Serge nonchalantly twirled his cheetah tail. “Here, there, solved a mystery together in the Keys, tracked down landmark movie locations, fled ruthless murderers, got hit with fish falling from the sky, nothing special.”
Reevis slipped into a full-scale panic attack, but Jacklyn began laughing. “Nice sense of humor on you . . . and not a bad ring-of-fire trick.”
Serge looked over at the blackened ring still standing in the parking lot. “I can do a special performance, if you’d like.”
“No, I have to get going.” She hitched up the strap on her purse. “Late for a class.”
“Class? What are you taking?”
“Actually I teach.”
“Like at a college?”
She shook her head. “Women’s self-defense.”
“Now I’m seriously impressed,” said Serge. “That’s so important these days. Most men don’t realize it, but women are living in an entirely different world—a whole extra level of danger that requires constant vigilance and precautions that men never have to think about. Mainly because we’re the problem. On behalf of my gender: Our bad.”
“Now I’m impressed,” said Jacklyn. “You’re right, most men don’t realize it, but you seem to understand.”
“The things I’ve seen!” Serge waved a white paw in the air. “Every day you probably pass a dozen bone-deep crazies out in public, maybe even stop and talk to one in a parking lot. A guy can look perfectly normal and charming, but you never know which dinner date will end in a cloud of Mace. Us men, on the other hand, have it so easy. If a woman turns out to be batshit, you can just tip over a rack of potpourri jars in the Pottery Barn and run away.”
Jacklyn had been taking new notice of Serge as he talked. His banter, his eyes, and of course the Latin thing. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come with me to my class?”
“Unfortunately I have to get to my own self-defense class,” said Serge.
“You take self-defense?”
“No, that’s where I’m meeting a new client. She’s a stalking victim.” He threw up his paws. “Men again.”
“Where’s this class?”
“Gold Coast Mixed-Arts Academy.”
“That’s my class,” said Jacklyn. “Listen, if you don’t mind and have any extra time, could you guys also stand in as live partners for the women to practice on? It’s so much better than stuffed dummies.”
“Say no more,” said Serge. “Anything we can do to make up for everything.”
“Then let’s go.”
The silver Corvette followed Jacklyn’s MINI Cooper south on U.S. 1 until it arrived at another strip mall. In the middle of the building, a large plate-glass window filled with sweaty activity.
After changing into her spandex workout suit, Jacklyn looked out over a room of chaotic bobbing and jumping. “Okay, girls, let’s get started! . . .”
The kinetic energy ceased, and the women formed disciplined rows. They came in all shapes and sizes and ages, but most had ponytails.
“I’ll start tonight by going back over the basics that you’ve already heard a hundred times, because it’s all about repetition and practice until everything’s second nature.” Jacklyn formed an aggressive posture. “First, never ever let yourself be taken to a secondary crime scene. That indicates he has intentions with a very low order of survival. Even if you’re facing a gun or knife, there’s a better chance making a stand right where you are, kicking, scratching, screaming. Next—and this is for the same reasons as the first—do not let yourself be bound. No handcuffs, plastic wrist ties, rope, duct tape. You must explode like a wildcat because your life depends on it . . .”
“Jesus,” Coleman whispered to Serge. “Is this stuff really going on?”
“Unfortunately, more often than you’d think.”
“. . . Third, this is not a fight. The moment you’re able to incapacitate your assailant using our training techniques, run and yell like crazy. Getting in extra punches and kicks out of anger is movie bullshit that increases your exposure.” Jacklyn waved for Serge and Coleman to join her. “And speaking of incapacitating, I have a couple of volunteers who have graciously agreed to help us tonight.”
A woman in a blood-drive T-shirt raised her hand. “Are animal costumes something new we should be watching out for?”
Jacklyn chuckled. “No, they just got off work. So while they’re changing, why don’t you start on the regular bags.”
The women lined up in front of three human-shaped sacks dangling from chains. Serge flinched at the battle cries that accompanied violent thrusts.
“Yahhh!” “Yahhh!” “Yahhh! . . .” Punching throats, stabbing eyes, kneeing groins.
“Screw it,” said Coleman. “I’m keeping the suit on. Padding.”
“At least use this helmet and mouth guard,” said Jacklyn.
Minutes later, they all quietly gathered around their instructor. “The benefit of using live volunteers is that you never know how your attacker will grab you, so some of their vulnerable spots won’t always be open,” said Jacklyn. “You need to train your reflexes to automatically find what’s available. But remember, they’re live volunteers, which means no full follow-through . . . Michelle, can you come up here? . . . Turn around . . . Coleman, stand behind her and pick a random way to grab her.”
“Like this?” he mumbled through the mouth guard, seizing her around the waist.
“Yahhh! Yahhh! Yahhh!”
Coleman curled up on the floor. “My nuts.”
“Okay, maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” said Jacklyn. “Girls, go back to the other bags for now.”
The front door opened, and one of the larger members of the class came in with a gym bag. “Sorry I’m late.”
Serge looked puzzled at Jacklyn. “I thought this class was just for women.”
“It is, but she’s a drag queen. We don’t judge.” The instructor helped Coleman up from the floor. “He’s been having some problems with a fan lately.”
“By any chance would his stage name happen to be Marilyn?”
“How’d you know?” asked Jacklyn.
“I just found my client.” Serge trotted across the room and extended a hand. “Marilyn, my name’s Serge, and I was sent by the private eye you hired.” He saluted. “Ready to provide extreme help.”
“Nice to meet you. My real name’s Chuck.”
“So some asshole is bothering you?”
“I can’t sleep! I can’t eat! Do you have any idea how stressful it is dealing with a lunatic?”
“Not personally. But I’ve met a lot of people who’ve told me.” Serge slapped Chuck’s back. “Why don’t you fill me in on the details.”
“It started about two months ago— . . . Oh my God!” He ran around and hid behind Serge. “There he is now!”
“Where?”
“In the parking lot!”
“You mean that JFK-looking dude sitting in the Lincoln convertible with a dozen roses?”
“That’s him! He follows me everywhere, but I didn’t think he knew about this class. That’s why I asked you to meet me here.”
“So what’s his shtick? A presidential impersonator?”
Chuck shook his head. “He actually thinks he’s the president.”
“You mean he’s abnormally deep into the role, like those Civil War reenactors who take it way too far and forget to have sex?”
“No, listen to me: He’s completely unhinged,” said Chuck. “That’s what makes me so scared. He’s under a full-blown delusion that he’s Kennedy!”