"Here's the deal, Walt," Pamela Van Gelder informed him over crabcakes at a local catfish joint. "Even if you're not the lowest bidder, Orrin will see to it the county buys your buses, and only your buses. His fee is five percent."
"Fee?"
Mrs. Van Gelder smiled. "Call it what you like."
"I call it a corncobbing," said Walter Dubb.
The commissioner's wife didn't flinch. "My husband's a reasonable man. He'll settle for a flat hundred grand, plus one of those fancy Dodge minivans with the electric lift."
"Like hell."
"For Orrin's mother," Pamela Van Gelder explained.
"She's in a wheelchair?" Walter Dubb, experiencing a pang of sympathy.
"No, she's a whale. Can't hoist her fat ass up and down the steps."
The bus contract was worth $3 million and change, so Dubb had some thinking to do. Dubb didn't object to reasonable briberies but he was disgusted by Van Gelder's greedy gall. So, one Saturday morning, Walter called up the city desk to nark out the commissioner. A preoccupied editor cut him off mid-sentence and transferred him to my line. (The only reason I answered is because I thought it was my then-girlfriend calling to explain why she hadn't yet returned from Vancouver, where she was shooting a pantyhose commercial. She never did come home.)
After hearing Walter Dubb's story, I made a couple of calls. The following Wednesday night, Commissioner Gelder and his co-conspiring spouse sat down for dinner with Walter Dubb and a man named George Pannini, whom Dubb had introduced convincingly as the vice president of his bus-customizing division. In fact, Mr. Pannini was employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and was wearing both a sidearm and a microphone.
I was sitting at another table with a photographer, who was discreetly shooting pictures over my left shoulder. Orrin Van Gelder, who had the appetite of a tapeworm, had ordered a T-bone steak, stone crabs, a dozen oysters, a tureen of potato soup and a whole fried onion the size of a softball. His gluttony would be fully documented in my story the next day, along with his crime. The decibel level in the restaurant made eavesdropping difficult, but the gaps in conversation would be filled in, colorfully, by a broadcast-quality FBI tape recording.
The bust went down in the men's room, where Agent Pannini had lured Van Gelder with the promise of a $25,000 down payment on the kickback. It was at a urinal, with one hand on the cash and the other hand on his pecker, that the commissioner was arrested for bribery.
It was a glorious scandal, and my byline stayed on the front page for a solid week, a personal record that stands to this day. Even better, the heavy news coverage flushed from the muck three other vendors who'd been hustled by the commissioner. Each of the aggrieved businessmen consented to an interview, including the fellow who'd sold $1.7 million worth of self-cleaning toilets to the county airport. Van Gelder had insisted that in addition to his customary cash kickback, he wanted a deluxe model self-cleaning commode installed in his private master bathroom. The fixture later malfunctioned while the commissioner himself was enthroned upon it, an errant geyser of bleach scalding both buttocks and his scrotum.
The story, needless to say, was golden. Orrin Van Gelder wound up copping a plea and doing nineteen months at Talladega. I wound up winning that journalism award and being wooed away to a bigger place and a bigger newspaper, where I did some pretty decent work until the shitstorm struck.
And here I am.
Janet drops me off at the donut shop.
I offer to make some phone calls and find out about her brother's so-called autopsy. She's not listening.
"Damn, I almost forgot," she says, and starts to drive away.
"Hey, where you going?"
She hits the brakes. "Back to the funeral place. I've got something that belongs with Jimmy. Something special he gave me."
"Can I ask what?"
She reaches behind the seat and pulls out a white paper shopping bag. She opens it to display a rare gem—a genuine long-playing 33 rpm album. The jacket is faded, and one corner appears to have been gnawed by a puppy. I'm smiling because I recognize the record. The Soft Parade.
"1969," I say.
"Jimmy loved the Doors. This one was his favorite—he gave it to me for my birthday." Janet studies the band's photograph on the cover and asks, "How old was Morrison when he died?"
You bet I know the answer. "Twenty-seven."
"Jimmy told me where it happened, but I forgot."
"In a bathtub."
Janet busts out with a laugh. "No, I meant where, like what city."
Now we're both laughing. "Paris," I say.
Janet gathers herself. "I remember now. My brother went to see the grave. Listen, I better get rolling before they light the bonfire, or whatever."
"You're putting the album in the coffin?"
"Yeah." Sheepishly she slips it back into the bag. "I mean, I've got to do something. Cleo won't ever know."
"Janet, don't you think you should tell somebody about what we saw. Maybe it's not too late to—"
"I don't know." She shrugs drearily. "I don't know anything except Jimmy's gone." And off she goes, peeling rubber.
Moments later I'm in a phone booth talking to my friend Pete, a forensic pathologist at the county Medical Examiner's Office. When I tell him about James Bradley Stomarti's lack of autopsy stitches, he gives a sour chuckle.
"Whenever there's a death in a foreign country, it's dicey. The protocol drives you nuts—plus everybody wants to be so damn polite about the cutting."
"What do I do?"
"Try to stop the cremation," he suggests. "You could get a court order, but for that you'll need immediate family."
"How about a sister?"
"Perfect. But she's gotta call the State Attorney's Office and get them to find a judge. Then the judge needs to send a deputy out to the funeral parlor right away, because once your boy goes into the oven—"
"Adios."
"That's right, Jack. Case closed."
Next I try Rick Tarkington, a state prosecutor who once helped me on a story about a mob murder in exchange for tickets to a Springsteen concert. Being a rock fan, he'll probably remember Jimmy and the Slut Puppies.
Unfortunately, Rick's surly and unhelpful secretary says he's in depositions and cannot be interrupted.
"It's an emergency," I plead. "Can't you give him a message?"
"Not today, sir. I'm leaving early for a doctor's 'pointment."
"Oh? Something serious, I hope."
Janet Thrush is my only chance. The battered Miata is still parked in the lot when I return to the funeral home. After a quick search I find her among the mourners at an open-casket viewing in one of the lavender-scented chapels. According to the remembrance cards being distributed at the door, the deceased is Eugene Marvin Brandt, who was born in 1918.
Janet is quite a standout in her tube top, poised beside a spray of gladiolus and tulips. She's chatting with a spry-looking elderly woman dressed in widow black.
"Gertie, this is Jack," Janet says. "Jack, this is Mrs. Gertie Brandt. Gene's wife."
Gene?
"Nice of you to come." Gertie shakes my hand. She is dry-eyed and composed, leading me to conclude that her husband had been ill for some time, and that his death might have been a blessing. Either that or he was a miserable jerk and she's glad to be rid of him.
Gertie asks, "How do you know my Gene?"
"Professionally," I say. "It was years ago, but he made quite an impression."
Gertie smiles fondly. "He always does." She gestures toward the coffin. "Did you see him? They did a wonderful job."
"He looks real peaceful," Janet chimes in. "And handsome, too," she adds with a wink.
Gertie beams. "Go on, Jack. Have a look."
So, like a moron, I'm standing here admiring a dead stranger. It would appear that Eugene Marvin Brandt is heading for the pearly gates in his favorite golf ensemble, including spikes. Janet appears at my side and squeezes my arm.
"You're a good s
port," she whispers.
"And you are one twisted sister."
"I didn't want to be alone."
"So you crash a viewing?"
"Everyone's been so nice," she says. "What a sweet-looking man, no?"
With her chin Janet points at the eternally recumbent Mr. Brandt. "Guess what he did for a living!"
"We need to talk."
"Catheters. He sold them."
"That would have been my second guess."
"And other medical supplies," Janet adds.
This room, too, is rapidly emptying of oxygen. I take an audible gulp and clutch the rim of the coffin.
"Cancer," says Janet Thrush. "Case you were wondering."
"Can we go now?"
"Cancer of the prostrate."
"Prostate." My voice is raspy and ancient. I'm wondering if it's medically possible to choke to death on the scent of stale flowers.
Janet says, "Once I had a noodle cut out of my armpit."
"A nodule, you mean."
"Whatever. Main thing, it was benign. But still it freaked me out—somethin' growing in my armpit!"
Her words are spiraling down a long gray tunnel. Any second now, I'll be fainting. No joke, I'm going to pitch face-forward into the casket of a dead catheter salesman wearing golf spikes.
"Jack, you don't look so hot."
Firmly Janet steers me out the door, into the fresh air. We sit on the grass under a black olive tree near a small stagnant pond. Slowly I lie back and squeeze my eyelids shut. Two stiffs in one day, Sweet Jesus!
A breeze springs up and I proceed to drift off for an hour, maybe longer. The next thing I know, a cold soda can is being pressed into my right hand. I raise up and take a sip and my eyes tear up from the carbonation. Janet is next to me, sitting cross-legged. Folded in her lap is the white paper shopping bag, now empty.
"You did it," I say, pointing at the bag.
"What?"
"The Soft Parade. Somewhere Jimmy is smiling, I'm sure."
Touching two fingertips to my forehead, Janet says, "Jeez, you're in a cold sweat."
"I'm a wimp," I admit. "The sight of poor old Gene did me in. Gene, all decked out for the eternal dogleg."
"Drink the Coke. You'll feel better."
And soon I do. Taking her by the hand, I lead her back toward the funeral home. "Listen, I checked it out. As Jimmy's sister you can stop the cremation. We'll get a court order," I tell her. "You're a blood relative. You can demand a proper autopsy."
"No, Jack—" Janet, pulling free as we enter the front door.
"Meanwhile we've got to put the fear of Almighty God into young Ellis. Scare him into thinking you're going to sue his ass off if he goes ahead with it today—"
"No," Janet says again. She looks sad and exhausted, holding the empty shopping bag to her breasts. "Jack, it's too late."
"What are you talking about?"
"When you fell asleep, I went inside. Back to that room," she says. "He's gone. It's too late."
"Goddammit."
"I know."
I sag against a planter featuring a lovely plastic rhododendron.
"But what about the album? I thought you put it in with—"
"Too late. So I threw it in the pond—it was a stupid idea, anyway," Janet says. "I mean, the record's vinyl. All it's gonna do is melt all over his damn bones."
I'm thinking Jimmy wouldn't mind.
"Come on," she says, sniffling. "Let's get outta here."
"In a minute."
I see oily-fingered Ellis alone in his cubicle, intently tapping on a portable calculator. Janet hangs back while I peer in the doorway.
Ellis quickly turns his head sideways while simultaneously swiveling his chair toward the wall. "Can I help you?" he squeaks over his shoulder.
"Nice earring, dickhead. But it looked better on Mr. Stomarti."
Ellis claps one hand over his right ear in a futile effort to conceal the stolen diamond.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" he yelps. "Doesn't anybody ever knock anymore!"
6
Emma is off on Mondays, but this can't wait.
The phone rings busy for an hour so I do the unthinkable and drive to her apartment, a duplex on the west side. I know how to get there because I gave her a ride on the day her car got stolen from the newspaper's parking lot. The car was a silver two-door Acura, a gift from her father. The cretin who drove off with it later tried to rob the drive-through window of a bank. He was shot by a guard and died bleeding copiously on Emma's gray leather upholstery. The car was impounded as evidence.
So I agreed to give Emma a lift, which was risky. I feared she might be so upset that she would require consoling, which I couldn't offer. To show sympathy would have thrown slack into a relationship that had to remain as taut as a garrote. If I was to save Emma from the newspaper life, I couldn't become someone in whom she confided, or even (God forbid) a casual friend.
As it turned out, the drive proved uneventful. Emma was remarkably philosophical about the dead robber in her Acura; at no time did she appear in need of a hug or even a pat on the hand. She said she'd spoken to her father and he'd offered to buy her another car once the insurance money came through. She'd told him thanks just the same, but she was a grownup and it was time she paid for her own wheels. Good for you, I said mildly. Then, dropping her off at the duplex, I heard myself asking if she needed a ride to work the following morning. What possessed me, I cannot say. Luckily, Emma already had lined up a rental.
Her apartment is a block off the main highway, but it takes two passes to find the right side street. In the driveway sits Emma's new car, a champagne-colored Camry with the paper license tag still taped in the rear window. Parked on the swale by the road is a familiar black Jeep Cherokee. It belongs to Juan Rodriguez, a sportswriter at the paper. He also happens to be my best friend.
Juan recently began dating Emma, an unnerving development. There was a time when Juan and I could go have a couple beers and bitch self-righteously about the newspaper. Not now. Whatever I might say about the deplorable state of journalism would come off as a rap against Emma, and I don't want to offend Juan. However, his interest in Emma is vexing—for two years he listened to me rail about her, and still he asked her out.
She's different in all ways from the other three women that Juan dates—one is a professional figure skater, one is an orthopedic surgeon and one is a halftime dancer for the Miami Heat basketball team. Contrary to appearances, Juan is in serious pursuit of a lifetime partner. Maybe Emma's the one, but a selfish part of me hopes not. It would suck dead toads to have my best friend romantically involved with my editor.
The question of the moment: Have Juan and Emma started a sexual relationship? If so, there's a strong possibility that I'm about to interrupt an act of copulation, which is hardly ever a good idea. In Emma's windows the blinds are open, but no movement is visible except for a bony calico cat, grooming itself on a sill. Apprehensively I check my wristwatch—at four-thirty in the afternoon, it's more likely that Juan and Emma are screwing than watching Oprah.
But what the hell. This is more important. While James Bradley Stomarti might be ashes, serious work lies ahead. The whole true story of his life and death remains untold, and Emma must be made aware of our duty to set things straight. I walk up and ring the bell. No reply. The duplex has a corroded, wall-mounted air conditioner that sounds like a bulldozer at the bottom of a canal. I try knocking, first with knuckles and then with the heel of my hand. Even the cat refuses to react.
"Shit," I say to myself.
Halfway to the car, I hear the apartment door opening—it's Emma, and to my relief she appears neither disheveled nor recently aroused. She's wearing old jeans, a short white T-shirt and her reading glasses. Her freshly trimmed bangs are parted, and the rest of her hair is pulled back with a navy blue elastic band.
"Jack?"
"Is it a bad time?"
Briskly she descends the steps. "I thought I heard knock
ing—"
"I tried to call but it kept ringing busy."
"Sorry. I was on the computer," Emma says. I think I believe her.