Honestly I didn't expect to wake up. I expected to be shot dead, "execution-style" (as we're fond of saying in the news biz). But I awaken alive and alone, curled in a puddle of blood so bounteous that it cannot be entirely my own. Crimson bootprints mark the intruder's wobbly path from the kitchen to the living room and out the front door.
Gingerly I strip off my sticky clothes and head for the shower; every square inch of me stings or throbs, but at least the bleeding has stopped. Toweling off, I notice a stranger with a misshapen face scowling from the mirror.
One advantage to living the spartan life, it's easy to clean up after a looting. In thirty minutes the place is put back together, and nothing is missing except my laptop. Stored on the hard drive were a couple of canned obits—a railroad tycoon and some retired opera soprano—but that's no big deal; I'd already wired electronic copies to my terminal in the newsroom.
The most unsavory chore is disposing of Colonel Tom, who was soundly pulped in the altercation. Snugly I wrap his cold, scaly form in an old bedsheet and lob it from the balcony. The bundle tumbles into a Dumpster, four stories below, where it lands with a muted thwock. Instantly I regret the toss, for there's a sturdy knock on the door and I find myself unarmed and defenseless. The knocking persists, and eventually a flat male voice identifies itself as an authority figure.
Cops!
Neighbors, none of whom have ever shown an interest in my personal affairs, apparently heard the commotion in my kitchen and alerted the police. I open the front door to see not one but two men of similar age and stature, neither in uniform. I'm poised to slam the door when one of them flashes a badge.
"Detective Hill," he says. "And this is Detective Goldman."
Obviously I appear thoroughly puzzled, because Detective Hill adds: "We're from Homicide, Mr. Tagger."
Numbly I step back, my arms falling slack at my sides. Apparently I've killed a man with a frozen lizard.
"It was self-defense!" I protest. "He broke in while I was sleeping... "
The cops exchange perplexed glances. The talker, Hill, asks what in the name of Jesus Christ I'm babbling about.
"The dead guy! The one who busted into my place."
Hill peers over my shoulder, scoping out the tidiness of my modest living quarters. "Mr. Burns broke into this apartment? Tonight?"
"You're damn right he... who?"
"John Dillinger Burns," he says. "Otherwise known as Jay."
"No! No, this guy was bald," I blabber, "it wasn't Jay Burns. I know Jay Burns. No way."
"Yeah, that woulda been some nifty trick," says Detective Goldman, breaking his silence, "since we just saw Mr. Burns laid out at the county morgue."
"He's been dead since early this morning," Detective Hill adds informatively. "What would you know about that, Mr. Tagger?"
"Not a damn thing." My voice is a dry croak.
"Really?" Hill is holding something inches in front of my eyes, something pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It's a business card from the Union-Register. My name is printed on it.
"Burns had this in his pocket," Detective Hill explains, "when his body was found."
"Now, why would that be?" his partner inquires.
"And what happened to your face, Mr. Tagger?" Hill asks.
Me, I don't panic.
"Officers," I say, "I wish to report a burglary."
15
Emma's couch is too short for my legs.
She tugs down the sheet to cover my feet and fits a pillow under my head. She informs me I've suffered a mild concussion, a diagnosis based on the fact I got dizzy, vomited and fainted on her doorstep. She tells me she went to nursing school for two years before switching to journalism, and I say she would have made an outstanding nurse. She appraises my rubescent schnozz guiltily, so I assure her that somebody else punched me harder than she did.
It's one in the morning and Radiohead is playing on Emma's stereo, a neat surprise.
In her wire-rimmed reading glasses she sits cross-legged in an armchair, the calico cat on her lap. She's wearing tennis socklets so I can't scope out her toes. I squeeze my eyelids shut and wish for this murderous headache to abate. In the meantime I'm telling Emma about my scuffle aboard the Rio Rio with Jay Burns, who seven hours later was found dead behind a tackle shop on the Pelican Causeway. A bait truck loaded with finger mullet backed up over the ex-Slut Puppy, whose ponytailed gourd had been resting inopportunely beneath the vehicle's right rear wheel. How his head had gotten there was the question that brought detectives Hill and Goldman to my apartment. Hill believed that Jay Burns, being clinically intoxicated, probably passed out in that fateful location. Goldman, however, speculated that an assailant might have clobbered Jay Burns and purposely placed him beneath the truck. The medical examiner offered no insight; so pulverized was the keyboardist's skull that it was impossible to discern if he'd been bludgeoned prior to being run over.
Emma is pleased to hear how I cooperated with the detectives, recounting my visit to the boat (though omitting the substance of my questions, and Jay's tantrum) and providing the precise times of my arrival and departure from the marina. Both Hill and Goldman seemed to buy the idea that I was interviewing Burns for a posthumous newspaper profile of his best friend, the late James Bradley Stomarti.
"Then you're not a suspect," Emma says.
"Try to sound more relieved."
"The guy who broke into your apartment, what do you think he was after?"
"Who knows. My Chagalls?"
"Jack, I'm not the one knocking on doors at midnight."
"Yes, well, you are my editor. I felt you should be notified of what happened."
A feeble lie. The fact is, I'm not sure why I came to Emma's apartment. I don't clearly recall driving here. Gazing at the varnished pine beams of her ceiling, I hear myself say: "I had nowhere else to go."
Cat in arms, she leaves the room. Moments later she returns with ice cubes wrapped in a washcloth, which she lays across my eyes and forehead.
"Is that too cold?" she asks.
"Why won't you sleep with Juan? Everybody sleeps with Juan."
"Do you?"
"I'm talking about the ladies, Emma. Is it because he's a sports-writer?"
"No, it's because he's your best friend."
"Juan is a gentleman. He never talks about his love life."
"Then how do you know we haven't slept together?"
"I pried it out of him."
"Really," says Emma. "Why?"
I peek from under the washcloth to see if she's miffed.
"You're my boss, he's my friend," I say. "You two get serious and it's bound to affect my pathetic little universe. That's the only reason I cared if you and he were—"
"Having intercourse?"
"What is this, ninth-grade biology?"
"Fucking, then," Emma says pertly. "Is that better?"
I sit up, pressing my knuckles to my ears to keep the brains from leaking out. "Don't worry, I didn't ask Juan for the juicy details. You got any Excedrin?"
Emma brings me three aspirins and a glass of water.
"Lie down. You'll feel better," she says.
Stretching out, I announce: "You should go back to nursing school. You were born for it."
"How about you, Jack? Are you sleeping with anyone these days?"
"Excuse me?" Again I start to rise but from behind I feel Emma's hands lock on my shoulders.
She says, "It's only fair, since you know all about my sex life."
"Wrong. I only know you're not sleeping with Juan. And you know I'm not sleeping with Juan, so we're even."
"Don't think so, Tagger."
I like the way Emma laughs, I must admit. I like being in her apartment, as opposed to the emergency room at Charity. I even like the way she's holding me down...
Christ, Jack, snap out of it. Saving Emma will be impossible if I don't soon revert to the irascible prick of her newsroom nightmares. But when she apologizes for socking me in the nose, I te
ll her I deserved it.
"I'm not a well person," I submit. "I saw those sparkly toenails and was riven with envy. Obviously something inside of you rollicks carefree and fanciful. I've completely forgotten what that's like."
"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 Stomatose CD 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.
Carl Hiaasen - Basket Case Page 15