"Miriam, you remember Jack," 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's Metro 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 poignant 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."
"And they say he's bonking Jimmy's wife?"
"More like she's bonking him."
I drum my pen on the table.
"See, the difference is," Carla says, "like, Cleo's in total charge of the program. She calls, he comes running. The sex is at her convenience, not his. He's the boy toy, just like you said."
I prod Carla for more dope about Loreal and she says he's twenty-nine or thirty, has recently moved here from Los Angeles, drives a motorcycle and, based on firsthand observation, has a fondness for Ecstasy. He tells everyone within earshot that he's producing Cleo's new album.
"I want to meet this guy," I tell Carla.
She beams. "You gonna kick his ass? Jack, I'd pay good money to see you punch somebody."
"What's so funny?"
"I can't picture it, that's all. I just can't!" She pops a batter-fried squid into her mouth. "This dickbrain who busted into your apartment—was he bigger than you? God, what if he had a gun! You ever think a that, Jack?"
"Hook me up with Loreal. But please don't tell your mother you're helping me out."
Carla snaps her fingers. "That reminds me!" She hoists a voluminous crotcheted handbag onto her lap and takes out a thick shiny book. With a flourish she passes it across the table, annoying the waiter who is attempting to deliver our salads.
"What's this? "I ask.
Carla raises an eyebrow. "You heard of him, right?"
"Sure."
The novel is called The Falconer's Mistress. On the jacket is a drawing of (naturally) a falcon, wings flared. The bird is perched on the velvet-gloved fist of a woman wearing a sparkling ruby bracelet. Only her bare Corfu-tanned arm is shown. The author of the book, whose name is displayed in raised gold lettering, is Derek Grenoble. His secret-agent novels sell millions.
"Your mother is marrying this person?"
"First I wasn't gonna tell you," Carla says, "but then I figured you'd find out sooner or later. I never read anything the guy wrote but he seems nice enough. Seriously."
I turn the novel over and study the retouched face in the photograph. "He looks like Ann-Margret in an ascot."
"He's British," Carla volunteers. "Or maybe it's Australian."
"In the first place, that can't possibly be his real name. 'Derek Grenoble'? No way. Your mom knows better. Second, he can't possibly be forty-four."
Carla frowns. "You're taking this worse than I thought."
"I'm disappointed, that's all." Heartsick is more like it. And jealous and petulant and furious at myself for driving Anne away.
"Jack, she's really happy. I'd tell you if she wasn't."
"Swell. Lady Anne Grenoble—is that what she'll be calling herself from now on? When's the big wedding day?"
"Next Saturday."
"You're shitting me."
"Derek's leaving for Ireland to start another project."
"That's my birthday," I say emptily.
"Oh, man. I forgot," Carla says. "How old now?"
"A hundred and seven."
I open Derek's latest masterpiece to a random page in the middle. "Listen to this: 'Duquesne turned to the section chief and eyed him with revulsion, as if he were a worm in a bright red apple. Incompetence was one thing, reckless ego another. Kincaid was dead because he'd left her out there too long, much too long, with no way out. That Duquesne could never forgive. From a pocket he drew out Kincaid's empty Walther and placed it on the section chief's desk. Then he spun on his heel and stalked out of the building. By the time he reached the airport, he had decided precisely where to go and whom to kill.' For God's sakes, Carla, tell me he's kidding."
To my horror she puts down her fork and says, "Keep reading, Jack, go on. What happens next?"
No place matches a city newsroom for energy, or ennui. Between big breaking stories are droning, brain-numbing lulls that allow reporters to ponder too deeply their choice of occupation. Burnout is common because of the long hours and the crummy pay and the depressing nature of so much of what we write. As the saying goes, they never send us to the airport when the plane lands safely. Those who bail out of journalism usually beeline for law school, a graduate degree or well-paying gigs in corporate public relations. Personally, I'd rather have my nuts nailed to a poisonwood.
Up until a few years ago, I'd never had any doubts about newspaper work, never thought I'd made the wrong choice. I went into the business not because I was looking to get beat up or training to be a novelist, but because I wanted to be Bob Woodward or Sy Hersh, kicking butt on the front page. Reality slowly set in and I came to understand that I wasn't destined for Washington or New York or even Miami, but still there were good stories; good days when I brought grief and misery and the occasional felony indictment upon lowlifes such as Orrin Van Gelder. I believed the job was important, a public service, and as a bonus it was unfailingly entertaining. Every new story was a fresh education in human guile and gullibility. The headlines made a large splash in a small pond, but the ripples didn't last long. That didn't bother me, either, because usually I was already caught up in something new. It's the best job in the business, chasing crooks in Florida, because the well never runs dry. But then the paper was sold, the news hole shrunk, the staff got downsized, I got pissed off and—when the opportunity presented itself—publicly humiliated our new CEO.
Thus sabotaging my own career.
A brief snapshot of Race Maggad III: rangy and blond, with a smooth plump-looking chin, narrow green eyes and a tan as smooth as peanut butter. His long aquiline nose has a permanent hump where he once whacked himself accidentally with a polo mallet. Twice weekly his fingernails are professionally polished to a porcelain sheen, and the tooth whitener of his preference i
s imported at no small expense from Marseille. He calls his wife "Casey-Coo" and they own four neutered golden retrievers, in lieu of children. They tend homes in Wellington, Florida; East Hampton, Long Island; and San Diego, California, where Maggad-Feist has its corporate headquarters. The man of the house loves sports cars, particularly those of German pedigree. Recently he turned forty-one, the same age at which Bebe the bottle-nosed dolphin (one of seven who played Flipper on TV) passed away.
Carl Hiaasen - Basket Case Page 16