"When your mother and me got married," he says, "we made a pact between ourselves. An unwritten contract, if you will."
"Go on."
"We agreed not to talk about our past... what's the word—involvements. Not ever. That includes ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands, ex-girlfriends, ex-wives... ex-anybodys. We felt it was water under the bridge that ought to stay over the darn."
"I see."
"We weren't exactly kids when we met, your mom and me. We'd both been around the block a few times. Chased a few rainbows."
"Of course, Dave."
"No good ever comes from dredging up the past," he adds sagely.
"Then the answer would be no, is that right? She never mentioned my father's death. Never once."
"Not to me, Jack. A pact is a pact," he says. "Shall I tell her you called?"
Carla Candilla gets a regular five o'clock break from the photo counter at the drugstore. We meet at a yogurt shop in the same strip mall. Heads turn at the sight of her Vesuvius-inspired dye job, or perhaps it's my fat purple nose. In a low voice I describe the scene on Cleo Rio's balcony. Carla begs in vain for more details, and is slightly disappointed that the object of the widow's affections wasn't Russell Crowe, Leonardo DiCaprio or one of the Backstreet Boys, none of whom matches my description of the coppery-haired felatee. Carla promises to snoop around the circuit and report all rumors. She says Cleo's favorite local hangout is a club called Jizz; down on South Beach, it's Tetra.
"It's very important," I tell Carla, "for me to get the boy toy's name."
"Give me the weekend," she says confidently. Then, fishing into her handbag: "Wanna see something wild?"
"Don't tell me." Previous lectures on the subject of privacy obviously have made no impression.
"Oh, come on, Jack." Carla mischievously fans out the photographs like a deck of cards. One glance is more than enough.
"You can get fired for this," I point out, halfheartedly.
Carla and her minimum-wage cohorts at the drugstore keep watch for raunchy amateur snapshots coming out of the automated developing machine. If the photographs are exceptional, duplicates are surreptitiously made and passed around. Today's glossy sequence features a nude, well-fed couple, a tenor saxophone and a Jack Russell terrier in a porkpie hat. My disapproving grimace impels Carla to say: "Look, if they didn't want anyone to see 'em, why'd they bring the film to the store? Whoever they are, I think they're really diggin' it. I think they're counting on us to peek."
Pushing away the stack of pictures, I promise not to tell Carla's mother.
"Oh come off it, Blackjack. This stuff is real life. Doesn't it make you wonder about the human race?"
"Actually, it makes me depressed. These freaks are having lots more fun than I am."
"Even the dog looks happy," Carla remarks, thumbing through the photos. "By the way, who punched you in the snoot? I'm guessing it was a chick."
"Yup. My boss."
She tosses her head and laughs. "You're the best, Jack."
"Tell me who your mom went to England with."
She says, not too brutally, "You know better than to stagger down that road."
"I'm afraid I don't. That's a gruesome fact."
"Fine, then." Carla returns the purloined terrier portfolio to her purse. "You want the truth or a lie? First, tell me what you can stand."
"A doctor, lawyer, college professor—as long as it's an unpublished college professor."
"Meaning anybody except a writer."
"Basically, yeah," I say.
Carla looks at me compassionately; Anne's eyes again.
She says, "Then I'll have to lie, Jack."
"You're kidding. She went to London with a goddamned writer?"
Carla nods.
"Newspaper guy?" I ask, with a shudder.
"Nope."
"Poet? Novelist? Playwright?"
"Novelist," says Carla.
"No shit. Have I heard of him?"
"It's possible."
"Don't tell me his name!"
"Don't worry," Carla says.
"And, for God's sake, don't tell your mother I asked."
"Jack, they're getting married."
Me, I don't flinch. "Can I see those pictures again?"
Carla says, "I've gotta get back to work."
I buy her a mocha-flavored shake and walk her to the drugstore. At the door she pats me on the cheek and says she's sorry about breaking the news. She thought it was something I ought to know, lest I call up Anne and make a fool of myself again.
"How old is this writer guy?" I ask innocently.
"Forty-four."
"Ha!"
"'Ha!' what?" Carla asks. "What's so bad about forty-four?"
"Never you mind," I say, thinking: Robert Louis Stevenson.
14
I call home and check the machine: one message from Emma and three from Janet Thrush. As usual, Janet's line rings busy so I drive straight to Beckerville. She answers the door wearing a knit hood with eye slits and a tight-fitting black jumpsuit. A gas mask hangs loosely at her neck, and she's carrying a toy M-16.
"So now it's SWAT-Cam," I say.
"Yeah, my pervs got bored with Rita Meter. Come on in, Jack." Janet peels off the headcloth. "Happened to your nose?"
"Logging mishap," I say. "What's up?"
"You will not believe it."
Sitting under the light racks, she tells me she was summoned by a man called Charles Chickle, whose name I know. He's a big-shot lawyer in Silver Beach; not a shyster or a barracuda, either, but legitimate weight. It seems Jimmy Stoma left a clause in his will retaining Mr. Chickle to represent Janet's interests in probate court in the event Jimmy died. Most beneficiaries don't need an attorney, but Jimmy obviously anticipated legal hurdles for his sister.
"He left me a hundred grand," Janet Thrush says excitedly. "You believe that?"
"How much for Cleo?"
"The same."
"Ho-ho. That explains the need for Barrister Chickle."
"But she also gets the boat, the cars, the condo," Janet says.
"And his tapes?"
"You mean the album? He never dreamed he wouldn't live to finish it," Janet says.
"Is it mentioned in the will?"
"Jack, I didn't even think to ask."
As for the house in the Bahamas, Janet says her brother left it to a charity called Sea Urchins, which sponsors marine camps for underprivileged kids. According to Charles Chickle, it was to Sea Urchins that James Bradley Stomarti left the bulk of his estate, including $405,000 in stocks and annuities, his share of future music royalties, and a $1 million life insurance policy.
"Cleo must be thrilled," I say.
"I guess Jimmy figured she didn't need the dough after her single charted. He figured she was on her way."
I'm on the verge of telling Janet what her songbird sister-in-law was doing yesterday on the balcony of her dead brother's condo when she blurts: "I don't think Cleo killed him."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because she knew already, Jack. She knew what she was getting if Jimmy was to pass away. He already told her most of the money was going to Sea Urchins—which is a really cool idea—and he also told her she wasn't getting squat from the insurance. The more I think about it, I just can't believe she'd kill him for a hundred thousand dollars. To me it's a fortune, but to Cleo it's a weekend in Cannes."
She's right about that. A woman like Cleo doesn't get lathered up over anything less than seven figures.
"I'm thinkin' he drowned accidental, Jack, like they told us all along. You always said it was possible."
"It is."
"Even though they screwed up the autopsy."
"And you said you wouldn't believe a word that came out of Cleo's mouth," I remind her. "What if I told you she was having an affair."
Janet shrugs. "What if I told you my brother wasn't exactly Husband-of-the-Year."
The computer on the coffee table bleeps for an incoming ca
ll; another cyberwanker. Janet sighs and glances morosely at the toy M-16, propped in a corner. I ask if she can think of any other motive for Cleo to have murdered Jimmy, and she says no.
"Would she have done it because she was mad about the will?"
"Then why not just dump his ass?" Janet says. "I'm sure she could've squeezed a lot more than a hundred grand out of a divorce." Another excellent point.
Again the computer bleeps imploringly.
"Aren't you sweating to death in that getup?" I ask her.
"Don't worry, it's comin' off soon enough. This one here"—Janet motions over her shoulder toward the PC—"is Ronnie from Riverside. His deal is boots, panties, bra and assault rifle. He's been hopin' I lose the bra and panties, but he's in for a major letdown. Anyhow, the setup is: I'm in the middle of a DEA raid on a Colombian drug lord's mansion when I suddenly decide to sneak a quick shower, like that makes sense. What I don't know is that one of the bad guys—Ronnie, of course—is hidin' in the Jacuzzi, spying on me. This'll drag on for an hour."
"Oh well. Four bucks a minute," I say brightly.
"Only for a few more months," Janet says. "That's how long Mr. Chickle says it's gonna take to get the inheritance."
"If Cleo doesn't contest the will."
"Mr. Chickle thinks she won't. He knows her lawyer."
"And most of the probate judges," I add, "on a first-name basis."
"Jimmy always looked out for me," Janet says tenderly. "Now he's gone and he's still lookin' out for me."
Ronnie from Riverside beeps again.
"Shit." Janet plugs in the light rack and the living room goes white with glare. She tugs the knit hood down over her face and positions the gas mask. This is my cue to leave.
"So, what should we do about the story?" I ask. "You don't have to decide this minute. Sleep on it and we'll talk over the weekend."
Janet's reply is muffled by the hood and the mask, but I can still make out the words. I wish I couldn't.
"What story?" she says.
I'm lying in bed with the lights off, listening to A Painful Burning Sensation, the last album recorded by Jimmy and the Slut Puppies.
Jimmy's voice sounds huge because at the time he was huge, 240-plus pounds of post-rehab voracity. Then he totally changed his life and wound up dying buff, the eternal male dream. Jimmy didn't plan it that way, checking out at thirty-nine, but fans will remember him more fondly for being tanned and fit at the end. Most celebrities would kill to die looking so fine.
Baby, you're a fool to count on yours truly,
I'm a self-centered, self-absorbed, self-abused boy.
My love goes where it pleases, and pleases who gets it,
Don't cry, beg or pray, you'll just get me annoyed.
That's the chorus of a cut called "Slithering Love," and I can visualize Jimmy sneering when he sings "annoyed," dragging the word into three syllables, the way Jagger might. What I enjoy about the Slut Puppies is that most of their songs were base, unpretentious, simple-minded fun. Even the blatantly derivative ones—"Slithering Love" owes everything to "Under My Thumb"—had an appealing, self-deprecatory pose. The more I hear of his records, the more I believe I would have liked Jimmy Stoma as a person.
And I'm still not convinced he drowned accidentally. Unfortunately, as long as I'm the only one with such doubts I've got nothing to put in the newspaper.
Which leaves me back on the obituary beat, under Emma's leery watch. On Monday I'll begin to write the MacArthur Polk opus, and she should be pleasantly surprised by my enthusiasm. I haven't told her what the old coot has asked me to do, or that I've decided to play along. It no longer matters whether Polk is insane or not; without the Jimmy Stoma story, I'm unglued and adrift. I need something to reach for, a filament of hope...
I must've fallen asleep because the Slut Puppies are no longer singing when I open my eyes. The apartment is dark and quiet except for the sound of someone jiggling the doorknob. Occasionally Juan lets himself in, so I shout his name and command him to go away. Emma probably told him she slugged me, so he's come to appraise my nose and perhaps scold me for the toenail-peeking incident.
"Even a deviate deserves privacy!" I holler, and soon the rattling ceases.
But no departing footfalls are heard on the walkway, so I boost myself to a sitting position and listen hard. I swear I hear breathing other than my own.
I swing my legs out of bed, pad to the doorway and peer around the corner. Immediately I wish I hadn't, because a fist connects solidly with my jawbone. I would gladly fall down except that a second, upward-driving blow has found my rib cage, momentarily suspending me. This is the work of large arcing punches, nothing like Emma's economical left cross. When my head finally hits the floor I squeeze my eyes closed and lay motionless, the cleverest move I've made all day.
The intruder pokes me with a heavy shoe but I don't move. Pain shrieks from every muscle. The man grabs a handful of hair and lifts my head. Next thing I know: blackness and the smell of damp wool. I've been blindfolded.
A ripping noise is followed by a fumbling attempt to tape my wrists behind my back. Terror would be a logical reaction, but for now I concentrate on appearing limp and unconscious. Meanwhile, the intruder roots through the place, yanking out drawers, flinging open cabinets and closets. This shouldn't take long, as my apartment is small and there's hardly anything worth stealing. I find myself feeling smug about having pitched the television off the balcony, thus depriving my visiting dirtbag of at least forty bucks from the corner pawnshop.
But something doesn't add up. I know from covering the police beat that burglars don't usually do fourth-story jobs because it's hard to be stealthy hauling computers, fax machines and home-entertainment components down multiple flights of stairs. Burglars generally prefer first-floor apartments with sliding glass doors. Now, a jewel thief doesn't worry about a building's height because everything he's stealing fits inside a pocket or a pillowcase, but only the most optimistic or uninformed jewel thief would target the one-bedroom flat of a bachelor. I don't even own a matching set of cuff links.
Whoever the intruder is, he definitely needs a refresher course in duct-taping. Two minutes and I've twisted my hands free and undone the blindfold. But now what? I feel like I've been run over by a cement truck, so I'm not especially keen to get up. Besides, the apartment is woefully short of weapons.
On the other hand, I'm extremely curious and more than slightly hacked off. In two days I've been roughed up and punched out more than I have in the last twenty-five years. Plus I can hear the fucker in the bedroom, rummaging through my socks and boxer shorts and books...
Next thing I know, I'm groping down the hallway toward the kitchen. Furtively I tug open the freezer door and reach into the compartment. There, wedged beneath the ice cream bars and a two-pound bag of frozen Gulf shrimp, reposes Colonel Tom. My digging fingers locate the frosted coil of his tail, which makes a suitable handle. With a yank I dislodge the lifeless lizard from his arctic bier, loosing a crashing cascade of ice.
The broad shadow of the panting intruder materializes at the kitchen entrance—I can imagine his puzzlement when he sees me at the refrigerator instead of the telephone. With a growl he steps forward and is immediately halted by a smart blow to the forehead. With its tail curled, the dead monitor lizard is roughly the length of a sawed-off fungo bat, and stout enough to require a firm two-handed swing. I whack the intruder once more and he sinks to his knees.
Slinging both arms around my waist, he tries to pull me down. I take another wild cut but I slip on ice chips. As I fall, the frozen lizard flies from my hand and skids across the floor. Bucking in the intruder's brutish hug, I'm choked by a whiff of cologne that jolts me back to that moment in the elevator with the widow Stomarti's coppery-haired male caller. The overripe scent is unmistakable, though the man in my apartment is shorter and stockier than Cleo Rio's boyfriend. As for hair, the intruder has none—and squirts like a greased egg out of my feeble headlock.
The kitchen is embarrassingly cramped, unsuitable for a life-or-death struggle. We roll around the linoleum like a couple of drunken circus bears until, by blind luck, my left hand comes to rest on the as-yet-unthawed Colonel Tom. I resume whaling at the bald guy with a manic resolve—if he is Cleo's neckless bodyguard, a gun will be close at hand. No sense in holding back.
Groaning, the intruder shields himself with one arm and begins punching robotically with the other; an effective technique, it turns out. A blow catches me flush on the tip of my nose, the same nose earlier tenderized by Emma, and I black out from the pain.