A bong bubbled.
Ziggy stared in disbelief at all the lottery tickets on his desk. Like Brook had told him at the beginning, word was definitely getting out on the street. All relatively small amounts, but it added up.
Knock, knock, knock.
Ziggy took another enormous hit and ruminated about instant scratch-offs, the Cuban bolita, the Harlem rackets, and other numbers games throughout history.
Knock, knock, knock.
Ziggy leaned his head back with his Visine—“Damn, I am way too high. I hope I don’t have any appointments”—and turned Joplin up on the stereo.
“. . . Another little piece of my heart . . .”
The knocking at the front door became banging.
Ziggy jumped and dove under his desk. “What the hell was that? Have they finally come for me? . . . Okay, you know the drill. It’s just the pot. Get yourself back on the rails! How do they keep making this shit stronger? Maybe I just imagined I heard something . . .”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“No, I definitely heard it that time. Someone’s at the door. I’m in no condition to deal with the public. They always know. If I make myself as small as possible, they will go away . . .” He tightened himself into a ball.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Teeth gnashed under the desk. “They’re not going away. This is a crisis . . . Try to think: It’s probably just a courier with more lottery tickets. You’ve gotten through this kind of thing before. The key is rehearsal. What is acceptable behavior? Take the package and say thank you. That’s only two things to remember. You can handle it. Two things, two things, two things. Take package, thank you, take package, thank you . . .”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“. . . Take package, thank you. Take package . . . What was the third thing? I think it was a variation on the other two numbers. Numbers, numbers, numbers . . . Roman numerals? Why do they always come up at the end of a movie? MCMLXXII . . . What the fuck is that about? . . .”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Ziggy took a deep breath and began crawling out from under the desk. “. . . Here goes nothing: Say thank you and give him the package . . .” He stopped crawling. “Give him the package? Where’s the package? Did I lose something again?”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“I’m coming!” yelled Ziggy. “Be there in just a minute!”
From behind the desk, a head slowly rose until bloodshot eyes were even with the edge. Ziggy forced frozen legs to march to the door. He began undoing a sequence of locks. “Thank you for the package, coming or going. You’re welcome. Peace, out.”
He opened the door.
Bright lights blinded him. Dundee stuck the TV camera in his face, and Brisbane thrust a microphone: “What kind of lottery scam are you trying to hide?”
They chased Ziggy as he ran squealing like a ferret and dove back under his desk.
Miami Women’s Legal Aid Clinic
Brook sat behind her desk, staring in new thought.
On the other side was her latest client, wearing a moose costume and holding the head demurely in his lap.
“Mr. Rabinowitz, these are very serious charges,” said Brook. “Lewdness in front of minors, attempted sexual battery, creating a public nuisance resulting in injuries.”
“It’s all a big misunderstanding,” said the accountant. “I was at the mall and saw this other moose. I could have sworn she was one of us.”
“So what you’re saying is you didn’t realize she was actually entertainment for a children’s birthday party when you mounted her from behind?”
Mr. Rabinowitz stuck two fingers through openings in the costume head in his lap. “My eyeholes were too small. Like I said, an honest mistake.”
Brook finished writing on a legal pad. “If you don’t mind me asking, why did you wear a moose costume to the mall in the first place?”
“To hook up.”
“Okay, no promises, but I’m fairly confident we can work out a plea.” Brook smiled as naturally as she could under the circumstances and shuffled papers in the client’s file, indicating the meeting was winding down. “Uh, you don’t happen to have a change of clothes, do you?”
The client looked down at antlers. “Only the moose. Why?”
“A condition of being released on bail was not to wear any costumes in public. Inside your own house, have at it.”
A sad voice: “Okay.”
“Then wait in the lobby until I can have my assistant get something appropriate. Don’t want you pulled over on the drive home.” She picked up the phone. “Danny, I’ve got an odd request . . .”
The moose excused himself. Brook was filling out a motion to preclude when Danny burst in. “Brook! You have to see this!”
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“It’s important! Hurry!”
Brook got up and followed Danny into the break area with a microwave and fridge. And a TV. The broadcast showed a jiggling camera approaching a squat concrete office in Hialeah.
“I delivered some lottery tickets there,” said Danny. “Isn’t that the office of the other attorney—”
“Shhhh!”
Fists banged on the door until a frumpy lawyer finally answered and bright lights hit his stoned face like high beams. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” He scampered away as the camera chased Ziggy through a curtain of purple beads.
“What kind of lottery scam are you trying to hide?”
Ziggy shrieked and ran right over the top of his desk, scattering winning tickets and marijuana roaches. Then he slithered underneath and hid.
The cameraman quickly rounded the furniture and got down on the floor. TV sets across South Florida were filled with the image of Ziggy balled up under his desk, clutching his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth with eyes closed. “If I make myself really small, they will go away.”
Brook covered her face. “Can this get any worse?”
A cell phone rang. “Brook Campanella. How may I help you?”
“I can explain,” said Ziggy. “They violated my rights, but it’s fixable.”
“Don’t do anything!” yelled Brook. “Stay inside and keep your mouth shut!”
“No, I messed up and need to make this right.”
“Ziggy, stop!”
“TV is the global campfire,” said Ziggy. “So I’m going to fight fire with fire.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” said Brook. “Just stay put!”
“Sorry, got to split.” Click.
“Ziggy! . . .”
Brook slowly hung up in defeat.
“What’s going on?” asked Danny.
“It just got worse.”
The two women walked together toward the front of the law office. As they did, a faint noise grew louder from the street.
“Do you hear that?” asked Brook.
“Yeah, but I can’t make out what it is,” said Danny.
The more they walked, the louder the noise, until it was an outright clamor.
“Darn it!” said Brook. “What do those salon people not understand about being on probation? The last thing I need right now is another rumble in the parking lot.”
Danny ran ahead and peeked out the blinds of the waiting room. “Relax, it’s nothing to worry about.”
Brook picked up her pace. “Then what’s all that noise?”
“The audience.”
“What?”
“The salons apparently have hired rival sign-spinners,” said Danny. “You have to see it to believe it.”
Brook joined her at the window. “What in the name of creation?”