"It would be lovely to think so."
"Come on, Jack," he pleads. "This craziness has gone far enough, no?"
"I turn forty-seven in a week. Know what that means?" Juan waves his hand and turns away, muttering something in Spanish. I'm pretty sure it's not "Happy Birthday."
I drive home and crash for three, maybe four hours—a leaden, dream-free sleep for which I'm grateful. Later I try repeatedly to call Janet Thrush, figuring she might know something about the mysterious computer box hidden on her brother's boat. The phone line rings busy every time; Janet-Cam's Internet fan club, no doubt. I find myself dialing Emma's number and hanging up in a panic before she answers. I fear that by spending the night on her couch I've violated a personal embargo, and there can be no resumption of terms. It weighs gravely that I enjoyed her company probably more than she enjoyed mine, and that the delicate balance of our professional relationship most surely has been tilted to my detriment. That damned kiss, if it indeed occurred, was the clincher. All day long I've been dogged by impure thoughts about Emma, my editor. I suspect I would even make love to her, if the opportunity were cordially presented.
For half an hour I prop myself in a hot shower, and eventually the face in the shaving mirror begins to resemble my own. The message light on the answer machine is flashing when I emerge from the bathroom—Carla Candilla, whispering into her cell phone. She's waiting for me in a booth at Jizz. Get your skinny white ass over here! she says.
So far, Jizz is the only joint on Silver Beach with a red velvet rope and a sullen, T-shirted, steroid-addled doorman. The club's motif combines the exotic ambience of a Costa Rican brothel with the cozy, down-home charm of a methamphetamine lab. By the time I reach Carla's booth, I feel like I'm hacking up bronchial tissue. The first topic of discussion is my wardrobe. "Are those really Dockers?" Carla blurts, horror-struck.
I tell her my boa-skin thong is being oiled at the cleaners. She instructs me to sit down, people are staring. Soon I'm staring, too—at Carla. For a dress she's wearing what appears to be a shrimp net, through which two silver nipple rings are visible. Flustered, I turn away—this is Anne's daughter, for God's sake.
The club is lit with fruity-colored strobes that dice up the cigarette haze like a psychedelic SaladShooter. A Nordic-looking DJ in unlikely rasta garb is in command of the synthesized dance music, thumping as tediously as a cardiac monitor. Everywhere are fashion-conscious couples practicing for the South Beach scene; the guys still look like off-duty valets, and the women still look like cashiers at Blockbuster.
Carla says, "It's Saturday night, Jack. This is how you dress up? That's a fucking golf shirt, if I'm not mistaken."
"Designer casual wear, for your information. Since when do you smoke Silk Cuts?"
"Since my favorite cigar bar went out of business. And I don't inhale, so no lectures, please, daddy dearest." Carla cuts her violet-lined eyes toward a back corner of the club and says, "Check it out."
Cleo Rio and her personal grief counselor, the shimmery-maned Loreal, are jointly embedded in an oversized leather beanbag. They're smoking like a pair of Hallandale bookies, and I'm fairly sure Cleo hasn't spotted me through the smog. She is tastefully attired in a black vinyl jumpsuit complemented by wraparound shades; tonight her pageboy haircut is tinsel blue. Loreal is sporting black stovepipe jeans and a shiny pink shirt with preening flamingos. Out of respect for the dead, he is confining his fondling of the widow Stoma to her left breast.
Other clubbers drift over to the beanbag chair to chat with Cleo; offering condolences, perhaps, or eight-balls of coke. I'm pleased to see no sign of the bald no-neck bodyguard, whom I suspect of being my burglar. Someday, under the proper circumstances, I intend to upbraid him for swiping my laptop.
Carla says, "You believe that shit? Her old man's only been gone, like, a week and already she's out on the circuit with the new boy."
"So much for wallowing in grief. You come alone?"
"I'm meeting some friends." Carla's eyes are locked on Cleo and Loreal. "That's the same stupid getup he was wearing last night, swear to God."
"If Cleo sees me she'll go ballistic. Somehow I need to get Mr. Hotshot Record Producer alone."
"Hang in there," Carla advises. "They didn't arrive together and I bet they won't leave together. That white stretch out front? It's Cleo's. Move over here, Jack, next to me. So it looks like... you know."
Uneasily I switch to her side of the booth.
"What's the matter?" she asks.
"Nothing."
"You're so busted. It's the dress, isn't it?"
"Carla, I mean, yeah."
"They're just boobs, Jack."
"But they're your boobs," I say. "The boobs of my ex-girlfriend's daughter. You thirsty? I'm thirsty."
Smiling, Carla flags down a server. Given the bawdiness of her attire, it's useless for me to remind her that she's too young to buy alcohol. For herself Carla orders a Cosmopolitan and for me a vodka tonic with a twist.
"How'd you know?" I ask.
"Mom told me."
"Wow. She remembered."
"She remembers everything," Carla says.
"Ah, that's right. Fair Lady Grenoble."
"Did you start reading the book yet?"
"You know that dork's real name?"
"Derek's?"
"Yeah, I looked it up: 'Sherman Wilt.' Your mom's about to marry a Sherman—that doesn't alarm you, honey? The man sold RVs before he became a writer."
"No way, Jack, he's from the U.K."
"Well, he moved all the way to Dunedin, Florida, to sell Dream Weaver travel trailers. That's not appalling?"
She rolls her eyes. "Let it go. Drink up."
"His books," I mutter to my vodka, "are fucking unreadable."
"Who's that?" With her cigarette Carla points toward the beanbag corner, where Cleo and Loreal have been joined by a wiry, dark-skinned man with curly long hair and a Pancho Villa mustache.
"That," I say, "is Senor Tito Negraponte, another former Slut Puppy. He was at the funeral."
Cleo and the record producer discreetly disengage, and make space for Tito between them on the beanbag throne. The two men shake hands the old-fashioned way, as if it's the first time they've met.
Carla says, "What did he do with the band?"
"Bass guitar."
"Who's he with now? He looks pretty old and moldy."
"Yeah, he must be all of fifty-two. It's amazing he gets around without a wheelchair."
I'm distracted by two bony models in miniskirts who are pogo-stomping on the dance floor. They're sucking on baby pacifiers, waving phosphorescent swizzle sticks and flashing their panties at the bartender, or possibly me.
"That's just the kind of chick you need, Jack. Totally." Carla jabs my sore ribs. "Seventeen-year-old X freaks, they'll rock your little world."
"Your mother's the only one who ever did that."
"What?" Carla leans closer. The DJ has ratcheted up the volume to encourage the gregarious dancers.
"I said, your mother's the only one who ever rocked my world. And now she's sleeping with a bad novelist."
Carla shrugs helplessly.
"And marrying the bastard on my birthday." I gulp down the last of my vodka. "The woman who remembers everything."
"Not birthdays," Carla interjects. "She's lousy on those, Jack. You can ask my father. Yo, look who's leaving."
Loreal has risen off the beanbag throne. He air-kisses Cleo, high-fives Tito and makes his way across the floor, dodging the models and heading toward the door.
"Wish me luck," I tell Carla.
She slides off the seat to make way. "Go! Get a move on. I'll keep an eye on the widow and the Mexican geezer."
I peck her cheek and lay out a ten for the drinks, which she promptly shoves back in my palm.
"You got my cell number, right?"
"Listen, Carla, are you really meeting somebody? I feel crummy leaving you here alone."
She finds this uproariously
funny. "Don't worry, Daddy, I'll be fine. Now beat it."
I reach the beachfront parking lot just as Loreal is mounting his Harley. By the time I get the Mustang started and wedge myself into the heavy flow on A1A, Cleo's studhunk already has a five-block head start.
Florida's legislature recently passed a law allowing motorcyclists to ride without helmets, a boon for neurosurgeons and morticians. Tonight I benefit as well, for Loreal's lack of a head protector makes him easy to follow even at night, his long hair streaming behind him like a red contrail.
He doesn't go far; a billiards joint called Crabby Pete's. I park my car next to the chopper and wait twenty minutes, enough time for Loreal to get at least two more drinks in his system. Then I grab my notebook and enter the bar.
"What paper'd you say you were from?"
"The Union-Register."
"Never heard of it."
"We're the only rag in town."
"To be perfectly honest, I don't have time to read all that much."
This hardly comes as a thunderous shock. Loreal and I have been chatting for an hour and it's my impression he'd need a personal tutor to get through a set of liner notes. Mostly we've been discussing music—specifically, his sizzling career as a record producer. His resume lengthens with each beer, though he has stumbled once or twice when reciting the various artists who've sought out his genius. My notes reflect a certain recurring confusion, for example, between the Black Crowes and Counting Crows. Young Loreal's credibility has also been dented by boastful references to his clever (though uncredited) studio work for a band he insists on calling "Matchbox Thirty." I've made no effort to correct him because—as any reporter will tell you—there's no finer thrill in our business than interviewing a hapless liar. I've gotten him rolling by telling him that I recognized him from a photo in Ocean Drive, and that I need a few quotes for a feature story about Cleo Rio's soon-to-be-released CD.
He says, "She told you I was producing it, right?"
"Actually, she said her husband was the producer."
"For sure, he was." Loreal is tracing a tic-tac-toe pattern in the rime on the bartop. "It was a real bummer, what happened to her old man. She came to me all crying and was like, 'I don't know what to do. I need help finishing the record.' "
"I'd gotten the impression they were almost done," I say.
Loreal clicks his teeth and feigns demureness. "Hey, I'm not gonna say anything about Jimmy Stoma, okay? He did a good job, considering it was his first-ever gig on the boards. All I told Cleo was, hey, this record could be even better with a little extra juice. And she's all like, 'Go for it, man. That's what Jimmy would've wanted.' So," he says in a confiding tone, "we're gettin' there. We're real close."
Merrily he watches me jot each golden word. I expect his demeanor would change if I asked about his unconventional way of consoling Jimmy's wife; to wit, placing his pecker between her lips. But I avoid that line of inquiry, tempting as it is, and allow Loreal to imagine himself the portrait of the cool young auteur, patiently explaining his craft to the stolid middle-aged journalist. His true roots are revealed, however, by the sound of a thick-soled motorcyle shoe tapping along to a Bob Seger song on the jukebox. I resist the urge to like him for it.
"Maybe you could explain something to me," I say.
"For sure." Loreal has milky girlish skin with a spattering of cinnamon freckles, though I would swear his cheeks have been lightly rouged. He has baptized himself liberally with the same rotten-guava cologne that he wore that day in Cleo's elevator, which explains the bartender's brisk retreat. Every so often Loreal tilts his head so that the glossy mane hangs clear of his shoulders, and gives it a well-practiced shake.
"I thought record companies didn't release a single until the whole album was done. But 'Me' came out months ago," I say. "It seems strange there's still no Cleo Rio CD."
"She's with a small label and they do things different." On this subject Loreal is not so thrilled to see me taking notes. "Plus, the lady's a righteous perfectionist. She wants to take her time and do it her way. But, yeah, there's pressure to get the record wrapped, and we're almost there. Basically it's down to one song."
"Which one is that?"
'"Shipwrecked Heart.' The title cut."
"The one she sang at the funeral," I say.
"I wasn't there," Loreal says pointedly, "but I heard she did." Two more beers have been delivered, and he snatches at one.
To keep the conversation moving, I ask him if he'd heard about what happened to Jay Burns.
"Yeah, Cleo told me. Unfuckingbelievable," he says. "Jay was supposed to play piano on 'Shipwrecked.'"
"Any of the other Slut Puppies working with Cleo?"
"Nope," he replies, between swigs. I'm waiting to see if he mentions meeting Tito Negraponte tonight, but all he says is: "Jimmy had a good band, but Cleo wants her own sound. Definitely."
He stands up, digs into his stovepipes and throws a twenty on the bar. "Listen, I gotta motor. You need anything else, call Cueball Records in L.A. and ask for the publicist. Sherry, I think her name is."
"Thank you, Loreal."
He smiles and sticks out his hand, which is moist from the bottle. "What'd you say your name was?"
"Woodward. Bob Woodward." I spell it for him. He nods blankly. "Good luck with the album," I say.
"For sure, bro."
At that salutation, I'm overtaken by a whimsical urge to mess with his head. "Doesn't all this creep you out?" I ask as we're heading for the door.
"All what?"
"First Jimmy Stoma, now Jay—it's almost like there's a curse on Cleo's record."
Loreal tosses his magnificent hair and laughs. "Shit, man, it's just the music business. People are always dyin'."
18
Nine-fifteen on Sunday morning, Emma calls.
"Hi, there. You awake?"
I can barely hold the phone. My eyelids feel like dried mud. I had only three beers last night so it's not a hangover; I'm just whipped. Pertly my female caller says:
"Everything all right? How's the story going?"
I remember that Emma makes a mean cup of espresso, and it sounds like she's had about seven cups.
"You got any interviews set up for today? I thought maybe you could use some company."
"Sure," I hear myself say as though it's no big deal, Emma playing sidekick. "But first I've got to know: Did you kiss me the other night?"
"Hmmm."
"When I was on the couch."
"Yes, I believe that was me."
I'm too groggy to know whether Emma is being playful or sarcastic. "I need some guidance here," I tell her.
"Regarding the kiss."
"Exactly. How would you describe it?"
"As friendly," she says, unhesitantly.
"Not tender?"
"I don't think so, Jack."
"Because that's how it felt to me."
"You were in pain. Your judgment was clouded." Emma is a tricky one to read over the phone. "Well, what about today?" she sallies on. "You want me to swing by and pick you up?"
"Sounds good. I've got to track down a source of mine in Beckerville." Now I'm even talking like frigging Woodward. It would seem I'm trying to impress her—all I need is a parking garage for the rendezvous.
"Great," she says. "See you in an hour."
You learn a lot about people from the way they drive. Anne, whom I loved anyway, was a rotten driver; inattentive, meandering and, worst of all, slow. Anne behind the wheel made my eighty-three-year-old grandmother look like Richard Petty. But Emma, to my surprise, is a regular speed demon. She's buzzing along the interstate at ninety-two miles per hour, deftly winding through the church-bound traffic, which is light. She says she's wild about her new car.
"Excellent mileage, highway and city," she reports, sipping from a plastic bottle of boutique spring water. Like almost everyone else I know these days, Emma travels with her own clear fluids. I should probably do the same, as I'm entering the stage of
life when kidney stones tend to announce themselves. I must have mumbled something along these lines, for Emma is now extolling the wonders of ultrasound bombardment, a technique that successfully atomized a granular constellation in her father's urinary pipes. That's right, her father.
I'm driven to ask how old he is.
"Fifty-one," Emma replies, and I take unwarranted comfort in the four-year gap in our ages.
"He's a reporter, too," she adds.