Basket Case

by Carl Hiassen

  "Shit. This is a Versace."

  The bartender sent a club soda, and Cleo went to work scrubbing on the stain. I asked if it was true that the record label had canceled her contract. She said so what, it was a chickenshit outfit anyway. "After the trial I'm getting an incredibly sweet deal. My new manager's talking mega."

  "Awesome," I said, which seemed to please her. "Hey, have you found a new producer yet?"

  Cleo's response was to pulverize an ice cube with her molars.

  "Or a new bodyguard?"

  "That's not funny, man. When this is over," she said, "I'm gonna sue your newspaper for about twenty million bucks."

  "When this is over, Cindy Zigler, you'll be in prison."

  "Yeah, right."

  Carla couldn't help but notice the wane of bonhomie. "Cleo, before we say goodbye, I gotta ask—in the video, was that you or a body double?"

  The widow perked up. "It was all me. Every curly little hair."

  Her arrest was bannered on the front page: Singer Charged in Death of Rock-Star Husband.That was the headline. Here was the byline:

  By Jack Tagger Staff Writer

  For the first time in four years I sent a clipping to my mother. I also saved a copy for Anne, at her request. She and Derek were in Italy where he was researching a new spy novel, The Bishop's Chambermaid.Anne mentioned it, with a gently appropriate joke, in a postcard.

  The truth behind James Bradley Stomarti's death received heavy play in the celebrity press as well as the music trades. By the time the trial started, Jimmy and the Slut Puppies were hot all over again. The record company repackaged Floating Hospiceand A Painful Burning Sensationas a double album, spiced with previously unreleased bonus tracks. In only three weeks, a digital re-mix of the "Basket Case" single drew sixty-two thousand downloads off the band's interactive Web site. A new video, starring Kate Hudson as the bipolar mama, features never-before-seen concert footage of the Slut Puppies, including Jimmy's lewd spoof of Pat Robertson.

  The group is making money again. Miraculously, some of it has found its way to Jimmy's estate, and many deserving little urchins will be trundling off to sea camps next summer.

  Cleo Rio's trial lasted three weeks. Danny Gitt flew in from the Seychelles to testify about a heated argument he'd heard between Jimmy and his wife in the studio, an argument about a song. Tito Negraponte arrived from California with his pockets full of Percocets, so Rick Tarkington wisely elected not to depose him. He didn't need to. Janet Thrush proved to be a devastating witness, shredding Cleo's contention that she and her husband had collaborated on "Shipwrecked Heart."

  I'd anticipated that Cleo's defense team might try to drag me into the case, but they must have figured out it would backfire. Their client already had plenty to explain without adding the criminal antics of Jerry and Loreal. It was no surprise that the widow Stomarti declined to take the stand in her own defense. Her lawyers gamely presented the theory that Jimmy had accidentally overdosed himself before the fatal dive. Their star witness was a retired ophthalmologist who claimed it was not impossible for a farsighted person to have grievously misread the label on a Benadryl package.

  The jury was out less than three hours. Cleo got convicted, and the judge gave her twenty-to-life. On the day of sentencing, the number 9 rock single on the Billboardcharts was "Cindy's Oyster," recorded by Jimmy Stoma.

  "Shipwrecked Heart" was number 5.

  And Janet Thrush was moving from her modest house in Beckerville to a three-bedroom waterfront apartment on Silver Beach. From there she will manage her dead brother's career, and a charitable foundation established in his name. The tracks from the Exuma sessions were purchased for $1.6 million by Capitol Records, and the full Shipwrecked HeartCD is due for release in six weeks. A company press release said there's enough material for two more compilations.

  Before signing the deal, Janet had called from Los Angeles to ask my advice.

  "Well, what would Jimmy have done?" I said.

  "Grabbed the money," she replied. "What the hell am I thinking?"

  Janet never told another soul that she'd switched the tags on the coffins. The court order to open the grave emanated from a confidential tip to Rick Tarkington's office. I was the only journalist to report that Jimmy Stoma's favorite Doors album was found with his body. Ultimately, the mistaken cremation of Eugene Marvin Brandt was pinned on Ellis, the thieving funeral director, who proclaimed his innocence even as he quietly settled out of court with Gertie Brandt for a sum rumored to be in the six figures. It might have been less had Ellis not pried the custom golf spikes off Gene's dead feet, and had he not been wearing them the day the process server found him on a public driving range in Port Malabar.

  The investigation, indictment and prosecution of Cleo Rio generated thirteen front-page articles in the Union-Register,all of them written by me. Race Maggad III was said to be enraged by the reappearance of my byline, but Abkazion refused to delete it, or to yank me off the story. Usually such adherence to principle would cost a managing editor his job, but those days might be over.

  On the morning Cleo was convicted, I walked into the newsroom and asked Emma to fire me. She said no. Immediately I took her into a broom closet on the third floor, removed her panties and made love to her.

  "You're cruising for trouble," she warned.

  After lunch I did it again.

  "Now you've gone too far. You've made me miss the one o'clock," Emma declaimed after we'd caught our breaths. "You're fired, Jack."

  "Thanks. I'll see you tonight."

  Charles Chickle, Esq., had the trust documents ready to sign when I arrived. Race Maggad III was stewing outside, so Charlie and I took our sweet time. I commended him on prolonging the probate of MacArthur Polk's estate until the Stoma story ran its course. Then we talked bass fishing and Gator football.

  Finally, Charlie said, "You ready?" He'd already spent an hour with Maggad, tenderizing him.

  "Bring in the sulky young mandrill," I instructed.

  Presently a secretary escorted the chairman of the Maggad-Feist Publishing Group into the lawyer's office, and barrister Chickle excused himself.

  "Master Race, sit down!" I bubbled.

  He wore a peerless wool suit but otherwise he looked terrible, drawn and sleepless, with scrotal bags under his anxious green eyes. Even his hair refused to shine.

  "Good afternoon, Jack," he said tautly.

  "You never told me how you liked the old man's obit."

  "Didn't I? I thought it was fine."

  "I'll pass along your compliments to the writer."

  Maggad scowled. "But I thought youwrote it."

  "At my right hand was a college intern named Evan Richards. Bright kid, too. He's not coming back to the Union-Registerbecause he noticed that you've run it into the shitter."

  I reminded young Race that it had been several months since we'd last spoken, and that significant events had occurred in the interim. Maggad-Feist lost a costly antitrust suit in upstate Washington, and had been forced to sell two profitable radio stations. The price of company stock spiraled from 40 1/4 to 22 1/4, a five-year low. Two competing media conglomerates—one German, one Canadian—had initiated hostile attempts to take over the chain.

  And MacArthur Polk, one of the largest individual shareholders, had passed away.

  "Tell me something I don't already know," Maggad grumbled.

  "How about this, hoss? As of tomorrow, you'll no longer be paying my salary."

  "Whoopee-do. Where's the champagne." Young Race was in a tough spot, so I let him blow off steam. "Newspapers are in the business of making money, Tagger, so don't be so naive and self-righteous. Journalism can't exist without making a profit."

  "Well, you damn sure can't have goodjournalism when you're milking the cow for twenty-five percent. We might as well be working for the Gambinos," I said. "By the way, how are the Porsches enjoying that dreamy Southern California climate? No more slush in yourtailpipes, I'll bet!"

  For a mo
ment it appeared that Maggad was sucking his own cheeks down his throat. I'd touched a raw nerve with that California jab—Forbeshad recently done a snarky article about the obscene cost of relocating Maggad-Feist's headquarters to sunny San Diego. Shareholders were seething.

  Stonily he said to me, "We publish twenty-seven very good papers. They win awards."

  "In spite of you, yes, they do."

  The Race Maggads of the industry have a standard gospel to rationalize their pillaging. It goes like this: American newspapers are steadily losing both readers and advertisers to cable TV and the Internet. This fatal slide can be reversed only with a radical recasting of our role in the community. We need to be more receptive and responsive, less cynical and confrontational. We need to be more sensitive to our institutions, especially to our advertisers. We can no longer afford to shield our news and editorial operations from the pressures and demands that steer the business side of publishing. We're all in this together! In these difficult times we need to do more with less—less space in which to print the news, fewer reporters with which to cover it, and a much smaller budget with which to pursue it. Yet even as we do more with less, we must never forget our solemn pledge to our readers, blah, blah, blah ...

  It's an appalling geyser of shit and nobody with half a brain believes a word, not when polo-playing CEOs can confidently talk of twenty-five percent annual profits. Like most publishing tycoons, Race Maggad III is oblivious to his own vulgarity. On the positive side, he has (unlike the Hearsts and Pulitzers of their day) no hidden political agenda to peddle, no private vendettas to promote on the pages of his newspapers. Maggad cares about one thing only.

  "What, you want me to grovel?" he said. "You know we need to repurchase Mr. Polk's shares, and you know why. Try to put aside your petty personal bitterness, Tagger. Think of all your friends and colleagues whose jobs would be jeopardized if one of these hostile entities gained control of our company."

  "You're implying things would get worse in the newsroom? How's that possible? Are you suggesting these people have less interest in decent journalism than you do?"

  Maggad desperately longed to kick out my front teeth, but the task at hand required civility. Lord, I'd have loved to see his expression when Charlie Chickle broke the news that Old Man Polk had put his Maggad-Feist stock holdings in a trust. A trust to be managed by me—the same wise-ass who'd insulted Maggad in front of his investors, the same impertinent prick whose career he had conspired to destroy. "The irony is delicious, isn't it, Race?"

  "Fuck irony. How much do you want for the stock?"

  "Mr. Polk left very specific instructions," I said.

  Maggad steepled his manicured fingers. "We're flexible, up to a point."

  "Flexible won't cut it," I told him. "You need to be whorishly compliant, prompt and unquestioning. The price of the shares is simple market value, averaged during the preceding thirty days."

  "That's doable," Race III allowed coolly.

  "But before the stock changes hands"—here was the kill shot—"Maggad-Feist must divest itself of the Union-Register."

  My natty visitor went rigid. "Horseshit," he snapped.

  "Aw, don't look so blue."

  "No deal. No way."

  "Fine," I said. "The more you stall and fart around, the richer I get. Did Mr. Chickle happen to mention what they're paying me to bust your balls?"

  "Sell the Union-Register?"

  "Yes, but not just to anybody."

  Maggad gripped the arms of his chair as if he was about to eject himself from an F-16. The trunk of his neck turned florid, pulsing like a fire hose.

  "Who?" he asked. "Sell it to who?"

  "To whom.'"I was unable to conceal my disappointment with his grammar. "Really, Race."

  "To whom," he sneered. "Tell me, goddammit."

  "Ellen Polk. The old man's wife."

  "The nurse?"

  "The heiress," I said.

  "Christ Almighty. This was your idea, wasn't it, Tagger?" I didn't deny it, which was tacky of me. The old man himself dreamed up the scheme. But Maggad looked so wretched and beaten that I couldn't bring myself to set the record straight. "For how much?" he asked.

  "A straight-up trade. She gets the newspaper, you get Mr. Polk's stock."

  "That's asinine." He was doing the math in his head. "The Dow is in the toilet right now, so the Union-Registermust be worth ten, twelve times the value of the old man's shares. Easily."

  "As you wish, Master Race. Tomorrow I'll be lunching with the Canadians."

  "Jesus, hold on."

  "By the way, that's a gorgeous suit," I told him, "but it's eighty-four fucking degrees outside. And you were born for khakis, my friend."

  In the end, Race Maggad III chose to give up one newspaper so that he might keep twenty-six others, God help them. The deal was signed one week before young Race's favorite polo pony attacked him in the stall, stomping on his cranium. With therapy he seems to be recovering steadily, though doctors doubt he'll ever drive a five-speed transmission again.

  Last month, Ellen Polk became the first woman publisher of the Union-Register.The first thing she did was expand the news hole by twenty-five percent. The second thing she did was order Abkazion to fill the empty desks in the newsroom. Today separate reporters are assigned to Palm River, Beckerville and Silver Beach, blanket coverage which has compelled the politicians there to quit running their council meetings as weekly bazaars.

  Under Mrs. Polk, even the Death page has been restored to its former glory, with two full-length obituaries running daily. Emma is no longer in charge of that section. As a reward for supervising the Jimmy Stoma stories, she was promoted to "deputy" assistant city editor. I asked if that meant she had to wear a silver star on her chest, and she told me to get out of the bathroom so she could finish drying her hair. She refuses to leave the newspaper business, and she refuses to leave me. I'm the luckiest nutcase I know.

  After the airboat adventure Emma skated without incident through the remainder of her twenty-eighth year. Last Saturday was her birthday, and we drove to Naples for dinner with my mother, my stepfather, Dave, and the Palmers, whom Dave now extols as blue-chip additions to his country club. This racially enlightened attitude has evolved only since Mr. Palmer's son taught Dave how to fade a three-wood off the fairway.

  As we cleared the table I cornered my mother in the kitchen and asked her how she came to receive Jack Sr.'s obituary. She told me that his older brother, a lawyer in Orlando, had mailed it to her. "He's the one I should've married. The attorney," my mother remarked, only half jokingly.

  Included in the envelope was a check for $250 to cover a pair of small pearl earrings that my father had swiped on his way out the door, and later hocked. After his death, the pawn ticket (and a Fodor's tour guide to Amsterdam) was found in a shoe box beneath his bed in a Key West rooming house.

  "What do you make of that?" I asked my mother.

  "He was a flake job. Case closed," she said. "Listen, Jack, I'm quite fond of your new girlfriend. Please don't scare her off, like you did with Anne. Keep the morbid stuff to yourself, okay?"

  "I'll try, Mom."

  Emma and I spent last evening on the couch trading manuscript chapters of Juan Rodriguez's novel about his voyage from Cuba to Key West. It is heart-stopping but also humbling; Juan is gifted beyond my most improbable aspirations. A serious New York publishing house is launching his book in the fall, and I anticipate it will bring him wealth and acclaim. I only hope it will bring him sleep. He's dedicating the novel to his sister.

  Today Emma and I have come to the Silver Beach pier for lunch, as we often do. One windy morning a few months ago, Janet Thrush joined us. She kicked off her flip-flops and clambered up on the rail and poured her brother's sworling ashes into the Atlantic. "Bye, Jimmy," she sang out, heaving the empty urn into the water. At that instant, I swear, a dolphin came up and rolled in the surf—just once. We never saw it again.

  I keep bringing Emma here because I want he
r to meet Ike, the ancient obituary writer, yet he hasn't reappeared since the day we first spoke. I'm beginning to think I dreamt him up. Emma wonders, too, though she's too kind to say so. Even if it means I'm still wacked, I'd prefer to know that I imagined Ike than to learn he has died.

  As always, Emma and I choose the bench near the phone at the end of the pier, the same phone on which she called me after being kidnapped. Once I mentioned that to her, and all she said was: "Those creeps."

  Today the Atlantic is flat and glassy, the perfect mirror of a cloudless periwinkle sky. Kids are out of school so the pier bustles; above, a circus of swooping gulls and terns. Emma and I shield our pasta salads, in case of bombardment. Squinting against the fierce summer sun, I search for Ike's fluffy gray head among the anglers lined along the rails.

  "Maybe he went back north until the weather cools off," Emma suggests.

  "Maybe."

  "Or he's laid up in the hospital. Have you called Charity?"

  "Not yet." I don't even know the man's last name.

  We're distracted by a lumpish, hirsute tourist in a sweat-stained tank top. He has reeled in a small barracuda, which flops frenetically on the wooden planks. The tourist has his heart set on supper, for he's endeavoring to stomp on the fish before it flips back into the sea. He seems unheedful of the ample dentition of barracudas, impressive even in juvenile specimens. Within minutes the man's pallid ankles are striped crimson, and in retreat he can be heard moaning like a branded calf.

  Emma walks over and, with the toe of a conservative navy blue pump, carefully nudges the wriggling fish off the pier. Rejoining me on the bench, she says, "It's that time again."

  "No, I'm begging you."

  Every day she asks: "When are you coming back to the paper?"

  Abkazion has offered me a slot on the new investigations team, but the time isn't right. I'm still having night sweats about what happened on Lake Okeechobee. These I don't mention to Emma, because she's had some unsettling dreams of her own.

  "Jack, you should take the job. You worked hard for it."

  "Maybe that's the problem. As Jimmy Stoma would say, I'm all humped out."