"Yes, the song you claim was a conjugal effort. I know the truth, but the only people who can back me up won't do it. Danny Gitt, the singers, the other studio players—they figure you'll sue 'em if they say anything, and who needs the hassle. Long as they got paid for the sessions, they'll stay quiet."
We are interrupted by an autograph seeker, a gothed-out Ecstasy twerp with a silver safety pin in each nostril.
"You rule, girl," she says to Cleo, who brusquely signs the cocktail napkin as "Cindy Zigler," her given name. Puzzled but grateful, the young fan departs.
"Getting back to the song," I say to Cleo, "maybe you just want to swipe the lyrics, or maybe you want Loreal to loop some of Jimmy's vocals, too—sort of a duet with the dead. That'll get some crossover air play. And I can't wait to see the pop-up video."
"Why the fuck should you care?"
"I was a fan, that's why. But as long as I get Emma back, I don't give damn what you do with Jimmy's song. It'll never be as good as the one he did, but that's show business."
Cleo says, "You're forgettin' one thing. His sister."
"What about her?"
"She don't like me."
"So what? She doesn't know about all this." The secret of big-league bullshitting is to keep it coming.
Loreal says, "I bet she knows about the Exuma sessions."
"No doubt." Cleo scowls and crunches another ice cube.
"She doesn't know anything about this song," I say firmly. "Jimmy never told Janet—I asked her myself." Another hefty lie. I've got no idea if he ever played "Shipwrecked Heart" for his sister. The crucial thing is to convince Cleo that Janet poses no threat.
"She seems perfectly thrilled," I add, "to be getting a hundred grand from the estate."
Cleo laughs acidly. "Her and the goddamn Sea Urchins." She turns to Jerry. "Whaddya think? You said he wanted money."
Jerry says, "He will. Don't worry."
Guys like this, they make it too easy. "That's right, Jerry. The first time I saw you in that snazzy bomber jacket and those Beatle boots, I told myself: I'm gonna squeeze a couple million bucks out of that chrome-domed, noodle-dicked troglodyte."
Now, getting in Cleo's face, I really crank up the charm. "And no offense, Mrs. Stomarti, but if you were sitting here having drinks with Clive Davis, I might be impressed enough to hit you up for a few bucks. Unfortunately, you're here with a dork who's named himself after a fucking hair product, and couldn't get into the Grammys with an AK-47."
A plum blush rises in young Loreal's cheeks, and he huffily challenges me to fisticuffs in the nearest alley. The rest of us stare at him pitilessly.
"Someday you might be a star," I say to Cleo, "but so far you've had exactly one hit single for a rinky-dink label. Whatever money you made is already spent on dope and wardrobe. Beyond the fact you're not worth blackmailing, it's significant to note that I've got nothing to blackmail you with. I can't write a story alleging you stole your husband's song without somebody else saying so. The paper wouldn't print it—please tell me you're not too fried to understand."
The widow paws absently at her bangs. She seems cordially immune to insult. "Suppose you burn another copy of Jimmy's solo version—that'd queer things up for me, it ever got out on the Net. What's to stop you from shakin' me down six months from now? Or a year?"
"Nothing," I say, "except an intense distaste for cliches."
Cleo puffs her cheeks and snorts. "Bottom line, all you want is the chick?"
"Correct."
"What's her name again?"
"Emma. And I want my portable computer, too." I grab one of Jerry's earlobe hoops and pull his grimacing mug close to mine. "The laptop doesn't belong to me, Jer. It belongs to the Maggad-Feist Publishing Group, a publicly held company that is fiercely accountable to its shareholders."
Loreal says, "Jesus, knock it off. We'll buy you a brand-fucking-new Powerbook."
Now the DJ has returned to the podium, and I feel the mother of all headaches taking hold. I release the bodyguard's ear and lean my face across the table into a cloud of Cleo's cigarette smoke. "Let's get this over with."
"I gotta pee." And off she goes.
"So, when can we do it?" I ask Jerry.
"Not tonight," he says. "That's for damn sure."
"Then when?"
He cuffs me sharply on the side of the head and says, "We'll call you tomorrow, asswipe."
"Yeah, we'll be in touch," says Loreal.
As I rise from the table the speakers in the rafters start pounding—a hideous house-mix version of "MacArthur Park."
"You two should cut loose," I advise Cleo's boys. "Don't wait for something slow and romantic. Just let it happen."
27
Knock-knock. Emma opened the door. They snatched her.
Smooth and easy, it appears. The apartment is unlocked. Her purse is on the bed; on the kitchen table, car keys and a cold cup of espresso. For breakfast she had toast and a bowl of Special K.
Two in the morning, this isn't the best place to be. If I stay much longer I'll put a fist through the wall. Emma is gone and it's my fault.
But somebody's got to feed the cat, which cries and turns figure eights on the tile. I lift her into my arms, saying, "It's all right, Debbie. She'll be home soon."
Staring at the damn telephone, just like in the old days.
I remember once waiting seven hours for a source of mine to call—Walter Dubb, the bus-fleet supplier who was helping me nail Commissioner Orrin Van Gelder for bribery.
Walter's wife had gotten on his ass about making waves, so he was experiencing a crisis of faith. And so was I, because without Walter's cooperation the feds had no case and I had no story. The day before the dinner at which Orrin Van Gelder was to be arrested by the undercover FBI man, Walter went deer hunting and failed to return in time for evening mass. His wife called up to rant. She said he must've got depressed and killed himself, and it was all because of me. She said he should've paid off the commissioner and kept his damn fool mouth shut.
Seized with dread, I sat glued to my desk from four that afternoon until eleven at night. My bladder was the size of Arkansas by the time Walter Dubb finally called. He'd killed a buck and skinned it out and then the pickup broke down in the woods and then a bear showed up and made off with the deer meat before Walter could get his rifle out of the rack—this was the tale he laid upon Mrs. Dubb, anyway. Whatever really happened that evening had put Walter in a highly contented frame of mind, and that's all that mattered to me. I whooped and danced all the way to the John.
Tonight I missed another call from Janet Thrush. She phoned the apartment while I was with Cleo and crew at Jizz.
"Meet me Sunday morning at the donut shop," she said in her message. "Try to be there 'round ten-thirty, okay?"
When I called back, the service answered so I hung up and put "Shipwrecked Heart" on the disc player. I tuned my old acoustic guitar and now I'm working through the chords of the song. The opening line of verse starts with a D, but then Jimmy changes keys and I believe the second line begins with an F-major seven, followed by a C, E-minor and an F. This is catchy but it's not exactly Derek and the Dominos. If a klutz like me can play it, so can Cleo. She can also sing the melody in that fashionably wounded way that sells jillions of records for young female artists.
This is how I'm guessing it started. They were hanging out at the house in the islands, Jimmy and his bride. She probably walked into the studio and caught just enough of the track to know it was better than anything she had in the can. She asked her husband to play it again and he probably said no, it's not ready. Then she batted her eyes and stroked his neck and asked if he'd give her the song and he said sorry, babe, this one's mine. Time went by and Cleo's label was hounding her and she kept nagging Jimmy for the cut. She probably flirted and teased and begged and cried and threw a hissy, but he wouldn't budge. And when it became plain to Cleo that her husband was keeping "Shipwrecked Heart" for himself, she decided to kill him.
> And what little she remembered of the song, she sang at his funeral.
Touching.
I messed around with the guitar until an hour before dawn. Then I packed what I thought I'd need, drove to the paper and promptly fell asleep on the floor by my desk. The janitors worked around me, and the phone didn't ring. Now it's nine o'clock and the staff trickles into the newsroom. Abkazion is one of the first to arrive. Somewhere between the elevator and his office door, he spies me and alters course as silkily as a hawk.
"Jack," he says pleasantly, "you look like shit on a Popsicle stick."
Abkazion is one of those editors who prefers to see his reporters rumpled and raw-eyed. It means they're either working too hard or playing too hard—either way, he approves.
"It's this damn story," I say.
"Yeah, Emma told me. How's it going?"
"Ask me in twenty-four hours." I'm tempted to chum him up with my inflated Rick Tarkington quote, but that would require more energy than I can muster. Selling a story to the front page is hard work.
"How was Los Angeles?"
"Productive," I say. "Thanks for the green light."
"Thank Emma. She said you were hot on the trail."
Abkazion isn't tall but he has broad muscular shoulders and carries himself like the collegiate wrestler he once was. He is new to the Union-Register but already has endeared himself to the troops by disregarding several penny-pinching directives from corporate headquarters. He is the newspaper's fourth managing editor in six years and, like the others, Abkazion took the job because he thought he could staunch the bleeding. Soon enough he'll learn that he is working for vampires; vampires with stock options.
"That'd be a helluva twist," he's saying, "if it turns out Jimmy Stoma got snuffed by his old lady. You ever see 'em in concert—the Slut Puppies?"
"No, I never did."
"Lord, he was a wild man onstage," says Abkazion, "and he sure got the girls gooey. Know which song I really liked? 'Basket Case.' I think it was on Reptiles and Amphibians."
"Actually, it's from Floating Hospice" I say.
"You sure? 'Bipolar mama in leather and lace'?"
"That's the one."
"You're the expert." Abkazion smiles. "I hope this story works out for you, Jack."
It's a kind thing to say. He knows my history here.
"When will Emma be in?"
"I'm not sure," I tell him. "I think she called in sick again."
I log on my PC and find the site for the International Herald Tribune. Her father's name is David Cole. His most recent byline appeared three days ago. The dateline was Bhuj, India, where he has been sent to cover a horrific earthquake. I'm sure David Cole's editor knows the hotel number where he can be reached, in the awful event I need to call and tell him his daughter is lost.
Laying my cheek on the mouse pad, I doze off.
The dream is one of my regulars. I open the door and a bare-chested man greets me; a man my age. He's tall, and his sandy hair is shot lightly with gray at the temples.
He grins and says, "Hullo, Jack Jr."
And I say, "Dad, this isn't funny."
His face hasn't changed from the photograph my mother kept; the three of us on Clearwater Beach, me in a baby stroller. He looks like his son around the eyes, this man. The chin, too.
"You thought I was dead but I'm not," he announces impishly.
In the dream, here's what I do next: I grab him by his suntanned shoulders and heave him up against a wall. He looks solid but he's as light as a child.
"What happened to you? What happened?" I'm yelling into his face.
"Nothing," he bubbles. "I'm fit as a fiddle."
"How old are you?"
"Same age as you are," says my smiling father. Then he wriggles free and runs away. I chase after him and we end up on a golf course, of all places, tearing up and down the fairways. In the dream my old man is fleet and cagey afoot.
But I always catch him on the fringe of the thirteenth green, tackling him from behind. I lie there in the soft dewy grass for the longest time, pinning him while I catch my breath.
And when I finally roll my father over, he's not smiling the way he did in my mother's snapshot. He's stone dead.
In the dream I start shaking him like a movie-prop dummy, this fellow who looks too much like me; throttling him not out of grief but in a fever of exasperation.
"You're not funny!" I scream at the whitening face. "Now wake up and tell me how long ago you died!"
That's the way it always ends, me shaking the ghost of my father so ferociously that his teeth fall out of his skull like stars from a black hole.
After a dozen or so nights like that, who could blame Anne for bolting?
I wake up to face Juan and Evan, staring as they would at a five-car pileup.
"Long night?" says Juan.
"You're supposed to be in Tampa."
"Got your message. I woke up early and drove back."
"Evan," I say, "would you excuse us?"
The kid nods disappointedly and mopes toward his desk. What am I now, the entertainment committee?
Juan has brought a bag of breakfast from the cafeteria. He drags an extra chair to my desk and sets out bagels, croissants and orange juice.
"Congratulations," I tell him. "I saw where you got your leave of absence." It was posted on the bulletin board.
"Yeah. Starting Monday."
"I'm proud of you, man. Aren't you juiced about the book?"
He shrugs. "My sister's not so thrilled."
"I'm sorry. That's rough."
"She understands, though. Least she says so."
"You'll do a terrific job," I tell him. "Lizzy will be proud of you when she reads it."
I dive for the phone: Eddie Bell again, calling to flog the Audrey Feiffer obit. Quickly I transfer him to Evan's line and replace the receiver.
Juan says, "Tell me what's happened with your story, Jack."
"It ate me alive, that's what happened. They've grabbed Emma."
At first Juan doesn't say anything. He sets his half-eaten bagel on the desk and looks around, making certain we're not being overheard. Then he takes a drink of juice before calmly asking, "Who's got her, Jack?"
"The widow and her boys."
"What do they want?"
"A song." I tell him the title. "It was on the hard drive we took to Dommie's."
"So, give 'em the damn thing," Juan says.
"I fully intend to. The problem is—"
"They might kill you anyway. You and Emma both."
"Bingo. So I've borrowed a gun."
Juan looks alarmed. "Jesus. Why don't you go to the police?"
"Because they'd never find Emma alive," I say. "This is not your textbook kidnapping, this is Fargo squared. These dipshits are making it up as they go along."
Somberly he eyes the silent telephone. "When are they supposed to call?"
"Any time," I say. "You know what numbskulls they are? They think I want money, in addition to Emma's return. They don't seem to grasp the concept of ransom—that it's the kidnappers who customarily make the demand. See what I'm dealing with?"
Juan leans back, staring into the distance. "What kind of gun?"
"Lady Colt. And don't laugh."
"Jack, you ever fired a pistol?"
"Once or twice. Okay, just once." It was on a police range. I plugged a paper-silhouette felon in the thigh, then wrote a humorous twelve-inch feature story about it.
Juan gets up stiffly. "Man, I need to think about this. Call me as soon as you get the word."
"You'll be the first."
Leaning closer, he says, "Where do you think they're keeping her? What's your best guess?"
"I've got no idea, brother. Not a clue."
"Mierda."
"Just tell me how you did it," I whisper, "that night on the boat from Cuba. Was it reflex? Or did you plan it all out? I need guidance here."
"I'll tell you what I remember, Jack. I remember it seemed easy
at the time." Then he squeezes my shoulder and says, "The bad stuff comes later."
Half past noon, the phone finally rings again.
"Tagger?"
"Jerry, you old rascal. What's up?"
"Parry's at eight-thirty," he says.
"Tonight?"
"You're gonna need a boat and a GPS and a spotlight."