Basket Case

  Fashion-wise, Race Maggad III aims for a look of relaxed self-importance. Today, for instance, he's wearing crocodile loafers with no socks, khaki trousers and a crisp Oxford with the monogrammed cuffs upturned. To hilarious effect he has knotted the sleeves of a navy tennis sweater around his neck. It is August in Florida.

  "Good afternoon, Jack," he says.

  "Greetings, Mr. Maggad."

  I'm camped at my desk, reading an old Rolling Stone interview with Jimmy Stoma that was unearthed for me by young Evan on a mission to the public library.

  "Got a minute?" Maggad's tone is one of pained geniality.

  "I'm pretty busy, actually."

  "Come on. We'll use Abkazion's office."

  I scan the newsroom for potential witnesses. It's Saturday afternoon and the place is quiet—Emma's not working, which is just as well.

  "So," Maggad begins, settling in behind the managing editor's cluttered desk, "I guess you heard Mr. Polk checked out of the hospital."

  "Yes indeed. Another medical miracle."

  "How was your visit? How did he seem to you?"

  "Feisty and incontinent."

  Race Maggad III purses his liver-colored lips. "But mentally how did he seem—alert? Aware of his surroundings?"

  "Sharp as a tack. I sorta liked the old bastard."

  "Yes, I gather the feeling is mutual. Did he happen to say why he wanted you to be the one to write his obituary?"

  It's lame, this fishing expedition of his. What a bumbler.

  "Because," I reply, "my unfettered style reminds him of James Joyce."

  "Mmmm."

  "Or is it Henry Miller?"

  I remain the portrait of earnestness, while Maggad gnaws fretfully on the inside of his right cheek. My puffy nose and lumpy jaw have provoked unease and possibly suspicion. He's well on the way to regretting this incursion into the newsroom, where he stands out like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl. He might own the place, but he doesn't belong.

  "Jack," he says, "we've never really talked, you know."

  "About?"

  "About what happened at that shareholders' meeting, I mean. I got your gracious note," he adds, "and I certainly took it to heart."

  The apology was written, signed and sent to Race Maggad III without my knowledge. The author was Juan Rodriguez, who was trying to save my position on the investigations team.

  "But I've been wanting to sit down like this, privately," says our polo-playing CEO, "to tell you—to assure you—that I believe as deeply as you do in thorough, hard-hitting journalism. And I believe it's possible to have great local newspapers that are also profitable newspapers. That's our goal at Maggad-Feist."

  Young Race is aiming for annual profits of twenty-five percent, a margin that would be the envy of most heroin pushers.

  "Were you ever a reporter?" I know the answer but I ask anyway, to make him squirm.

  "No, Jack, I wasn't. I took an M.B.A. at Harvard."

  "Ever work in a newsroom?"

  "Look, I've been a newspaperman my whole life."

  I hear myself cackling like a macaw. "You've been an owner of newspapers your whole life, that's hardly the same. Your daddy and your granddaddy were accumulators of newspapers," I say, "just as they were accumulators of waffle houses."

  Maggad goes crimson in the ears, for I've touched a sore spot. When Maggad-Feist acquired the Union-Register, the press release mentioned that the family also owned "a chain of family specialty restaurants." One of our business writers, Teddy Bonner, made the mistake of elaborating in a section-front story. Within days a memo came down sternly informing the staff that, when writing about Maggad-Feist, it henceforth was "unnecessary" to mention Wilma's Waffle Dens, or the unfortunate bacterial outbreak that killed nine innocent customers and hospitalized fifty-four others who had dined upon improperly refrigerated breakfast sausages.

  "By the way," I say to Race Maggad III, "are any of those pesky wrongful-death cases still kicking around?"

  He steeples his long fingers and in a low voice says, "You're trying to get yourself fired, is that it? So you can turn around and sue us for God only knows what. Get your face in the paper, I bet you'd enjoy that."

  I hear myself asking what kind of a name Race is. "When you were little, did they call you 'Master Race Maggad'? I bet they did. I bet they engraved it on all your birthday-party invitations."

  Glaring hotly, he knifes to his feet. Dark crescents have bloomed in the armpits of his shirt. For a moment I think he's going to lunge across Abkazion's desk to strangle me, and who would blame him.

  "Tagger," he hisses through clenched jaws, "what-is-your-goddamn-problem?"

  "I suppose I don't like being jerked around. Why don't you just tell me why you're here and then I can tell you to fuck off, and we can both get on with our day."

  Taking notice of the sodden half-moons on his Oxford, young Race deftly folds his arms for concealment. "MacArthur Polk's obituary," he proceeds curtly. "I want to read it."

  "It's not written yet."

  "Bullshit."

  "And even if it was—"

  "Bullshit. Your editor, Amy, said—"

  "Her name is Emma."

  "She said she told you to get right on it."

  "Indeed she did," I say, "and I will."

  "So help me God, Tagger, if you're stonewalling... "

  I point out that Old Man Polk is not only still alive, but apparently on the rebound. "Whereas other people are dropping dead every day,"

  I add, "significant people who deserve significant obituaries. We are woefully shorthanded, Mr. Maggad, due to severe reductions in our staffing and news resources. I am but one man."

  Young Race ignores the dig about his budget slashing. Deep in sour rumination, he fingers the hump on his nose. "I'd like to know what Mr. Polk said at the hospital. Tell me what he asked you to write."

  "Oh, I can't possibly do that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's confidential. The Union-Register has strict rules against reporters divulging unpublished information."

  "Yes, to outsiders," interrupts Race Maggad III. "But I'm not an outsider, Tagger. I sign the paychecks around here."

  "No, you sign the paychecks of the people who sign the paychecks. And if you're not an outsider, why does everybody stop and gape whenever you stroll into the building? I know two-headed carnies who don't attract so much attention."

  "Have it your way. I'll speak to your editor and we'll get you straightened out, mister, and pronto."

  "A solid game plan. And in the meantime, sir"—I whip the notebook out of my pocket—"I need a quote."

  Judging by young Race's expression, I might as well have pulled the pin on a live grenade. Reflexively he takes a step backward, knocking over a copper sculpture of an angelfish on Abkazion's credenza.

  "A quote for what?" inquires the young tycoon.

  "Old Man Polk's obit. It's only fitting," I say. "You're the one who bought his precious newspaper. You're the big cheese."

  Maggad re-seats himself. After a pensive pause, he gives the signal that I should prepare to write.

  "MacArthur Polk," he begins, "was like a second father to me. He was a teacher, a friend and an inspiration. Mac Polk was the heart and soul of the Union-Register, and we are dedicated to keeping his spirit alive every day, on every page of this outstanding newspaper."

  A deep, self-satisfied sigh, then: "You get all that, Tagger?"

  "Every word." A tidy sentiment from such a vapid yuppie puke, I've got to admit.

  "Do me a favor," he says. "Run it by Mr. Polk, would you?"

  Again I start to giggle. I can't help it; the guy cracks me up.

  "What's the matter now?" he demands.

  "You want Mr. Polk to know in advance what you're going to say about him after he's dead."

  "That's correct."

  I cannot make young Race comprehend why this is so funny, because he doesn't know that I know why he's sucking up to the old man. So, let's p
lay it out...

  "Mr. Maggad, you needn't worry. I'm sure he'd be very moved by your pre-posthumous tribute."

  "Show him the damn quote anyway."

  "While he's alert enough to appreciate it."

  "Exactly." Race Maggad III checks his wristwatch, which clearly cost more than my car. Now he's up again, striding briskly out of Abkazion's office. I'm hard on his heels. "Tell Amy," he grumbles over his shoulder, "I want a copy of Mac Polk's obituary faxed to me the day you finish it."

  "It's Emma, and you'll have to kill me first." Young Race and I draw a flurry of glances as we stride past the city desk—it's all he can do to keep from breaking into a trot. When we reach the elevators, he literally punches the Down button. I wait beside him with a companionable air—I'm heading for the cafeteria. I could sure go for a candy bar.

  "You don't worry me," snarls the chairman and chief executive officer of Maggad-Feist Publishing Group. "You're a gnat on the radar screen."

  "On the windshield, you mean," I say helpfully. "On a radar screen I would be a 'blip.' "

  "Fuck you."

  It's been mildly interesting, getting to know the dapper young publishing scion. Miserably he pokes again at the elevator button. When the door finally opens, he bolts inside. Quick as a bunny, I join him.

  "You know what my career goal is, Master Race?"

  "Get away from me."

  "My goal is to work at this newspaper long enough to write your obituary. Wouldn't that be something?"

  17

  From the Rolling Stone interview with Jimmy Stoma, dated September 20, 1991:

  RS: Are you happy with the way Stomatose turned out?

  JS: Oh, yeah. The more I listen to it, the creamier it gets.

  RS: Some of the cuts sound a lot like the Slut Puppies. "All Humped Out," for example, blows the doors down—

  JS: Sure, because I had Jay on grand piano and Tito on bass. Even though it's a solo album I'm not gonna turn my back on the band. We still make great fucking music together and I'd be a jackass not to take advantage of that chemistry on my own projects. I just don't want to tour as a group anymore. No way.

  RS: Do you have a favorite cut on the new album?

  JS: No, I dig 'em all.

  RS: Oh, come on. "Derelict Sea" is a cool number, and very different from anything you did with the Slut Puppies.

  JS (laughing): Okay, you busted me. That one is definitely at the top of the list.

  RS: What inspired you to try the acoustic?

  JS: Hey, I love acoustic. Always did. And I love to sing without screamin' at the top of my frigging lungs, but when you're up onstage with not one but two bass guitars, you've gotta howl like a witch.

  RS: Do you plan on writing more songs like that?

  JS: For sure. My next project is a whole folk-rock kind of thing—not all acoustic but thematic, you know, where the pieces weave together into a story. Maybe it'll even be a double album, only this time I'm gonna produce it myself.

  RS: All right, what's your least favorite cut on Stomatose?

  JS (shaking his head): Nuh-uh. I ain't fallin'for that.

  RS: Don't wimp out on us now. Even Lennon didn't like every song he wrote.

  JS: The only track that sort of got away from me was "Momma's Marinated Monkfish." A bit too much partying, I'm afraid. The original idea was this real sophisticated, Phil Spector kind of mix. You know, overdub the piss out of the guitars and the keyboards. But somehow it ended up as some ungodly hypermetal... headache.

  RS: Twelve and a half fun-filled minutes. JS: Yeah, and I don't even remember laying down the vocals, I was so bent.

  I'm summoned by Juan to the Sports department, where he hunches like a safecracker over his PC.

  "I got that external hard drive hooked up," he says, "but I can't read what's on it. I don't have the software." He taps a finger on the screen. "The best I can come up with is a directory, but take a look."

  It's line after line of coded abbreviations, beginning with:

  V7oyst10.all

  B17oyst10.copy

  BV22oyst7

  LEADoyst.all

  G1deal22

  G2deal22.all

  ALT.Vtitle22...

  "Computer lingo?" I ask.

  "Nope. Abbreviated file names that were keypunched in by whoever was running the program."

  "What kind of files?"

  "I don't know, but they're massive," Juan says. "The whole thing is, like, 400-plus megabytes. That's got to be more than text, Jack, to eat up so much memory. I'm guessing there's audio or video on here."

  "Where can we get the software?"

  Juan looks up ruefully from the screen. "Man, I can't even identify the software."

  "Oh swell."

  "But I know who can."

  "Juan, I can't afford a hacker." It will be a miracle if I pay off the Bahamas trip by Christmas.

  "He's not a hacker, he's just a whiz kid. And this isn't hacking. Hacking is when you go online—"

  "Point is, I can't pay your man anything right now. I'm broke and Emma's got no expense money for the Death page. Her whole budget is basically me."

  Juan rocks back and laughs. "The guy I use is twelve years old. Usually I just give him a couple of passes to a ball game."

  "Twelve years old."

  "Yep. And his room looks like the NASA command center."

  "When I was twelve, I could barely change the tire on my bicycle."

  "I'll drop the hard drive off with him later," Juan says, "before his bedtime."

  "Thanks. And I promise never to disturb you again on a date night."

  "No problema." Juan glances around to make sure we can't be overheard. "Was Emma freaked by Miriam being there?"

  "How would you like that answered, Mr. Hung-Like-a-Race-horse—the humbling truth, or an ego-inflating fabrication?"

  "See, I knew she wasn't interested in me," Juan says. "Tell me, brother. Are you fraternizing horizontally with your editor?"

  "Get your mind out of the gutter."

  Juan would love to know about the kiss, but I won't be telling him. It's possible I dreamed it, anyway.

  "Some goon trashed my apartment and beat me up—I'm guessing he was looking for that hard drive. I figured you'd have an overnight guest, so I crashed at Emma's."

  "Emma your sworn enemy." Juan arches his eyebrows.

  "She was never the 'enemy,'" I say stiffly. "She's my boss, that's all."

  Before Juan can press the issue, I tell him about the suspicious death of Jay Burns and our daring search of Jimmy Stoma's boat.

  "That's where we found the hard drive."

  Juan whistles. "Know what? You should go to the police and tell 'em everything. I'm serious, man. Once people start breaking into your home and pounding on your face, then it's time to quit playing Marlowe."

  "First I've got to put it all together."

  "Listen, Jack, no story about a dead rock singer is worth getting whacked over."

  "Easy for you to say—you're a superstar. What if getting whacked is the only way I can get back on the front page?"

  Juan looks stricken. I assure him I'm only kidding.

  "Hey, asshole. I'm your friend," he says. "I don't want anything bad to happen."

  "Don't worry. I'm damn close to cracking it wide open."

  This is the most egregious lie I've told in days. I can't produce a single human being who knows for a fact that Jimmy Stoma was murdered. Assuming he was, I can't figure out a plausible motive, or even cook up a theory that holds together. All I'm doing is kicking over stones to see what crawls out.

  "And you'll be pleased to know," I tell Juan, "that Colonel Tom is no longer aslumber in my kitchen. His services were required last night in defense of the homestead."

  "Oh no. What the hell'd you do?"

  "Used him for a baseball bat, with spectacular results. He's now decomposing in a Dumpster, and could never be fingered for a deadly weapon."

  "Jesus," Juan says in a frantic whisper, "don'
t tell me you killed your burglar!"