Basket Case

  Quarter past three on Thursday afternoon.

  Phone rings. Eddie Bell from the Bellmark Funeral Home.

  "Jack, you been out sick, or what? I miss your stuff in the paper lately. That Evan kid, he's okay but—"

  "I can't talk now, Eddie. I'm waiting on a call."

  "This'll just take a sec. I got one cries out for your golden touch, Jack. I'm so glad you're not sick, God forbid," he says. "Remember a few years back, widow lady shot some dirtbag that was breaking into her condo? Eighty-four years old, she popped him like five times point-blank. Pow! Blew his gourd off."

  "Yeah, I remember, Eddie. Let me call you back—"

  "Made all the networks. Maury Povich, too." One thing about Eddie Bell, he loves the hype. "Lady name of Audrey Feiffer?"

  "How could I forget."

  The burglar had gotten stuck sneaking into Mrs. Feiffer's kitchen through the kitty door. She thought he was the neighbor's chow, trying to get at her Siamese, and emptied her late husband's revolver into him. Then she fixed herself a cup of chicken broth and lay down for a nap.

  "Well, she finally passed on," Eddie says. "Natural causes, God bless her. We happen to be handling the arrangements—"

  "Evan'll do a nice job on the story."

  "Wait, wait! The best part, she asked to be buried with her NRA patches—the ones they sent her after she wasted that guy." Eddie is breathless. "She was so proud, she stitched 'em to the front of her favorite housedress. By hand!"

  "Patches," I say.

  "Plus an autographed picture of Charlton Heston—she wanted that in the casket, too. Come on, Jack. This one cries out for your touch, no?"

  "I'll have Evan call you."

  Two beats after I hang up, the phone rings again.

  "Jack?"

  It's Emma. What lousy timing.

  "Where are you?" I ask. "I can't talk now—Janet's supposed to call on this line any second."

  "I don't think so," she says dully.

  "What does that mean?"

  "This is your phone call, Jack. The one you're waiting for."

  I'm telling myself no, it can't be.

  But in a chilling monotone she says: "Do whatever they tell you. Please." Then the line goes dead.

  "Emma?" a tremulous voice repeats. My own.

  "Emma!" My hand is shaking as I hang up the receiver. Almost instantly the phone rings again, and I jump like a mouse.

  "Hello." It feels like I'm shouting though I can barely hear myself. I seem to have forgotten how to inhale.

  "So, dickhead." It's Jerry on the other end, gloating. "What d'you think now?"

  "I think maybe we can work something out."

  "Okay then. Be there tonight."

  "Not so fast." I've lost my relish for smart-ass banter, so this won't be easy. "Let me speak to the boss."

  "She ain't available."

  "Jer, please don't make me hurt you again."

  "I shoulda killed you when I had the chance."

  "Yeah, and I should've bought Amazon at fifteen and a quarter."

  Cleo's bodyguard hangs up. I turn to see the approach of Rhineman, our eternally queasy Metro editor.

  "I was looking for Emma," he says. "The diversity committee meets at four."

  This is a group that convenes regularly to suggest ways for the Union-Register to become more ethnically diverse. To date, its only useful recommendation is that the paper shouldn't employ so many white people.

  Rhineman asks me to remind Emma about the meeting. "Four o'clock in the executive conference room."

  She's not here, I tell him. She called in sick.

  I entrusted the thing to Carla, who entrusted it to a young woman known on the club circuit as Thurma, a breeder and keeper of exotic wildlife. It was from Thurma's private collection that Carla had procured my Savannah monitor, the late Colonel Tom. Thurma lives in the piney glades on the western edge of the county, and in my agitated condition I'm pleased to let Carla do the driving. She is mercifully casual with her questions, even though she knows there's a shitstorm in the works. Today her hair is the color of watermelon, arranged in whimsical cornrows.

  "Mom called last night, half out of her skull. Derek's written a poem to read at the reception Saturday. It's three frigging pages!" Carla reports delightedly. "He's having it printed up special and handed out to all the guests—hey, Blackjack? Wake up. This is for your benefit, pal."

  "Sorry. Go on."

  "Guess what it's called, Derek's matrimonial poem."

  "Got to be an ode to something," I say absently. "Ode to a princess. Ode to a maiden... "

  Carla crows, banging her hands on the steering wheel. "You are goodl It's 'Ode to a Brown-Eyed Goddess.' I swear to Christ, if he goes through with this, the wedding's gonna be a pukefest."

  "Hey, your mom's happy. That's all that counts."

  "Don't go soft on me now, you gnarly old fart."

  "Carla, I need a favor." "What else."

  "Something happens to me"—I've got my notebook open, trying to scribble Rick Tarkington's name and number—"if something happens to me, you call this guy. Tell him I went to meet the merry widow tonight at Jizz."

  "Hey! I'll go with you and we can flirt disgracefully."

  "Like hell." I tear the page from the notebook and slip it into her handbag. "Also, please tell him there's a woman who's been abducted. Her name is Emma Cole and she works for the paper. She's only twenty-seven."

  "Oh God, Jack. What did you do?"

  "Outsmarted myself. How much farther?"

  Thurma and her creatures dwell in a double-wide trailer enclosed by a tall chain-link fence. The name on the mailbox says "Bernice Mackle." Chained to a pine tree in front of the trailer is a coyote, of all things, pacing irritably in the shade.

  Thurma is out running errands but she taped a note to the front door: "Cage #7. Slow and easy."

  Carla digs the door key out of a flower pot and we enter warily. I don't know where Thurma eats or sleeps, the trailer is stacked with so many glass terrariums. Each contains one or more formidable reptiles. Thurma has accommodatingly unlocked the lid to number 7, which is home to the largest Eastern diamondback I've ever seen, its head the size of my fist. The rattler is coiled upon an anvil-shaped rock. Next to the rock is a water dish, and propped next to the water dish sits a familiar black box, once the secret pride and joy of James Bradley Stomarti.

  "I told her to stash it in a safe place," Carla explains.

  The snake is oblivious and somewhat lethargic, a condition attributable to a bunny-sized lump in one of its coils.

  "Now what?" I ask Carla.

  She points to a pair of barbecue tongs. "Slow and easy, remember."

  "How much do you adore me?"

  "Not that much, Jack."

  "Honestly, my reflexes aren't what they used to be."

  "Come on. It's practically in a coma," Carla says.

  Carefully I lift the plastic lid off the tank.

  "You want, I'll try and distract him." Carla presses her nose against the glass but jumps back when the rattler halfheartedly flicks its tongue.

  "Screw that," she says.

  Wielding the barbecue tongs, I take aim at the hard drive. Twice I panic and yank my arm away before getting a solid grip. On the third try I snatch hold of the box but, while lifting it, I see the snake's skin ripple and its nose turn slightly toward me. Then comes the rattle, which is unlike any other sound in nature. Brilliantly I pull my hand from the tank just as the beast strikes, fangs ticking harmlessly against the glass. Carla squeals as the tongs and the hard drive clatter to the floor.

  Somewhere, Jimmy Stoma must be laughing his ass off.

  If I'd checked my voice mail like a real reporter I would have known that Janet Thrush was neither dead nor being held captive by her sister-in-law. She'd left three messages, starting with: "Hi, Jack. It's Janet. Something super weird happened and I had to get outta Dodge for a while. I'm staying with some girls down in Broward. Call me, soon as you get a c
hance. It's, uh, 954-555-6609." The number connected to a service, where I left word for Ms. Thrush to phone me at home as soon as possible.

  But when I returned from Dommie's house, the tape on my answer machine was empty. So I'm sitting here, in the same faded old armchair where Emma and I made love, waiting for calls and plotting the big rescue. The most ambitious version of my plan is to save Emma, get Cleo busted, break open the Jimmy Stoma story and sail onto the front page of the Union-Register for the first time in 987 days.

  But I would gladly settle for saving Emma, period.

  Nothing momentous will take place at the club; of that I'm sure. They'll want the exchange to go down somewhere else, someplace quiet and remote. They might not even agree to do it tonight. I've tried to convince myself that all Cleo cares about is Jimmy's song, and that once I give it up she'll free Emma. Except that Emma is now a major problem because she can nail Cleo—or at least Jerry—for abduction and assorted other felonies. So can I. Thus a case could be made for eliminating both of us. It would be moronic, true, but the prisons of Florida aren't overflowing with Mensa candidates.

  Here's something: When I told Carla I had a heavy meeting with some unpleasant characters, she offered to loan me a pistol.

  And I took it. Guns scare the daylights out of me, but dying scares me more. So on my kitchen counter now sits a loaded Lady Colt.38, which supposedly is more petite and purse-friendly than the macho-oriented model. That's fine by me; I've got my dainty side. Also on the counter are two external hard drive units—Jimmy's original, and an identical copy made this afternoon by Juan's whiz-kid pal in exchange for twenty dollars' worth of Upper Deck baseball cards.

  Juan is the person I most need to consult, but he's over in Tampa covering a Devil Rays game. He's the one fellow I know who is intimate with the primal impulse; he could tell me what it's like to make that decision and then live with it. My plan doesn't include killing anybody but I believe I might do it for Emma; that and more. Once the realization sinks in, I feel oddly liberated and energized. Emma's alive, and I'll do whatever it takes to get her back. No other option exists, so why fret?

  When I asked Carla Candilla why she owned a pistol, she said, "Get real, Jack—hot single chick, living alone. Hul-lo?"

  "Does your mother know?"

  "That's who gave it to me."

  "No way," I said.

  "Seriously. She's got one, too."

  "Anne packs a rod? Our Anne?"

  Carla said, "She never told you because she didn't want you to freak. No big deal."

  The things I didn't know.

  I arrive at the club at quarter past ten. Cleo Rio suspects I'm wearing a wire so, in a scene worthy of a Derek Grenoble potboiler, Jerry leads me to the men's room and roughly pats me down. Fortunately, I've left Lady Colt under the front seat of the Mustang.

  In the coziness of the toilet stall I remark upon the stylishness of Jerry's black velvet eye patch. "That cologne, though, smells like fermented pig piss. Why does she make you wear it?"

  "Shut the fuck up," he says, slugging me in the ribs. When my respiration stabilizes, we return to the table. Loreal has arrived, hair aglimmering, to complete the motley foursome. Cleo is sporting white leather pants and a matching vest with nothing but skin beneath it. Tonight her pageboy is magenta while her eyelids and lips are done in cobalt. The look clashes badly with her Tortola-caliber tan.

  Drinks are ordered and small talk is commenced, mostly by Loreal. He has been creatively inspired by something "funky" he heard on a No Doubt CD, and is confident he can replicate the effect on Cleo's record. She nods impassively and lights another cigarette. No screwdrivers for the widow tonight; it's black coffee. Loreal and I are tending Budweisers, while one-eyed Jerry sticks with Diet Coke. For a goon he's quite the sober professional.

  As soon as the Nordic Rastafarian DJ takes a break, I invite Loreal to shut up so I can talk business with Cleo. She seems amused by my rude treatment of her boyfriend—clearly she'll be dumping this joker as soon as the album is finished. I expect she's already gotten stingy with the blow jobs.

  "Here's the situation, Mrs. Stomarti," I begin. "You want Jimmy's song. I want my friend back."

  "It's not just Jimmy's song. We did it together."

  "Save that crap for the media tour. I listened to the tracks myself. Your husband wrote that number a long time ago, probably for another girl."

  Cleo takes a hard drag. Her hand is steady. Eyeing me, she says, "Tagger, you got a death wish?"

  I feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. "It's a good song," I say, "wherever it came from."

  "A damn good song," Cleo says with a chuckle.

  "And we'll make it even better," Loreal chimes in. "Time we're done, it won't sound anything like Jimmy's."

  The widow and I ignore him. To her I say: "When I get Emma, you get the computer drive with all the music."

  "Don't forget the discs you made."

  "Them, too. Absolutely."

  Jerry, sipping his soda, gives a scornful grunt. Turning to him, I can't resist saying: "You know what I belted you with, that night you busted into my apartment? A frozen lizard."

  Reflexively Jerry touches a knuckle to his patch.

  "That's right, tough guy. Your eye was put out by a one-hundred-and-seventy-seven-pound weakling armed only with a dead reptile. It's something to tell your grandchildren, when they ask how it happened."

  Loreal says, "That's not funny, dude."

  Jerry angrily states that I'm full of shit.

  "Cleo, you should've been there," I say. "Your man saw all that blood on the floor and figured I was dead, so he ran away. But I wasn't dead."

  "Unfortunately not," she says. "But you're gettin' closer by the minute, Tagger."

  Her tone is not entirely unconvincing, but I laugh it off. "Is that supposed to be a threat? For God's sake, you're twenty-three years old!"

  "Twenty-four," she says, "and my coffee's cold. So, how we gonna do the trade?"

  I hear myself warning her to watch her step. "If you harm Emma or me, prepare for an eternal rain of shit. Lots of people know what I've been working on, and they'll come inquiring. And then they'll come back again and again."

  Here I lay it on thick, dropping the names of detectives Hill and Goldman and of course Tarkington, the prosecutor. "By the way," I tell Cleo, "he was a big fan of your husband's."

  She appears unmoved. "How can I, like, trust you to keep quiet?" she demands. "About the song, I mean."

  "No, you mean about everything." Here comes the hairy part. "Look, I know you killed Jimmy, but I'll never prove it because the autopsy was a joke and the body's been cremated. Jay Burns was cool with the program because you promised he could play on 'Shipwrecked,' and who doesn't want to be on a hit record? But then I showed up at the boat, Jay went jiggy and you guys decided he wasn't all that terrific a piano player. The cops are ready to believe he got drunk and dozed off under that mullet truck. I seriously doubt it but, again, where's the proof?"

  I shrug. Cleo yawns like a lioness and bites into an ice cube. Loreal starts to say something but wisely changes his mind. Jerry, meanwhile, folds his cable-sized arms across his chest. I think he picked this up from a Mr. Clean commercial.

  "Now, let's talk about Tito Negraponte," I say. "Poor Tito wasn't lying when he told you he didn't know anything about 'Shipwrecked Heart.' He had nothing to do with the Exuma sessions. Jimmy didn't use him."

  Cleo levels a moist glare at Loreal, who looks as if he wants to crawl under the ashtray.

  "That's correct, darling," I inform the widow. "You tried to murder the wrong bass player. I'm guessing the Mexican gentlemen who took the job were recruited by Jerry here. Old prison chums, am I right, Jer? You look as if you spent some time in the yards."

  The bodyguard's lips curl into a pale smile. I wink obnoxiously and plow ahead:

  "I'm also guessing that the two fellows who visited Tito are no longer with us, meaning the shooting can't be traced to anyone
at this table. Which leaves me with what? A song."

  "The song," says Cleo, whose sphynx-like composure is unnerving.