Basket Case (22 page)

JS (shaking his head): Nuh-uh. I ain't fallin'for that.

RS: Don't wimp out on us now. Even Lennon didn't like every song he wrote.

JS: The only track that sort of got away from me was "Momma's Marinated Monkfish." A bit too much partying, I'm afraid. The original idea was this real sophisticated, Phil Spector kind of mix. You know, overdub the piss out of the guitars and the keyboards. But somehow it ended up as some ungodly hypermetal… headache.

RS: Twelve and a half fun-filled minutes. JS: Yeah, and I don't even remember laying down the vocals, I was so bent.

I'm summoned by Juan to the Sports department, where he hunches like a safecracker over his PC.

"I got that external hard drive hooked up," he says, "but I can't read what's on it. I don't have the software." He taps a finger on the screen. "The best I can come up with is a directory, but take a look."

It's line after line of coded abbreviations, beginning with:

V7oyst10.all

B17oyst10.copy

BV22oyst7

LEADoyst.all

G1deal22

G2deal22.all

ALT.Vtitle22…

"Computer lingo?" I ask.

"Nope. Abbreviated file names that were keypunched in by whoever was running the program."

"What kind of files?"

"I don't know, but they're massive," Juan says. "The whole thing is, like, 400-plus megabytes. That's got to be more than text, Jack, to eat up so much memory. I'm guessing there's audio or video on here."

"Where can we get the software?"

Juan looks up ruefully from the screen. "Man, I can't even identify the software."

"Oh swell."

"But I know who can."

"Juan, I can't afford a hacker." It will be a miracle if I pay off the Bahamas trip by Christmas.

"He's not a hacker, he's just a whiz kid. And this isn't hacking. Hacking is when you go online—"

"Point is, I can't pay your man anything right now. I'm broke and Emma's got no expense money for the Death page. Her whole budget is basically me."

Juan rocks back and laughs. "The guy I use is twelve years old. Usually I just give him a couple of passes to a ball game."

"Twelve years old."

"Yep. And his room looks like the NASA command center."

"When I was twelve, I could barely change the tire on my bicycle."

"I'll drop the hard drive off with him later," Juan says, "before his bedtime."

"Thanks. And I promise never to disturb you again on a date night."

"No problema." Juan glances around to make sure we can't be overheard. "Was Emma freaked by Miriam being there?"

"How would you like that answered, Mr. Hung-Like-a-Race-horse—the humbling truth, or an ego-inflating fabrication?"

"See, I knew she wasn't interested in me," Juan says. "Tell me, brother. Are you fraternizing horizontally with your editor?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter."

Juan would love to know about the kiss, but I won't be telling him. It's possible I dreamed it, anyway.

"Some goon trashed my apartment and beat me up—I'm guessing he was looking for that hard drive. I figured you'd have an overnight guest, so I crashed at Emma's."

"Emma your sworn enemy." Juan arches his eyebrows.

"She was never the 'enemy,'" I say stiffly. "She's my boss, that's all."

Before Juan can press the issue, I tell him about the suspicious death of Jay Burns and our daring search of Jimmy Stoma's boat.

"That's where we found the hard drive."

Juan whistles. "Know what? You should go to the police and tell 'em everything. I'm serious, man. Once people start breaking into your home and pounding on your face, then it's time to quit playing Marlowe."

"First I've got to put it all together."

"Listen, Jack, no story about a dead rock singer is worth getting whacked over."

"Easy for you to say—you're a superstar. What if getting whacked is the only way I can get back on the front page?"

Juan looks stricken. I assure him I'm only kidding.

"Hey, asshole. I'm your friend," he says. "I don't want anything bad to happen."

"Don't worry. I'm damn close to cracking it wide open."

This is the most egregious lie I've told in days. I can't produce a single human being who knows for a fact that Jimmy Stoma was murdered. Assuming he was, I can't figure out a plausible motive, or even cook up a theory that holds together. All I'm doing is kicking over stones to see what crawls out.

"And you'll be pleased to know," I tell Juan, "that Colonel Tom is no longer aslumber in my kitchen. His services were required last night in defense of the homestead."

"Oh no. What the hell'd you do?"

"Used him for a baseball bat, with spectacular results. He's now decomposing in a Dumpster, and could never be fingered for a deadly weapon."

"Jesus," Juan says in a frantic whisper, "don't tell me you killed your burglar!"

"It would be lovely to think so."

"Come on, Jack," he pleads. "This craziness has gone far enough, no?"

"I turn forty-seven in a week. Know what that means?" Juan waves his hand and turns away, muttering something in Spanish. I'm pretty sure it's not "Happy Birthday."

I drive home and crash for three, maybe four hours—a leaden, dream-free sleep for which I'm grateful. Later I try repeatedly to call Janet Thrush, figuring she might know something about the mysterious computer box hidden on her brother's boat. The phone line rings busy every time; Janet-Cam's Internet fan club, no doubt. I find myself dialing Emma's number and hanging up in a panic before she answers. I fear that by spending the night on her couch I've violated a personal embargo, and there can be no resumption of terms. It weighs gravely that I enjoyed her company probably more than she enjoyed mine, and that the delicate balance of our professional relationship most surely has been tilted to my detriment. That damned kiss, if it indeed occurred, was the clincher. All day long I've been dogged by impure thoughts about Emma, my editor. I suspect I would even make love to her, if the opportunity were cordially presented.

For half an hour I prop myself in a hot shower, and eventually the face in the shaving mirror begins to resemble my own. The message light on the answer machine is flashing when I emerge from the bathroom—Carla Candilla, whispering into her cell phone. She's waiting for me in a booth at Jizz. Get your skinny white ass over here! she says.

So far, Jizz is the only joint on Silver Beach with a red velvet rope and a sullen, T-shirted, steroid-addled doorman. The club's motif combines the exotic ambience of a Costa Rican brothel with the cozy, down-home charm of a methamphetamine lab. By the time I reach Carla's booth, I feel like I'm hacking up bronchial tissue. The first topic of discussion is my wardrobe. "Are those really Dockers?" Carla blurts, horror-struck.

I tell her my boa-skin thong is being oiled at the cleaners. She instructs me to sit down, people are staring. Soon I'm staring, too—at Carla. For a dress she's wearing what appears to be a shrimp net, through which two silver nipple rings are visible. Flustered, I turn away—this is Anne's daughter, for God's sake.

The club is lit with fruity-colored strobes that dice up the cigarette haze like a psychedelic SaladShooter. A Nordic-looking DJ in unlikely rasta garb is in command of the synthesized dance music, thumping as tediously as a cardiac monitor. Everywhere are fashion-conscious couples practicing for the South Beach scene; the guys still look like off-duty valets, and the women still look like cashiers at Blockbuster.

Carla says, "It's Saturday night, Jack. This is how you dress up? That's a fucking golf shirt, if I'm not mistaken."

"Designer casual wear, for your information. Since when do you smoke Silk Cuts?"

"Since my favorite cigar bar went out of business. And I don't inhale, so no lectures, please, daddy dearest." Carla cuts her violet-lined eyes toward a back corner of the club and says, "Check it out."

Cleo Rio and her personal grief counselor, the shimmery-maned Loreal, are jointly embedded in an oversized leather beanbag. They're smoking like a pair of Hallandale bookies, and I'm fairly sure Cleo hasn't spotted me through the smog. She is tastefully attired in a black vinyl jumpsuit complemented by wraparound shades; tonight her pageboy haircut is tinsel blue. Loreal is sporting black stovepipe jeans and a shiny pink shirt with preening flamingos. Out of respect for the dead, he is confining his fondling of the widow Stoma to her left breast.

Other clubbers drift over to the beanbag chair to chat with Cleo; offering condolences, perhaps, or eight-balls of coke. I'm pleased to see no sign of the bald no-neck bodyguard, whom I suspect of being my burglar. Someday, under the proper circumstances, I intend to upbraid him for swiping my laptop.

Carla says, "You believe that shit? Her old man's only been gone, like, a week and already she's out on the circuit with the new boy."

"So much for wallowing in grief. You come alone?"

"I'm meeting some friends." Carla's eyes are locked on Cleo and Loreal. "That's the same stupid getup he was wearing last night, swear to God."

"If Cleo sees me she'll go ballistic. Somehow I need to get Mr. Hotshot Record Producer alone."

"Hang in there," Carla advises. "They didn't arrive together and I bet they won't leave together. That white stretch out front? It's Cleo's. Move over here, Jack, next to me. So it looks like… you know."

Uneasily I switch to her side of the booth.

"What's the matter?" she asks.

"Nothing."

"You're so busted. It's the dress, isn't it?"

"Carla, I mean, yeah."

"They're just boobs, Jack."

"But they're your boobs," I say. "The boobs of my ex-girlfriend's daughter. You thirsty? I'm thirsty."

Smiling, Carla flags down a server. Given the bawdiness of her attire, it's useless for me to remind her that she's too young to buy alcohol. For herself Carla orders a Cosmopolitan and for me a vodka tonic with a twist.

"How'd you know?" I ask.

"Mom told me."

"Wow. She remembered."

"She remembers everything," Carla says.

"Ah, that's right. Fair Lady Grenoble."

"Did you start reading the book yet?"

"You know that dork's real name?"

"Derek's?"

"Yeah, I looked it up: 'Sherman Wilt.' Your mom's about to marry a Sherman—that doesn't alarm you, honey? The man sold RVs before he became a writer."

"No way, Jack, he's from the U.K."

"Well, he moved all the way to Dunedin, Florida, to sell Dream Weaver travel trailers. That's not appalling?"

She rolls her eyes. "Let it go. Drink up."

"His books," I mutter to my vodka, "are fucking unreadable."

"Who's that?" With her cigarette Carla points toward the beanbag corner, where Cleo and Loreal have been joined by a wiry, dark-skinned man with curly long hair and a Pancho Villa mustache.

"That," I say, "is Senor Tito Negraponte, another former Slut Puppy. He was at the funeral."

Cleo and the record producer discreetly disengage, and make space for Tito between them on the beanbag throne. The two men shake hands the old-fashioned way, as if it's the first time they've met.

Carla says, "What did he do with the band?"

"Bass guitar."

"Who's he with now? He looks pretty old and moldy."

"Yeah, he must be all of fifty-two. It's amazing he gets around without a wheelchair."

I'm distracted by two bony models in miniskirts who are pogo-stomping on the dance floor. They're sucking on baby pacifiers, waving phosphorescent swizzle sticks and flashing their panties at the bartender, or possibly me.

"That's just the kind of chick you need, Jack. Totally." Carla jabs my sore ribs. "Seventeen-year-old X freaks, they'll rock your little world."

"Your mother's the only one who ever did that."

"What?" Carla leans closer. The DJ has ratcheted up the volume to encourage the gregarious dancers.

"I said, your mother's the only one who ever rocked my world. And now she's sleeping with a bad novelist."

Carla shrugs helplessly.

"And marrying the bastard on my birthday." I gulp down the last of my vodka. "The woman who remembers everything."

"Not birthdays," Carla interjects. "She's lousy on those, Jack. You can ask my father. Yo, look who's leaving."

Loreal has risen off the beanbag throne. He air-kisses Cleo, high-fives Tito and makes his way across the floor, dodging the models and heading toward the door.

"Wish me luck," I tell Carla.

She slides off the seat to make way. "Go! Get a move on. I'll keep an eye on the widow and the Mexican geezer."

I peck her cheek and lay out a ten for the drinks, which she promptly shoves back in my palm.

"You got my cell number, right?"

"Listen, Carla, are you really meeting somebody? I feel crummy leaving you here alone."