Basket Case

  From Cedars I head straight to LAX and catch a flight that should get me home by midnight. Hunkered like a parolee in a window seat, I snap on the Discman and painstakingly tick through the "Shipwrecked Heart" tracks until I locate what sounds like a fully mixed version. It's pretty good, too. I understand why Cleo Rio wants to steal it for herself.

  Nothing intricate—just Jimmy playing an acoustic guitar and bits of harmonica. The nimble 12-string bridge is way out of his league, and undoubtedly was contributed by one of his famous pals or a first-rate session player. Ironically, there's no bass track at all, which makes the shooting of poor Tito Negraponte even more insulting.

  Above all I'm struck by Jimmy's voice, so stark and subdued that Slut Puppies fans would never guess it was him. A light background harmony comes in on the last two refrains—I'm certain it's Ajax and Maria Bonilla, the singers I met at the funeral.

  While the lyrics are a bit top-heavy with similes, the song is still more interesting than most of the formulaic crap on the radio. Over and over I play the piece, and from beginning to end it comes through as one voice—definitely not Cleo's. I'd bet the farm that Jimmy wrote it long before he met her, and that he wrote it for another woman.

  You took me like a storm, tossed me out of reach,

  Left me like the tide, lost and broken on a beach.

  Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart...

  Watching for your sails on the horizon.

  Years we took the sea, together cold and rough.

  The weather in our souls, we never got enough.

  Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart...

  Dreaming of your sails on the horizon.

  The waves won't let me sleep, night whispers to the shore.

  Stars run behind the clouds, an empty sea wants more,

  The empty sea wants more.

  Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart...

  Watching for your sails on the horizon.

  Watching for your love on the horizon.

  Sitting beside me on the plane is a kid of Evan's age, maybe slightly younger. He seems curious about the open spiral notebook and the unmarked CDs stacked on my lap, but he's too shy to speak up. So I take off the headphones and ask his name.

  Kyle, he says.

  "Mine's Jack Tagger. You like music?"

  Kyle is nineteen, it turns out, and attends the University of South Florida on a baseball scholarship. He plays third base and left field, which means he's got an arm. I ask what kind of music he likes, and he says Rage Against the Machine, Korn, stuff like that. "My girlfriend's favorite is PJ Harvey," he adds.

  "That's promising. And, Kyle, how might she feel about Ms. Britney Spears?"

  He makes a gagging motion with a forefinger.

  "You should probably marry that girl," I say.

  "Sometimes I think about it."

  Kyle hails from Redondo Beach, where the love of his life works in a gym. She drove him to the airport this afternoon and waited at the gate until his flight was called. She's twenty, he adds, opening his wallet to show me a picture. I would have been stupefied if she weren't blond and breathtaking, a statutory requirement for female health-club instructors in Southern California. The name of Kyle's girlfriend is Shawna, and under the circumstances he seems to be holding up well.

  "Would you mind doing me a favor?" I say. "Could you listen to a song and tell me what you think."

  I hand the headset to Kyle and cue up "Shipwrecked Heart." As the track plays, he gives an approving nod and a thumbs-up. Obviously he thinks I've got a proprietary connection to the recording, some creative or financial stake, because the moment it's over he says, "Hey, that's sweet."

  "It's all right if you don't like it. Just tell me the truth."

  "But I do. I mean, it's sorta slow but it's... I dunno—"

  "Pretty?"

  "Yeah. Pretty," he says. "Like an old song."

  "It was written a while back, but never released."

  "Oh," says Kyle. "Is there, like, maybe a faster version?"

  "I'm afraid not. Think your girlfriend would go for it?"

  "For sure. Who is it, anyway?"

  "Ever heard of Jimmy Stoma and the Slut Puppies?"

  Young Kyle shakes his head no.

  "Well, it's Jimmy solo," I say, "only he's dead now."

  "Bummer."

  "How about a singer named Cleo Rio? You know who she is?"

  "I can't remember what song she does, but I caught the video a few times. My girlfriend calls her Princess Pube."

  "What's your girlfriend's last name?"

  "Cummings." Kyle knits his brow. "Why are you writing it down?"

  "Because if you don't marry her," I tell him, "I intend to fly back here and propose myself. She sounds like a winner, Kyle, and winners won't come along often in this ragged sorry life. And don't think you're something special just because you can hit a hanging curve or turn a hot double play. You're not careful, you'll go home Christmas break and find out young Shawna's engaged to some buck-toothed surfer named Tookie. Now, promise you won't let that happen."

  His eyes flick bewilderedly from me to the notebook. "Stick with me, son. I'm a trained journalist."

  "Okay," he says finally. "I promise."

  Improper lane-changing etiquette has resulted in two drivers pulling out semi-automatics and inconsiderately shooting each other in the diamond lane of the interstate. The traffic jam is epic, and by the time I reach my apartment in Silver Beach it's one-fifteen in the morning. Emma is asleep behind the wheel of her new Camry in the parking lot. Quietly I wake her and lead her upstairs, where I prop her in a chair, place a cup of decaf in her hand and make her listen to "Shipwrecked Heart."

  She says it's good. "But—"

  "The answer is yes, she wanted it badly enough to murder him. Remember, Emma, this is supposed to be her big follow-up hit. She's already promised it to the label—a title cut, co-written with her famous ex-rocker husband. But Jimmy says, 'Sorry, darling, this one's mine,' and all of a sudden Cleo sees her Grammy going down the bidet... "

  I'm so wired, so stoked by what Tito Negraponte told me, that I'm yammering at Emma like some hyper-caffeinated auctioneer. "Cleo's under incredible heat to put out an album before people forget who she is. That's the record business—blink twice and you're over. There's no ten years down the road, or even five years down the road. Not anymore. Plus, Cleo knows she'd better come up with a new pose, something that makes her look like a sensitive artiste instead of just another big-eyed anorexic brat."

  "This song's not exactly her style," Emma says. Like every other human under thirty, she has seen the widow's stripteasy performance of "Me" on MTV.

  "Cleo's 'Shipwrecked Heart' won't sound anything like this by the time Loreal gets through with it," I explain. "He'll muck it up with synthesizers and a brainless dance mix, but so what. Cleo doesn't care about the music, she cares about the sell. In her head she's already storyboarding the video."

  Emma flinches. "I can see her now. A scantily clad castaway on a long, deserted beach... "

  "Bingo. Problem is—and this was painfully obvious at the funeral—she can't do the song until she learns the song. And she can't learn the song until she gets her hands on the recording—"

  "But that's not the only reason she wants it," Emma cuts in.

  "Right. What we found on Jimmy's boat is your basic smoking gun." Even if Cleo got a copy and dubbed her own vocals, she couldn't release it as long as the master is floating around. If Jimmy's original ever surfaced, Cleo would be on the next train to Milli Vanilli-ville. Toast.

  Because stealing from your dead spouse is not cool, even in the music industry.

  "So now," Emma says, "Cleo's hunting down everyone who might have the hard drive, or know where it is—you, Jay Burns, Jimmy's sister, even this Tito guy. And the other bass player probably would've been next, if he hadn't run."

  "That seems to be the scenario."

  "Question is, how do we get all this in th
e paper?" Emma is sounding more and more like a serious news editor.

  "First, I've got to make sure we're right," I say, "and I'll know that in about twelve hours."

  "How?"

  "Just you wait."

  "Ah. The man of mystery."

  "Yes, it drives the babes crazy."

  "How about playing that song again," Emma says.

  "You need to sleep."

  "One more time, Jack. Come on."

  So I turn off the lights and Emma makes a place for me in the armchair, and we snuggle there in the faint green glow of the disc player and listen again to "Shipwrecked Heart." Halfway through, Emma grabs the back of my head and kisses me in an arresting manner. This continues as she scissors a bare leg across my lap, adroitly pivots her hips and climbs on top.

  Maybe it's the late hour, or maybe it's Jimmy's song. Either way, I owe him.

  When a newspaper is purchased by a chain such as Maggad-Feist, the first order of business is to assure worried employees that their jobs are safe, and that no drastic changes are planned. The second order of business is to attack the paper's payroll with a rusty cleaver, and start shoving people out the door.

  Because newspaper companies promote the myth that they're more sensitive and socially responsible than the rest of corporate America, elaborate efforts are made to avoid the appearance of a bloodbath. Mass firings are discouraged in favor of strong-armed buyout packages and accelerated attrition. At the Union-Register, for instance, our newsroom has sixteen fewer full-time employees today than it had when Race Maggad III got his manicured mitts on the paper. That's nearly a thirty percent cut in the city-desk payroll, and it was achieved mainly by not replacing reporters and editors who left to work elsewhere. Consequently, lots of important news occurs that we cannot possibly keep up with, due to a shortage of warm bodies.

  Two years ago we lost a terrific reporter named Sarah Mills to Time magazine, which was probably inevitable. Sarah had done outstanding work covering the charmingly crooked municipality of Palm River, and her stories had kept two grand juries occupied for a whole summer. Ultimately three city councilmen were marched off to jail, while the vice mayor fled to Barbados with the comptroller and $4,777.10 in stolen parking-meter receipts.

  So we were all disappointed to see Sarah go, though we were glad for her success. Weeks passed, then months, and still no one was named to fill her job, leading to speculation that the job no longer existed. Sure enough, the reporter who covered Beckerville was asked to "temporarily" pick up the Palm River beat as well. Unfortunately, the city councils of both towns met every Tuesday night and, unable to be in two places at once, our harried correspondent was forced to alternate his attendance.

  The politicians in Beckerville and Palm River aren't exceptionally astute, but they soon figured out that every other meeting was pretty much a freebie and composed their venal agendas accordingly. In short order both city councils raised property taxes, hiked garbage fees, rezoned residential neighborhoods to accommodate certain special interests (a tire dump in Beckerville; a warehouse park in Palm River), and then rewarded themselves with hefty pay raises. All of this was timed to occur when our overworked reporter was absent, covering the other town's meeting. He dutifully alerted his editor, who said nothing could be done. Maggad-Feist had imposed a hiring freeze at the Union-Register, and Sarah's position was to remain open indefinitely.

  Eventually the Beckerville/Palm River reporter got so frazzled that he, too, left the paper. Both his beats were promptly heaped upon the reporter assigned to cover the Silver Beach city council, which, in a foul stroke of fate, also met on Tuesday nights. For the corrupt politicians in our circulation area, it was a dream come true. While Maggad-Feist was racking up a twenty-three percent profit, the unsuspecting citizens of three communities—loyal Union-Register readers whom MacArthur Polk had promised to crusade for—were being semi-regularly reamed and ripped off by their elected representatives, all because the newspaper could no longer afford to show up.

  The priorities of young Race Maggad III became clear when out of the blue he announced that the headquarters of Maggad-Feist was moving from Milwaukee to San Diego. A corporate press release said the purpose of relocating was to capitalize on the dynamic, high-tech workforce in California. The truth was more banal: Race Maggad III wanted to live in a climate where he could drive his German sports cars all year round, far from the ravages of Wisconsin winters (the annual salt damage to his Carrera alone was rumored in the five figures). So Maggad-Feist picked up and moved its offices to San Diego at a cost to shareholders of approximately $12 million, or roughly the combined annual salary of two hundred and fifty editors and reporters.

  The chain's methodical skeletonizing of its newsrooms affected even Emma's career trajectory. She was hired at the Union-Register as a copy editor and swiftly promoted to assistant city editor, with the promise of more big things to come. Then the editor of the Death page unexpectedly dropped dead of a heart attack. This happened while he was on the phone with an irate funeral-home proprietor who was complaining about an ill-worded headline that had appeared above the obituary of a retired USO singer (Mabel Gertz, 77, Performed Acts for Many GIs). The stricken editor expired silently and perpendicular, the telephone receiver wedged in the crook of his neck. Nobody noticed until an hour after deadline.

  The next morning Emma was summoned to the city editor's cubicle and informed that, as the junior member on the desk, she'd been chosen to "fill in" on the Death page. Thanks to previous staff departures, her new duties would also include the Gardening and Automotive sections of the paper. I think young Emma truly believed the city editor when he told her it was "a golden opportunity." She also believed him when he said it was only a temporary move, and that she'd soon be back on the news desk, editing significant stories. Time passed but Emma didn't make a fuss because she was a trouper, not a troublemaker. That's changing, though, and I'm considering taking some of the credit.

  "Abkazion didn't want to pay for your plane ticket," she's telling me, "but I straightened him out."

  I'm impressed; Abkazion is a tough customer.

  Emma says, "I reminded him what happened at Robbie's going-away party, when he got bombed and pulled me into a broom closet."

  Robbie Mickelson was our environmental writer. He left the paper after it was decided the environment was no longer in danger, and his beat was eliminated.

  "The broom closet? That's pretty cheesy," I say.

  "I nailed him in the testicles with a bottle of Liquid-Plumr. He couldn't have been more contrite."

  "You're definitely getting the hang of middle management."

  We're eating breakfast at an IHOP, of all places. The sight of Emma demolishing a tower of buttermilk pancakes has left me unaccountably enchanted. Everything she does, in fact, is downright fascinating. The way she folds one corner of the napkin, for example, before dabbing maple syrup from her lips...

  "Jack, get a grip," she says.

  But it's too late for that. I'm already in the barrel, and the barrel's going over the falls. God help me, I've got a crush on my editor—the woman whom I vowed to outwit, demoralize and drive out of the newspaper business. My mission has been derailed by raw straightforward lust, and I couldn't be happier.

  Emma says, "It's the story, Jack. You're just jazzed about the story."

  "Jazzed."

  "High," she says.

  "I know what it means, and you're wrong. If the story goes bust tomorrow, I'll still—"

  "Don't say that. The story's good."

  "Emma, what do you think is happening here?"

  Pensively she taps her fork on the empty pancake platter. "I wish I weren't your boss," she says.

  "And I wish you weren't so elliptical."

  "There's no mystery, Jack. I just don't know what to do."

  "Here's a modest proposal: We see as much as possible of each other, and screw ourselves delirious at least once a night."

  Emma groans. "Obviously you'
ve given this a lot of thought."

  "Call me an incurable romantic."

  "Try to be serious for a minute."

  "Seriously? Let's go to Paris," I say.

  She smiles, which is vastly encouraging, but then says: "Jack, you were twenty years old when I was born."

  "Nineteen," I shoot back. "What's your point? And where are you going?"

  "To work." She comes around the table and kisses the top of my head, one of those sweet but contemplative pecks that makes you wonder if you've just been dumped.

  "How can you leave me here?"

  "Finish your sticky bun, old man," Emma says. "You're gonna need your strength." Then she gives me a naughty double wink that knocks me off my pins. Life is pretty good, for the moment.