FLORIDA MAN FOUR
You can't keep a good man down.
This is a work in progress and is only one chapter of my forthcoming novel, Toad Licker.
CHAPTER SIX “Clownfish”
Inside the spacious Italian Provincial lobby a handful of well-dressed patrons waited to be seated. The Maitre d looked up as Gary and Krystal approached, her fixed pleasantness morphing into horror.
“Dubas, we’re here to meet Downtown Brown.”
She leaned forward and said soto voce, “I’m sorry, sir, we can’t seat you dressed like that. We have a code.”
“A man’s gotta have a code. I respect that.”
“Why don’t you step back with me to the cloak room. Perhaps we can find you something more suitable to wear.”
As a smiling young man with curly black hair of unknown provenance took her place, the maitre led them to a cloak room off the alcove where a smiling, raven-tressed young woman in a little black dress perked.
Krystal pointed. “How about her? Could I borrow her dress?”
The cloak room girl’s smile froze like a Buick’s grill.
“Let us back there, Cynthia. We must have something for these people to wear.”
The cloak room extended fifteen feet from the counter with clothes hanging on opposite walls and a rack down the center. It was like filing through the women’s department at ARC Thrift Store. The maitre pulled out garment after garment before presenting Gary with a gray suit that used to belong to David Byrne.
“Try this on. There’s a mirror in back.”
Gary slipped into the jumbo jacket. The maitre flicked on the lights. The jacket stretched three feet, shoulder to shoulder and fell to mid thigh. “Little large.”
The maitre fingered the cloth. “This is genuine alpaca. Now let’s find something for you, shall we?”
The maitre filed through women’s dresses against the wall, pulling out a yellow polka dot topless blouse and a scalloped black skirt.
Krystal crossed her arms. “No way.”
The maitre continued riffling, plucking a white dress with a square scooped neck, frilled shoulders, and a skirt that fell to mid thigh. “We call this a Joan Crawford dress.”
“Who the fuck is Joan Crawford?”
“Never mind, little lady! Put it on! Downtown’s waitin’.”
Thus attired, Gary and Krystal followed the maitre through the crowded restaurant to the deck in back looking out on the inter-coastal canal where Downtown sat at a round table near the rail holding a martini. He rose as they approached.
“There they are!” He did a double take. “Nice duds! Who dressed you? Chuck Jones?”
Gary held the chair for Krystal and sat. “We got in a fight at Dairy Queen. The clothes didn’t survive.”
As soon as they were seated, a smiling young woman with pink hair and a squid tat on her arm approached with menus. “Good evening. I’m Sara and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Do you have Blue Bunny Chardonnay?” Krystal said.
“No, but we have some excellent Chardonnays from the Central Valley, including Coppola, Scorsese, and Antoine Fuqua.”
“I’ll take the Fuqua.”
“Jack on the rocks with a beer chaser.”
“What kind of beer would you like, sir?”
“Got any Coors?”
“No, but we have Buffalo Run, Regal, Smendricks and Coopersmith’s on tap.”
“Ah hell, whatever’s got the highest alcohol content.”
“Would you like another martini, sir?”
“You bet.”
“I’ll leave you to peruse the menu.”
Downtown folded his hands and assumed the expression of a Tibetan sand fox. “How did you get in a fight at a Dairy Queen?”
“Some broad the size of a Clydesdale tried to cut in line and Krystal let her have it.”
Downtown stared at the bruise on Krystal’s face. “You got a fight comin’ up. You can’t go around getting in scraps.”
“I know.”
Downtown wore a tailored Halston beige suit, an ecru shirt with pointed collars open at the neck to reveal several gold chains. A hairline mustache decorated his upper lip. “Y’all done your homework? Y’all know about Warthog?”
“Ain’t she a man?” Gary said.
Downtown held his hands palm up. “Who can define man? I can’t. She’s eighteen and two in the LOX League.”
“What in hail is the LOX League?”
“Ladies of Xocotl, the Aztec god.”
“Warthogs are African.”
“So’s Warthog.”
“She must be some sight.”
Downtown pulled out his Fonebone and showed Gary a picture of a high-cheeked, light-skinned androgynous African American with a shaved skull.
“Why would a good lookin’ babe like that call herself Warthog?”
Downtown shrugged. “Why do they call a good lookin’ babe like Krystal the Black Dildo?”
“Show me video of Warthog swingin’ a warthog.”
The waitress returned with their drinks. “Would you like to hear about our specials?”
“You got cheeseburgers?” Gary said.
“Our sourdough burger comes topped with honey smoked bacon, avocado poblano peppers and pepper jack cheese.”
“Sounds good.”
“May we hear the specials?” Downtown said.
“Blackened clownfish in a curry sauce with lemon grass extraction and pantry weevils, African locusts fried in sesame oil served on a bed of ancient grains and quinoa, sauteed alligator tail in aspic, and nutria loaf made with high mountain castor beans, garnished with dandelion root.”
Downtown looked up. “Is the gator fresh?”
“Fresh this morning, sir.”
“Give us a few minutes.”
“That reminds me,” Gary said. “The boll weevil is back.”
“Where? Where is it back?”
“Seen one the other day. Where there’s one, there’s thousands.”
“Well that’s not good news. We thought we’d eradicated the boll weevil.”
“Well here’s the thing. My man Pincus says he can convert cotton biomass into energy, and that he can use cotton to generate static electricity what can be converted into power.”
“Yeah so?”
“So what if there was a car that ran on cotton?”
Downtown assumed resting bitch face.
“Dude! A vehicle called the Boll Weevil that runs on cotton!”
“Krystal, I’m sending you videos of Warthog’s last five fights. I’m bringing in Sasha Lancaster in as your sparring partner. She fought Warthog in South Africa last year. You have eight weeks to make your camp. I’ll assume you’ll want Delilah there.”
“I’ll need Airwrecka too.”
“You don’t need Airwrecka until the day of the fight. Major Sutton would like to work with you for a few days before you head for the Big Cypress.”
“I want Airwrecka as part of my camp. What’s the pay?”
“Fifty thou guaranteed. You win, it’s two fifty. You’re on the undercard.”
“Why’m I on the undercard?”
“Cuz you haven’t fought in seven months. Mad Minx fights Petaluna for the women’s lightweight championship.”
A bell dinged. All turned to look at a tall, distinguished, tuxedo-clad gray-haired man who looked like a fight announcer holding a small brass bell. “Ladies and gentlemen! For your dining entertainment, La Casa del Mofo is proud to announce world-renowned Dadaist, prestidigitator, and performance artist, the legendary Claude Balls!”
“I don’t believe it!” Krystal said.
A diminutive man with a white Beatle Cut stood in the center of the room wearing a gray and blue pin-striped seersucker suit. He bowed to the four corners of the universe and headed toward Krystal’s table. Stone faced, he bowed again, gathering the white linen tablecloth in both hands.
“No, Claude, no!” Gary said.
Balls yanked, sending glasses, silverware, dishes, and appetizer to the hardwood floor.