Out of guilt I lied to Carla and told her the monitor broke out of the tank and escaped. Only Juan knows the truth, and I'm surprised he spilled it to Emma. I suspect she was pumping him for inside information to use against me in the annual employee evaluation. Even though Juan is my best friend, he'll tell Emma whatever she wants to know if he thinks there's a chance she'll sleep with him. At least that's how /always operated in the early stages of a relationship.
Maybe it's better that she knows about the dead lizard in my freezer. Maybe it will upend her set notions about me, and make her wonder what other distasteful secrets I've got.
MacArthur Polk looks like death on a Triscuit. "He can't speak," the nurse informs me.
"Then what am I doing here?" I ask reasonably.
"I meant, he can't speak normally. Because of the tracheostomy."
The old man points gravely to a surgical opening in his throat, to which has been attached a plastic valve that resembles a demitasse cup. A clear polymer tube leads from the valve stem to an oxygen contraption beside the bed.
For the interview MacArthur Polk has been moved from the hospital's intensive care ward to a private room. He aims a bloodless finger at the door, signaling the nurse to scram.
"Keep it short and sweet," she whispers to me. "He's not well." She throws up an elbow in time to deflect a plastic bedpan that would have otherwise beaned her on the forehead. "He can be a pill. You'll see," she says.
As soon as we're alone, MacArthur Polk begins fiddling with the throat valve, which enables him to speak by drawing air across the vocal cords.
"Little gizmo goes for fifty-two bucks on the Internet," the old man rasps. "Guess how much the hospital charges—three hundred a pop! Fucking bandits."
The voice lacks for volume but not vitriol. I step closer to listen.
"Sit down, you," Polk snaps. "Where's your damn notebook?"
Obediently I withdraw it from my pocket.
"Open it," he says. "Now put down that I was a fighter. Put down that I was all heart and gristle. I never gave up, no matter what those worthless quacks said." He jabs the air. "Put it down now! In your notebook, Mr. Obituary Writer!"
As I'm scribbling, the old man has second thoughts. "Hold on now. Scratch 'worthless quacks.' My luck, one a those pricks'll slap my estate with a libel suit. See what it's come to? They'd sue a dead man with a hole in his throat, I swear to Christ."
MacArthur Polk is shriveled and fuzzy-headed, with a florid beaked nose, stringy neck and papery, pellucid skin. He looks like one of those newborn condors that zookeepers are always showing off on the Discovery Channel.
After another drag of oxygen, he croaks: "Mr. Race Maggad didn't want you on this story. Why is that, you suppose?"
"I gather he's not a fan."
The old milky eyes sparkle with overmedicated mischief. "I heard you called him some nasty names at a shareholders' meeting. I heard you shook things up, Mr. Tagger."
"Why are we talking about this?"
"Because—" Old Man Polk emits a tubercular wheeze. "Because the reason Maggad didn't want you on this story is the precise reason I insisted on it. What'd you call him exactly? I'm just curious."
"An impostor," I say.
When Polk laughs, his dentures clack. "Him and his father both. What else?"
"I might have mentioned his trust fund. The fact he never worked an honest day in his life. How he knows more about shoeing polo ponies than putting out a decent newspaper."
The old man rattles a wet sigh. "God, I wish I'd been there. I believe I was in the hospital that day."
"Dying," I say. "That's what Mr. Maggad informed the shareholders."
"Hell, I wasn't 'dying' that time, or any of the others. I was just resting. Screwing with their heads."
"You dying now?"
Polk nods abjectly. "Unfortunately, this one's for real, Mr. Tagger. I wouldn't call you here to waste your time."
I almost believe him, he looks so ghastly. For some reason I think of his wife, age thirty-six, and wonder what in creation the two of them talk about. The old man volunteers that she's holding up like a champ. Considering her future net worth, I don't doubt it for a moment.
"Mr. Race Maggad himself came to the hospital to visit me. Why is that, you suppose?" Polk asks, hacking feebly. "To see how I was getting along? Read me a bedtime story? Or maybe to apologize for ruining my family's newspaper."
Polk will get no argument from me. I hear myself asking: "So why'd you sell out to Maggad-Feist? Them, of all people."
The old man turns away with a snort. "More on that later."
"A lot of us in the newsroom felt... betrayed."
Polk's head snaps around. His eyes are hot. "Is that so. Betrayed?"
"It was a good little paper, Mr. Polk, and we were proud of it. Those people are raping its soul."
"You're not the most sensitive fellow, are you? Did I mention I was dying?"
Suddenly he sounds forlorn. Me, I feel like a shitheel.
"I didn't think it was possible to feel any worse," Polk gasps, "until you showed up. Hell, I'd hang myself with this goddamn oxygen tube if I could reach the curtain rod."
"I'm sorry. I honestly am."
"Aw, what the hell—you've got a point. But more on that later. Now, Mr. Obituary Man, "the old man says, with renewed spunk, "put down how I turned the Union-Register into a first-class outfit. And don't forget to say 'award-winning.' Write that down! I got a list somewhere of all the prizes we won... "
So it goes for an hour. MacArthur Polk's endurance is impressive, as is his enthusiasm for self-aggrandizement. Fortunately he won't be around to read the story, as I have no intention of bogging it down with mawkish deathbed ramblings. Three or four wistful quotes ought to do the job.
Still, he is not an unlikable or tedious interview. He's feisty and coarse and colorfully blunt-spoken, as the dying are entitled to be. For me it's hardly a wasted afternoon, spent in the company of one who has led a full life. Eighty-eight years is something to shoot for.
"I always believed a paper should be the conscience of its community," he is saying for the third time. "News isn't just the filler between advertisements. It's the spine of the business. You write that down?"
"Every word," I assure him.
"Think you got plenty for your article?"
"More than enough."
"Good," Polk growls. "Now all I gotta do is croak and you're good to go."
"Don't hurry on account of me."
"Close that damn notebook, Mr. Tagger. We've got some important matters to discuss, you and I. Off the record."
I can't imagine what.
"Put it away!" the old man tries to bark, though the only sound from his lips is a flatulent sibilance. He paws at the tracheostomy valve and finally grabs for the call button. The same unflappable nurse comes in and calmly clears the valve so that MacArthur Polk can continue speaking.
"Thank you, darling." He squeezes both her hands. She bends down and kisses him sweetly on his blue-veined scalp.
"I love you," says the old man.
"Love you, too," says the nurse.
Now I get it.
"Mr. Tagger, say hello to my wife," Polk says. "Ellen, this is the obituary man from the paper."
"Nice to meet you," says Ellen Polk, shaking my hand. "Did he throw the bedpan again? Mac, are you misbehaving?"
"Sit down, darling," he tells her.
They both see it in my expression. Mrs. Polk says to me: "I'm not what you expected, am I?"
Bingo. I was expecting a shark in designer heels; a predatory blonde with store-bought boobs and probate lawyers in the closet. Ellen Polk is no gold digger; she's a hardworking health care provider.
"We met in the cardiac wing," says Old Man Polk.
"He was a regular," Ellen adds.
"She let me grab her tush," the old man warbles proudly.
"In your dreams, Mac."
"Tell the truth, darling. You wanted me."
"That's right," she says. "I've got a thing for guys on ventilators. That sucking noise really turns me on."
Polk crows. Ellen rises to kiss him goodbye.
"No, stay," he tells her. "This concerns you, too."
Then, to me, the old man says: "Mr. Race Maggad III came to visit me here, Mr. Tagger. Why is that, you suppose?"
I play along. "He thinks of you as a father figure?"
"No, he detests me."
"Now, Mac—" says Ellen.
"Oh, it's true." When the old man gulps, the valve at his throat gives off a muted peep. "Maggad hates me, Mr. Tagger, but he's kissing ass because I've got something he desperately wants, preferably before I die."
"What would that be?" I ask.
MacArthur Polk looks at his wife, who looks at me. They're both smiling. I suppose I should be smiling, too.
The old man says, "You're gonna enjoy this, Mr. Tagger."
Meeting the lovely Mrs. MacArthur Polk has got me thinking about another young wife, Mrs. James Stomarti, who might not have been so devoted to her husband. After departing Charity Hospital I impulsively decide to go see if Jimmy's widow really left for California, as she told me she would at the funeral.
What little I know about Cleo Rio comes from a back issue of Spin, which I tracked down through a friend at a guitar store. The article, which appeared shortly after the "Me" video was released, said the former Cynthia Jane Zigler was born and raised in Hammond, Indiana. At age fifteen she dropped out of school and, joined by two boyfriends, ran off to Stockholm. There she won third place in a talent contest, doing ABBA tunes in a topless rock band. The story said she moved back to the States and occasionally sang backup for Sheryl Crow and Stevie Nicks before being signed by a minor label. Buoyed by the instant success of "Me," Cleo Rio summarily fired her agent, manager, record producer and voice coach. The usual "creative differences" were cited. "It's time I broke some new ground," she told the magazine, at the crusty old age of twenty-three. Her former business manager, who claimed Cleo once tried to run him over with a UPS truck, was quoted as saying, "She's a greedy, ruthless, world-class cunt, but I wish her only the best."
Arriving at Silver Beach, I select a municipal lot in the shadow of the monstrous condo tower where I interviewed Cleo. I luck into a parking spot with a view of the eastern face of the building. Closing one eye, I count upward to the nineteenth floor. Nobody is on the balcony, and the shades are drawn.
I take out a secondhand copy of Stomatose, Jimmy's solo CD, which I found at a discount record store. The cover features a photograph of James Bradley Stomarti taken in his Roger Daltrey phase, curly golden tresses spilling to his shoulders. He has been posed in a hospital bed with his eyelids taped and tubes snaking from his ears, nostrils, mouth and even his navel.
Stomatose, comatose. Nobody ever accused a record company of being too subtle.
Surprisingly, the first cut on the album is acoustical. It's called "Derelict Sea," and Jimmy's vocals are stunning; beautiful, really. The next song is "Momma's Marinated Monkfish," a dissonant heavy-metal screechfest that repeats itself for nearly twelve dirge-like minutes. It's so awful it could be a parody, AC/DC doing a cover of "A Day in the Life." The whole record is similarly uneven and self-indulgent, suggesting an overabundance of cocaine in the studio. By the sixth track I can't take any more. I switch to FM and doze off serenely to Bonnie Raitt.
It's dusk when passing sirens awaken me; a southbound fire truck, followed by an ambulance. I think of MacArthur Polk and wonder if I dreamed the interview; it wouldn't be the first time. Then I notice my notebook lying on the passenger seat. Flipping it open to the first page, I see written in my own hand: Put down that I was a fighter...
So it really happened, which means the old loon really asked me to do what I remember him asking me. Which raises the possibility he is clinically insane.
More research is required.
Peering upward, I now see lights in the apartment of the widow Stomarti. Two figures stand side by side on the scalloped balcony, looking out toward the Atlantic.
From the glove compartment I retrieve a nifty little pair of Leica field glasses, a gift from a woman I once dated. (A life member of the Audubon Society, she had hoped in vain to get me hooked on birding.) Steadying the binoculars, I slowly bring into focus the two figures—Cleo Rio and the coppery-haired, cologne-soaked young stud I'd encountered in her elevator. It would appear they're having cocktails.
Cleo is wearing a hot-pink ball cap and a loopy big-toothed smile, her free hand stroking her companion's phenomenal mane. They turn to face each other, setting their drinks on the concrete parapet. Next comes the predictable kiss and the slow clinch, followed by Mrs. Stomarti's inevitable descent to her knees and the commencement of piston-like bobbing.
Jimmy was everything to me, you know?
Cleo said it. I put it in the newspaper.
I never met James Bradley Stomarti but I find myself pissed off on his departed behalf. I shove the field glasses into the glove box and start my car.
Grubby, tacky, low, slimy, shabby—I know there's a better word for such behavior from a new widow.
Try wrong.
Yeah, that's it.
12
Jimmy Stoma's sportfisherman is docked bayside at the Silver Beach Marina. It's a thirty-five-foot Contender called Rio Rio. The name painted on the transom looks new, Jimmy having rechristened the vessel in honor of his child bride.
Led Zeppelin blares from the cabin, where a light is visible. I step aboard and rap on the door. The music shuts off and there's Jay Burns, filling the companionway. He's wearing a black tank top, crusted khaki shorts and skanky flip-flops. He looks drunk and he smells stoned. His pouchy Gingrich cheeks are splotched vermilion and his pupils are shrunk to pixels. The unfortunate ponytail appears not to have been groomed since the funeral.
"Who're you?" Burns blinks like a toad that just crawled out of the bog.
"Jack Tagger from the Union-Register. We met at the church, remember?"
"Not really."
Jay Burns is wide and untapered, though not as tall as I am. He would have played middle linebacker in college, before all that lean meat went to lard.
"I'm doing a story about Jimmy. You said we could chat."
"Doubtful," he mumbles. "How the hell'd you find me?"
"Off the police report in Nassau. It listed this marina as your home address."
"Not for long," says Burns.
"It's a helluva nice boat," I say.
"Make an offer, sport. Cleo's selling."
"May I come in?"
"Whatever," he says indolently. Burns is so loaded that our brief chitchat has tired him out.
The cabin is a mess but at least it's air-conditioned. Using an empty Dewar's bottle as a probe, I clear a place for myself among the porn magazines and pizza boxes. Jay Burns sprawls on the floor with sunburned legs extended and his back propped against the door of the refrigerator. He relights a joint, and I'm not at all offended when he doesn't offer me a hit.
Breaking the ice in my usual smooth way, I say: "Hey, I was listening to Stomatose on the way over. You played on a few of those cuts, right?"
Burns responds with a constipated sigh: "Jimmy asked me to."
"The notes said you co-wrote 'All Humped Out.' "
"That's right," he says with a sneer, "and I'm saving up the royalties to buy me a Mountain Dew."
I abandon bogus flattery as a strategy. "How old is the boat?"
"Four years. Five, I dunno." Jay Burns is barely glancing my way. The cabin air is severe with pepperoni and reefer.
"Cleo said you brought it across from the Bahamas by yourself."
"No biggie," he says.
"Where'd you learn to run blue water?"
"Hatteras. Where I grew up."
"Ever been through anything like this before?" I ask.
"Anything like what?"
"You know. The diving accident, losing your best friend—"
Trailing blue smoke, Burns levers to his feet and lurches toward the head. "I gotta take a crap," he says, shedding a sandal en route.
I use the interlude to pluck from the galley stovetop the latest issues of Spin and Rolling Stone, both of which are open to obituaries of Jimmy Stoma. The articles are kindly written and differ little in the details of the drowning. Even Cleo Rio's words are practically the same. "Jimmy died doing what he loved best," she is quoted as saying in Spin. And in Rolling Stone: "Jimmy died doing what made him happiest."