Tears of a Clown Read online

scrambled egg stuck in your teeth which you tried to remove with your right pinky fingernail. I smelled the onion when you walked past. Your badge still has a little bit of fresh ketchup from the packs you ripped open clumsily because it was slippery, no doubt from rubbing against the hash browns in the takeout tray.”

  “Very astute, Mar Vista. You could be a psychic,” Torrance jokes.

  The PI is not amused. “My work is based on facts, sheriff.”

  “Just busting your balls, man. Well, as you know, we have a suspect in custody.”

  “When can I speak to him?”

  “In due time. He’s up at County. What do you hope to find?”

  “Motive, conclusive evidence, involuntary admission of guilt…”

  “Or fodder for your next book?”

  “Something like that.”

  Al and Laurel, trekking up the steep road to the County jail, pass a few protesters, mainly middle-aged women, either sitting in lounge chairs or standing around smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and conversing with each other. The siblings see a placard which reads at the top: FRY THE BASTARD! Below it is a picture of an electric chair. Below Old Sparky is a photo of a large knob with only two ranges scribbled on it: REGULAR and EXTRA CRISPY.

  Along the sinewy route, several enterprising locals have seized on the opportunity that many of the townsfolk will come by the jail to commiserate about the events of the past week. Kenny Downey is present with his hot dog & sausage stand. The Hawthorne sisters are peddling their award-winning Wheat Fusilli & Tartufarta Spaghetti Sauce. Antonio Cerritos and his son, José, are selling handmade ponchos, serapes, leather huaraches and other items of Mexican clothing. The Camarillo Farm family is displaying their popular tomato collection, including oval Roma tomatoes, yellow-striped Tigerellas and Banana Legs which, at first glance, could pass for yellow bell peppers. Also in attendance is radio announcer Jean Lynwood. She’s handing out flyers, buttons and stickers for her talk show, as well as selling tickets for an upcoming KQVZ-sponsored concert at the high school. Laurel nods politely at Jean when she passes the booth with her younger brother.

  “You know her?” Al queries his sister.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t you go over and say hi.”

  “You want to?”

  Al checks his watch. “Well, we are kinda early.”

  “So, let’s go.”

  The two turn and walk back towards Jean.

  “Hello, you two,” the DJ greets them.

  “Hi, Jean,” Laurel greets her. “Surprised to see you here.”

  “I’m glad we didn’t need a permit, either.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “You want something to drink? Some water?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll take a glass.”

  While Jean pours mineral water in a paper cup for Laurel, Al reads the names of the bands scheduled to play the KQVZ show. “Ana Paula Valadão, Third Day, Newsboys, 4Him, 2nd Chapter of Acts, Bread of Stone…what kind of music is this?”

  “Christian,” Jean replies.

  “Sorry,” Al apologizes. “Not for me.”

  The DJ turns to Laurel. “What about you? Tickets are pretty cheap.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know, maybe,” the budding chemist answers.

  “Hey,” Al asks the radio host, “you think Chip is the clown killer?”

  “I’m not a judge,” she insists. “I’m just a reporter. Chip’s a pretty strong guy, though.”

  “None of this makes sense,” Laurel protests. “None of it.”

  “Well,” Jean surmises, “all we can do is wait and see.”

  Minutes later, Laurel is sitting across from Chip in the green Visitors’ area of the County Jail. Separated by a thick bulletproof window, they are using wall telephones to communicate. Al, sitting by his sister’s side, is biding his time picking at his fingernails. Five corrections officers are also present, one on the visitor side, the other four behind the glass. At the other three thick windows, family members are intercom speaking with their friends or loved ones. Just outside the room are a cameraman and reporter broadcasting live to local TV. Chip, sporting the latest in orange County jumpsuits, looks far from happy. A haze of confusion is painted across his face.

  “You seem to be holding up pretty good,” Laurel speaks over the intercom.

  “Yeah, right,” he whines, “I didn’t sleep last night.”

  He shows her his darkened fingertips. “I can’t even get this ink off. It smells like ass.”

  “Chip, I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Even when I get off, this is gonna stain my record for, like, ever.”

  “It’s so funny,” Laurel notices. “Nothing ever really happens here. Now, all of a sudden, this clown shit. People are already lining up outside for a glimpse of you, homey. I’m glad you put us on the visitor list.”

  “Yeah,” he sighs. “Thanks for coming. I can imagine how the whole town is talking about me. They all think I did it, right?”

  “Well, the assholes who started #FryThisFucker think so, but they’re stupid. Anyway, we know you didn’t, Chip. This ain’t going too far.”

  “I meet with my lawyer tomorrow morning. He’d better have some good news for me cos this is bullshit.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Laurel assures him. “You wanna talk to Al?”

  “Nah, I’m tired.” He knocks on the glass and waves hi to the junior. Al waves back.

  “Y’all could do me a favor, though,” the All-American requests.

  “No problem, man,” Laurel promises.

  “Go out there and sell some tickets to ‘See the Clown’,” he jests. “I need the bail money. Stream it on Facebook. I don’t care.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking it so easily,” she smiles. “I’d be a bundle of nerves. You sure you’re too tired to talk to Al. He did walk all this way.”

  “Yeah, okay. Put him on.”

  Laurel switches seats with her brother. Al picks up the phone. “Hey.”

  “What’s up, dude?”

  “Are they treating you good in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t drop the soap.”

  “Cut it out, Al.”

  “Remember, only use the liquid thingy.”

  “Gimme that.” Laurel grabs the phone from her brother.

  “I wasn’t done yet,” he protests.

  “You’re supposed to be cheering him up, not telling stupid jokes.”

  “Alright, alright. Sheesh. Gimme that.”

  Laurel reluctantly returns the phone to her brother. He takes it and looks at her.

  “If you don’t mind,” he requests, “can we guys talk, you know, mano a mano?”

  Laurel gets up and stomps over to the soda machine in the corner.

  “How did it feel?” Al, now playing interviewer to the jailed football superstar, asks.

  “How did what feel?”

  “You know, shoving that tire iron in Parks’ eye?”

  “What? You think I did that?”

  “Everybody knows if his nephew makes it in pro ball he’s got a nice little nest egg coming. And you’re standing in the way.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The principal was drunk. All I did was push him off your sister.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “So, what? It’s true.”

  “Okay, man. I ain’t tripping. So, yo, Chip, I was wondering. Can I borrow Beverly for the next, like, 10 to 25 years?”

  “Screw you, Al.”

  Chip throws the phone against the glass, gets up, and storms off. One corrections officer follows closely behind him. Laurel comes over to Al.

  “What happened?”

  “He had to go.”

  “Just like that?”

  “He had plans.”

  “I swear sometimes, Al. You can be such an ass.”

  She slaps the back of his head.

  Chip, still angry at Al, is pacing back and forth in his claustrophobic jail cell.
Measuring a whopping nine feet by six feet, it contains a bunk bed, a shiny aluminum sink and matching toilet. His cellmate, Bobby “Wet Brain” Ventura, one of the town drunks, trying to catch 40 winks on the bottom bunk, finally becomes annoyed by Chip’s continuous traipsing.

  “If you don’t stop that fucking pacing,” Wet Brain growls, “I’m gonna do it for you.

  Chip, obviously not in the mood, grabs his cellmate and, in one swift movement, throws him on the top bunk. The sobering prisoner, utterly shocked by the footballer’s strength, simply stares at him with marked incredulity. A corrections officer comes by.

  “Hey, varsity boy,” he whistles. “You have a visitor.”

  Returning to the visitors’ area with the CO, Chip sees PI Mar Vista sitting at a window.

  “Him,” the corrections officer points out.

  Chip reluctantly goes over, sits down, and puts the phone to his ear.

  “I thought lawyers visited their clients right in the cell,” he explains.

  “They do,” Mar Vista agrees, “but I’m not your lawyer.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Lincoln Mar Vista, Special Investigator to the Century City Sheriff’s Office.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  Mar Vista studies Chip for a moment. “I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  “I have a feeling they arrested the wrong man.”

  “Okay. That’s great. So now what? Since you can’t represent me, how can I help you?”

  “I want to know who your hangout buddies are, who your enemies are, and the places you frequent the most.”

  “Easy enough. But, can you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I live with my mother; she’s real sick and don’t know I’m here. She thinks I’m chilling with my homeboys in White Hill.”

  “I understand.”

  Laurel and PI Mar Vista are sitting across from each other in a small but cozy internet café on a moderately busy street in downtown Century City. While the baristas