by Carl Hiassen
"Doesn't it hurt to talk so much?" Emma asks.
"I can't believe Jay Burns is dead. I can't fucking believe it. Listen, you wanna go for a ride?"
"Jack, it's late. You need to rest."
"Put on some shoes. Hurry up."
The cops had been there first, followed by persons unknown. I show Emma where the yellow crime tape strung around the dock pilings had been broken, then clumsily reattached. I yank the tape down, roll it into a wad and toss it in a bucket. Then we board the Rio Rio.
Whoever sacked the cabin was smart enough to wait until the detectives had come and gone. The place is in shambles now, but it wasn't much neater thirty hours ago when I'd arrived to interview Jay Burns. The porn, pizza cartons and music magazines have been restrewn across the floor and the berths. Add to that mess the unlaundered contents of assorted drawers and cabinets, plus several unappetizing containers from the refrigerator.
Emma and I are poised in the narrow companionway, contemplating a path through the ripening debris. I lead the way, stepping cautiously. Exhilarated, Emma keeps a grip on my arm. The first priority is turning on the air conditioner because the cabin smells like piss, beer and old sneakers.
"What are we looking for?" Emma whispers.
"Something the bad guys didn't find."
I'm guessing it took more than one man to deal with husky Jay Burns. Later, after the boat was searched, the bald intruder was sent to my place on the chance that I'd conned the mystery stash out of Jay, or stolen it outright.
For forty-five minutes Emma and I root through the cabin and turn up nothing but a Baggie of sodden pot, undoubtedly discarded as worthless by the previous searchers. In fact, every hatch, panel and storage bin appears to have been opened and emptied ahead of us. We step back up to the deck and, employing one of Jay's flashlights, check the bait well and the engine compartment. On the console above the wheel is a sprout of loose wires where the bad guys removed some of the Contender's electronics—probably the VHF, depth finder and Loran. This gesture was intended to make it look like a common boatyard burglary, which it most definitely was not. I show Emma the disconnected wires, then flick off the flashlight.
She says, "Now what?"
"Write his obituary, I guess."
"Jack."
"I forgot. He doesn't rate."
Emma says, "If anything, it's a brief for Metro."
Sorry, Jay, but that's how it goes. No space in the newspaper for dead sidemen.
My skull rings like a gong. Carefully I sit down behind the wheel of Jimmy Stoma's boat. I'm wondering what violent chain of events I might have set in motion by surprising Jay Burns and quizzing him about Jimmy's secret sessions. I remember the anxiety in his pig-drunk eyes when he asked me if Billy Preston was still alive, and now I feel like a creep for needling him about outliving Franz Kafka and John Lennon. Maybe he wigged out and did something rash, such as phoning Cleo Rio to warn her I'd been snooping around.
In the shadows, Emma sneezes.
"I'm sorry. I should take you home," I say.
"Sorry for what? This is ... "
"Fun?"
"Exciting, Jack. I spend all my days stuck in boring meetings, or sitting like a goob in front of a video screen. This is my first crime scene."
"Didn't Juan take you to a Marlins game?"
"Go ahead and make fun. Not everyone ... "
"What?"
"Never mind." Emma points. "Hey, maybe it's under those scuba tanks."
I aim the flashlight at the deck in front of the transom, where a dozen white dive tanks are arranged in two upright rows, like jumbo milk bottles. The tanks stand undisturbed, indicating the killers weren't interested. They must have believed that whatever they were seeking was concealed indoors.
While Emma holds the light, I move the scuba tanks one by one. The deck beneath and between them is empty. I'm amused to hear Emma mutter, "Damn."
Then we luck out. While hoisting the next-to-the-last tank, I hear something sliding back and forth inside. Flipping the tank on its top, we find the charred weld where the rounded bottom has been cut away, then recapped. It's a crude job, but the marks are well concealed by the way the dive tanks were aligned. Emma opens the door to the companionway and I drag our find into the ransacked cabin. Among the contents of an overturned toolbox Emma locates a small pick and a heavy mallet.
"Turn on the stereo," I tell her. "Loud."
As we're engulfed by Jay's beloved Led Zeppelin, I go to town on the scuba tank. Smiling, Emma cups her hands over her ears. She's having a blast.
Ten minutes of furious hammering breaks the weld. The bottom piece flies off the tank and lands in the galley sink, spinning like a saucer. I reach into the hollow aluminum cylinder and come out with a bubble-wrapped parcel.
"Drugs?" Emma whispers at my shoulder, but I'm thinking: Gun.
As I unwrap the package I notice my ringers are trembling; Emma's breath is coming in shallow bursts. Yet the bubble-wrapped object is neither a lid of grass nor a pistol. At first glance I mistake it for an eight-track cassette, but it's slightly larger and thicker. "Let me take a look," Emma offers. She turns the black plastic box around in her hands. "See that little doohickey? This thing plugs into a computer."
"What could it be?"
"I haven't got a clue," Emma says, "but I know who would."
"Oh no. Not on a Friday night."
"It's now Saturday morning." She points at her watch.
"Three a.m. We can't possibly do this now," I insist.
"Why not?"
"Because." Hell, I tell myself, just get it over with. "Because he'll have company."
"Oh, who cares," Emma says merrily. "Honestly, Jack."
In the car I twist up the volume on the StomatoseCD and, in memory of the late Jay Burns, play for Emma one of his collaborations with Jimmy Stoma.
Three days in the sack and my dreams came true
But you gotta let me up 'cause I'm all black 'n' blue.
Don't take it personal, ooooh, don't pitch a fit.
My gums are bleedin' and the motor's quit.
I love you, baby, but I'm all humped out.
I love you, baby, but I'm all humped out.
Aw, I want you, baby, but I'm ... all ... humped ... OUT!
"Catchy," Emma says thinly. She remains unconvinced of Jimmy Stoma's genius.
"Could you hear Burns on the piano?"
"Not really, Jack."
"Doing his Little Richard bop."
"Who's Little Richard?" she asks.
"You're breaking my heart."
I'm pulling into the driveway of Juan's house when Emma says, "I've never been here before."
"Then you should be warned: This is where he frequently sleeps with women."
"I'll try not to make a scene," Emma says.
The house is dark. I knock firmly on the door. She stands back, clutching the gadget we found inside the scuba tank.
"Maybe he's not home," I say hopefully.
"His Jeep's in the carport," Emma notes.
I knock again, harder this time. A light appears through a side window and soon we hear voices, plural.
"Juan!" I call out. "Hey, Juan, it's me!"
The door cracks open. "Obituary Boy?"
"Yeah. You decent?"
Juan pokes his head out, blinking fuzzily.
"Hi," Emma says.
"Hi there." Juan reddens. "Look, I—"
Here I leap in with abject apologies and begin to relate the turbulent events of the evening. He cuts me off and waves us in. Emma and I choose an overstuffed sofa and sit side by side, like a couple, while Juan hurries to the bedroom to change. Again voices are heard, but Emma is unflinching. Her expression suggests she approves of Juan's taste in art and furniture. When he returns, in wrinkled blue jeans and a polo shirt, he is accompanied by a stunning black-haired woman whom I recognize as Miriam, the orthopedic surgeon. She now is wearing Juan's robe, making a statement.
"Miriam, you remember Ja
ck," Juan says, nervously smoothing his hair, "and this is Emma, she works at the newspaper, too. She's an editor."
Miriam acts unimpressed but Emma is smooth as silk. The two women exchange cool hellos. Juan looks at me pleadingly and all I can do is wince with remorse.
"We won't stay long," Emma says, and hands the black box to Juan. "We think it attaches to a computer."
He nods. "Sure does. Connects right here, with a cable." Out of courtesy he shows it to Miriam, who also nods. When I sneak a glance at Emma, a smile plays at the corners of her mouth.
"It's an external hard drive," Juan says.
"What does it do?"
"Whatever it's told. Where'd you get this?"
We can't tell him, not with Miriam hovering. She is intently curious about the reason for our visit; only high drama can excuse an interruption at this hour.
"It's a long, messy story," I tell Juan.
Emma pipes up: "Jack's working on an investigation." Words I never dreamed I'd hear her say.
Juan winks at me. I ask him if the hard drive will fit on my computer at work.
"Might," he says, "but it'll probably come up as gibberish on your screen." He explains that the device is like a disembodied brain. "You can't just plug it in anywhere and expect it to zap back to life. You need to figure out how it was programmed before you can find out what's inside."
And what's inside that little box, I'm hoping, is the key to Jimmy Stoma's death.
Emma says to Juan, "Can you give it a try?"
His eyes flick painfully from Emma to Miriam, and then to me. He says, "Um ... not tonight. How about tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow is fine," I say.
He peers at my lumpy face. "Man, you all right? Looks like you fell down three flights of stairs."
"Two," I say with a crooked smile. "And would you believe I was dead sober."
Miriam, the physician, feels obliged to let us know she isn't fooled by our light bonhomie. "You've been beaten up," she says sternly. "You've been punched in the face."
"Yes, and elsewhere." Suddenly I don't feel so chipper. "Come on, Emma, let's be on our way. These two kids need some shut-eye."
Just as I'm approaching the car, the flagstones in Juan's yard start dodging my feet. Emma orders me into the passenger seat, where I prop my clammy forehead against the window.
"Thanks for driving," I say.
"Welcome."
"You okay?"
"Better than you. Take a nap."
"She's a doctor. Miriam is." For some inexplicable reason—or perhaps as an unfortunate side effect of the concussion—I decide Emma should know that Juan has high standards. He doesn't screw just anybody. "A trained surgeon," I add.
"Well, she's very pretty."
I hear myself saying, "Not as pretty as you."
"Jack, you're so full of shit."
"Fine."
God, do I feel wretched—this is the worst possible time to be alone with Emma. I'm liable to blow everything. When I ask her to turn down the volume on the stereo, she says, "Gladly." It will be her final word on Stomatose.
As we pull up to her driveway, she snatches the car keys out of the ignition. "You're in no shape to go home."
"Give 'em here! I'll be all right."
"Don't be a jerk."
So I'm back on her couch, with a sweaty palmful of aspirin and a forehead packed under ice. She's wearing an oversized Pearl Jam T-shirt and padding barefoot around the place, turning off lamps and checking the locks.
"Jack, wouldn't it be something," she's saying, "if they're trying to knock off the band?"
"Who?"
"Well—first Jimmy Stoma dies, and now Jay Burns. What if somebody's killing off the Slut Puppies one by one?"
Emma slips into the bathroom, out of view. I can hear the assiduous brushing of teeth. "Fink a bow id," she gurgles.
"I've heard of careers being murdered," I say, "but never a whole band."
When Emma returns, she smells like a mint. "Well, who's left?"
"The lead guitarist died a few years ago, so there's really just the two bass players."
"What about a drummer?"
"Jimmy went through a dozen of 'em," I say.
The apartment is dark except for a light on the nightstand in Emma's bedroom.
"Maybe you should talk to them. The bass players," she suggests.
"When—between dead rabbis?"
"Hey, didn't I give you a week to crack the case."
"'Crack the case'?" All of a sudden I'm Angela Lansbury.
Emma rolls her eyes and heads for the sack. Moments later, her room goes black. I swallow the aspirins dry, and blink exhaustedly. Bedsprings squeak as Emma arranges herself beneath the covers. In the darkness I hear myself saying, "Hey, I never answered your snoopy question."
"What's that?" Emma calls back, testily.
"You asked if I was sleeping with anybody. Well, I'm not."
"I know." She replies so quietly I can barely hear it. "Get some rest, Jack." And I obey ...
Later I awake to a rhythm of breathing that's not my own. The ice has been removed from my brow, and my cheeks have been patted dry. Emma is pulling the blanket down to cover my feet.
When I stir, she whispers, "It's just me."
"You missed your calling."
"Close your eyes."
"How old are you, Emma?"
"I'm twenty-seven."
Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ
"Why do you ask?" she says.
Hendrix Joplin Jones Morrison Cobain—I could scream out their names. But instead all I say is: "Twenty-seven. Wow."
"Wow yourself. It's not as great as you remember."
"Are you kidding? It's beautiful."
"I threw away those Valiums," she says. "After lunch I went back to my desk and tossed them in the garbage, every damn pill."
Silence in the darkness. Has she returned to the bedroom?
"Emma?"
"What?"
Good. She's still here.
"Thanks for taking care of me tonight."
"Thanks for the adventure, Jack." She leans down and kisses me as lightly as a butterfly brushing my lips. Then I'm alone again, tumbling into a fine dreamless sleep.
16
There's nothing wrong with me, not even a mild concussion. That's the word from my doctor, Susan, who is six years younger than I am and works the rookie shift, Saturdays, for a downtown medical group. Susan isn't impressed by my swollen nose, the knots on my jaw or the knuckle-shaped welt on my ribs. However, the tale of how I came by these scrapes and bruises intrigues her, especially the business about the frozen lizard. I feel pressure to be entertaining, knowing she believes my monthly physical examinations are a waste of time. I always insist on the works, of course, including a full spectrum of blood-gas analysis and the ever-popular prostate excursion, upon which Dr. Susan is preparing to embark.
"No offense, Jack," she's saying, "but I'm damn tired of looking up your ass every four weeks. It's totally unnecessary, as the nice folks at your HMO have pointed out."
"Humor me, okay? And don't I always pay cash?"
"There's nothing wrong with you," Susan says again. "You're a completely healthy specimen—physically, at least."
"You married yet?"
"No, but if I was," says Susan, from behind, "I'd keep a three-carat diamond ring on this finger"—the dreaded snap of latex!—"just for you, buddy."
The death of John Dillinger Burns rates two paragraphs on page three of the Union-Register'sMetro section. Police are investigating the circumstances ... Alcohol and drugs are believed to be involved ... Burns, 40, formerly had been the keyboard player for a popular rock band, Jimmy and the Slut Puppies. Ironically, the group's lead singer, Jimmy Stoma, recently died in a diving accident in the Bahamas ...
And that's that. Onward to the Sports page, where Juan has a story about a college basketball star who became a gambling addict by the age of twenty—another superb piece, unsparing and poi
gnant at the same time. What I'd give to have Juan's touch!
"Hey, handsome."
It's Carla Candilla. Her hair is now ... I want to say turquoise.
"Close enough," she allows. "Sorry I'm late. Is this Pellegrino for me? You're such a sweetheart."
We're meeting at her favorite cafe, Iggy Cheyenne's, which overlooks the beach and the old wooden fishing pier. Seagulls are a menace at lunchtime, but today they're wheeling clear of our table. For this I credit Carla's vivid dye job.
She wants to hear all about the break-in at my apartment, enthralled at the thought of me fighting back and drawing blood. I purposely don't mention the handy role of the late Colonel Tom, whom Carla believes to be alive and running free with other lizards.
A bleary-eyed waiter materializes. Carla and I order a calamari appetizer and two Greek salads. Afterwards she sets down her glass, glances around and says: "Well. You're not the only one who had a big Friday night—guess who I saw at Jizz."
"The singing widow!"
"Nope. Her boyfriend."
"You're sure?"
"My sources are primo," Carla says, "but I would've pegged him anyway, on account of the hair. What's up with that?"
"I told you it was amazing."
"From behind we all thought it was Mariah Carey. I swear he must do it in a fucking laundry press, that hair."
"What's his name? Who is he?"
I pull out my notebook and fumble for a pen. Carla grins. "Black Jack in action!"
"Did you get his name or not?"
"What do you think? Course I got his name. It's Loreal."
"First name first."
"He doesn't have one," she says.
"Of course he does."
"No, that's his whole name. Loreal."
"Like Sting or Bono—"
"Very good, Jack."
"Except this chowderhead named himself after a shampoo."
"Can you believe it?" Carla squeaks.
"So what does Messr. Loreal do for a living?"
"He's a record producer, is what I heard. Very hot." Carla's watching me scribble in my notebook. "I asked who he's produced and somebody said the Wallflowers but then somebody else said no, it was Beck. I never really got it straight, but everybody says he's hot."