“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.”