“Mmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
Serge turned to a new chapter in his picture book. “Some devotees even swear by dropping large crystals into glasses of water, then drinking it or pouring the ‘essence’ on their skin. Absolutely true.” He turned the book around. “These women are doing it. What do you say we give it a try and find out if they’re onto something?”
Serge uncapped the bottles of water and filled their glasses.
“Mmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
“I get it,” said Serge. “You don’t completely trust me, just because I tied you up and pointed a gun in your face and dragged you into the kind of neglected orange grove that attracts search parties. The real reason I picked these rows of Valencia trees is that in the early days, the spiritualist camp held ‘grove services.’ A stranger told me . . . But don’t just take my word that I mean no harm. This here will put your mind at ease. See how all these bags of crystals are clearly marked and factory sealed?” He then stood and placed the book in the captive’s lap. “And if you’re still worried, read this part on preparation of the magic potions. It explains that none of the crystals actually dissolve and end up in the liquid. The rocks just give off positive vibes, filling the water with ‘mystical information’ and ‘ancient memory.’ If you believe it, great, you’ll be a new man. If not, the worst-case scenario is you’re drinking spring water and bullshit.”
“Mmmmm! Mmmmm!”
“How about this to sweeten the deal?” said Serge. “If you drink it, I’ll set you free. I’ll even drink mine first.”
The hostage stopped struggling and looked up.
“You want to say something?”
Urgent nodding.
Serge ripped the duct tape off his mouth.
“Ow! . . . Will you really let me go? No tricks?”
Serge raised a pair of fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Let me see the book again.”
Serge held it to his face. The captive read quickly down the page. “Okay, now let me see those bags.”
“Here you are.”
The captive read the labels and inspected the seals. “Hell yes, it’s a deal! I’ll drink as much as you want!”
“That’s the spirit.”
Serge prepared their respective cocktails, over and over, drinking his own and holding the others to his guest’s mouth. More concoctions were poured liberally over their skin.
Then they sat and waited.
Serge’s big toe began to vibrate, then his whole foot, his leg, his other leg . . . ripples of energy rushing up his chest. He hopped to his feet. “Hot damn! There really is something to this! I feel like dancing!”
Serge jitterbugged from one row of trees to the next, then did cartwheels and somersaults. “I’ve never felt so young and full of life!”
“Untie me! Untie me! . . .”
“Really?” said Serge. “It’s working for you, too?”
“Hurry!”
“Well, I did give you my word.” Serge flicked open a pocketknife and slashed the bindings.
The ex-husband grabbed his chest. “There’s something seriously wrong. What’s happening to me?”
Then he suddenly began running in figure eights through the trees, flapping his arms and speaking in tongues: “Arrrgreeeebloooghpppfffazzz! . . .”
“I must be getting old,” Serge told himself. “I’m not up on the latest dance moves . . . On the other hand, it’s never too late . . .”
Serge joined his captive, chasing after him through the rows, flapping his own arms and babbling: “Arrrgreeeebloooghpppfffazzz! . . .”
The ex-husband hit the dirt and flopped like a landed fish. “Blalalalalalalalalalalalala! . . .”
Serge flopped next to him. “Blalalalalalalalalalalalala! . . .”
The captive leaped up again and took off into the trees, arms now windmilling. “Yayayayayayayayayayay! . . .”
Serge windmilled his own arms. “Yayayayayayayayayayay! . . .”
But Gil was now running faster than anyone could keep up.
Serge stopped and listened as the yelling trailed off over a hill. “I’m jealous. He must have gotten luckier crystals than me.”
Chapter 20
Miami Women’s Legal Aid Clinic
Word was getting around. The waiting room had never seen so many clients. They all leaned forward in their chairs and strained to hear the commotion coming from some unseen part of the building. The receptionist got up and closed the door to the hallway.
In the last office, Brook stared slack-jawed at the angry mob on the other side of her desk, quarreling nonstop and spewing epithets.
“Please be quiet . . .”
They didn’t miss a beat, shouting away.
“Quiet . . .”
It only got worse.
“Everyone! Shut the hell up!” Brook’s fist hit the desk. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
Silence. Stunned eyes turned toward her.
“I’m sorry I had to speak to you that way,” said Brook. “But you have to listen to me. These are serious offenses. I’ve spoken with the prosecutor, and if everyone agrees not to file charges, we’re only talking about a little community service. Do you understand?”
The combined staffs of the nail and beauty salons began to nod.
“But here’s the most important part, and you absolutely have to do exactly as I say,” Brook continued. “This war ends now. You’ll be on probation, so that means no more vandalized cars, no more dead rats in mailboxes, no more cars doing doughnuts on front lawns, and definitely no more lasers. Are we in agreement?”
The crowd exchanged nasty glances, but reluctantly began to nod again.
“Good.” Brook stood up. “Now make the peace . . . Go on, hug. It’s a non-negotiable condition of me representing you.”
The staffs tentatively embraced, then thanked Brook and departed. The door closed.
The door opened.
Jacklyn Lopez escorted Danny into the office.
Brook stood up with a big smile. “Did Jacklyn tell you?”
Danny looked back and forth at the two attorneys. “You really want to hire me?”
“Without a doubt. You’re sharper than most law students I know,” said Brook. “And you’re working your way through Miami-Dade College at what? The food court? We can do better than that.”
“You want to pay me for more referrals?”
“No, we’re not asking you to chase ambulances,” said Jacklyn. “Just stuff around the office.”