet dropped off the desk. He grabbed the phone and dialed.

“It’s me, Ziggy . . . I think I might have some work for you . . . I’m sorry, I can’t understand anything you’re talking about . . . Yes, it’s some private-eye work. Got a pen handy? . . . Mahoney, you’ll have to speak English . . . Okay, here’s what I need you to find out . . .”

THE NEXT AFTERNOON

Somewhere in the middle of Florida, a tremendous roar echoed from the far side of one of the state’s few hills.

“What the hell is that racket?” said Coleman. “Oh, shit, damn!”—slapping his chest and clutching between his legs.

Serge glanced over from the driver’s seat. “What did you do now?”

“Dropped my joint. The sound startled me.” Coleman bent forward to check the floor.

“You better hurry up and find it! I don’t want to deal with another pot-related car fire.” Serge accelerated east on Highway 44. “The last blaze was so huge local TV covered it with aircraft.”

“That time it wasn’t my fault.” Coleman pushed himself up and twisted around in his seat. “Your gunfire made me jump.”

“Oh, it’s always my gunfire, like I’m supposed to put the Second Amendment on hold while you get baked.”

“Loud sounds disturb me.”

“What are you, a nervous poodle hearing a blender?”

“Oh, shit! That hurts like a bastard!” Coleman took off one of his sneakers and looked inside. “I found it.”

“Hope you didn’t burn anything in here. I just had the upholstery done.”

“No.” Coleman stuck a finger through fabric. “Just my sock . . . That roaring sound is getting louder.”

“Because we’re in God’s country now.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just keep your eyes where the highway crests that distant hill.”

Coleman leaned toward the dash. “I see them. Jesus, look at all those Harleys.”

“Bikers always bird-dog the best scenic drives showcasing the state’s natural bounty. They aggressively shun interstates, suburbs and any place that even hints there’s a mall within twenty miles.”

Coleman pulled out rolling papers. “I’ve never seen a Hells Angel in the food court.”

Serge stuck his arm out the window, giving the bikers a big thumbs-up as they passed.

“What’s that strange look they’re all giving you?”

“It means we’re brothers of the road,” said Serge. “Hand me my assault rifle.”

Coleman turned around on his knees and reached in the backseat.

Bang
.

“Crap!”

Bang
.

Serge looked up at a pair of holes in the roof. “Coleman, I can understand accidentally firing once . . .”

“Not my fault. The sound of the first one made me jump.”

“Give me that thing!” Serge snatched it away and clicked on the safety. “You just better hope those bullets don’t come down anyplace important.”

The Cobra raced past pristine pastures, lakes, barns. Herons and egrets went about their business. A windmill creaked.

Coleman twisted up a fresh one. “What do you think about all this screaming lately on gun control?”

“Everyone’s lost their minds.” Serge rammed a high-capacity magazine in his weapon. “Who the hell needs an assault rifle to hunt deer?”

“But you have an assault rifle.”

“I don’t hunt deer.”

“What about your jumbo magazine?”

“I need that, too, in case I’m facing overwhelming odds.” He reached under his seat. “In fact, I need an extra one, which I plan to duct-tape inverted to the first one so I can just flip it over.”

Coleman toked and thought. “So bikers tell you when you’re in God’s country?”

“That or billboards.”

“Billboards?”

“There’s no middle ground with billboards in God’s country. Half of them advertise the road to avoid the eternal fires of damnation; the rest the road to topless truck stops.”

Coleman held his joint toward the windshield. “What’s that big thing up ahead?”

“Looks like one of those giant balloons for roadside advertising, except this one’s in front of a church.”

“What’s it say?”

Serge turned as they went by. “Something about gay marriage ruining everything.”

A preacher barked into a bullhorn. Two bullets came down from the sky and popped the balloon.

Coleman turned around in his seat. “It deflated on top of the preacher. The others are trying to pull him out.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Coleman sat back around. “Where are you going today?”

“Still working on my new Master Plan, platinum edition.” A sign went by, proclaiming the city limits of Leesburg. “I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer.”

Coleman made a face. “But everyone hates lawyers. You’ve heard all the jokes: ‘Why does New Jersey have so much toxic waste and California so many lawyers?’ ”

“And?”

“And what?”

“The rest of the joke.”

“That’s it,” said Coleman. “It means lawyers blow.”

“New Jersey got to pick first.”

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it.” Serge took a bend in the road as more bikers thundered by. “See, lawyers are another example of me zigging when everyone else zags. Sure, a bunch of them are parasites, maybe most, but just like in your intestines, there are a lot of good parasites doing some heavy lifting. And when push comes to shove, and the common man is up against powerful interests, guess what his last line of defense is?”