Basket Case (29 page)

Somebody had a reason for stashing the master recording aboard Jimmy's boat, but the more I hear of it, the more baffled I am about why it was worth hiding—or killing people for. Some of the cuts are polished and quite good, some are so-so and a few of them are unendurable. The cold cruel fact remains that the problem isn't the music so much as the market. If indeed Cleo Rio is homicidally driven to acquire her dead husband's recordings, the stupefying question is why. The teenagers who buy the vast bulk of the planet's compact discs weren't yet potty-trained when Jimmy and the Slut Puppies broke up. Assuming a loyal remnant of the band's former audience could be found and fired up, there's slender evidence of an untapped public appetite for a kinder and gender Jimmy, dead or alive. Once a screamer, always a screamer in the hearts of the fans. Who'd pay money to hear David Lee Roth try to sing like James Taylor?

It's incomprehensible that Cleo could view her dead husband's album as either a potential platinum windfall, or unwanted competition. Sales of a new Jimmy Stoma release would be paltry compared to those that the willowy widow will rack up when her CD comes out, hyped day and night (pubes and all) on MTV.

So, regarding the death of James Bradley Stomarti, I'm still stumped for a motive. And while I've gotten no word from Janet Thrush, I've found myself hoping she was right—that Cleo hadn't any plausible reason to kill Jimmy, so there's no blockbuster story here after all. Because that would mean Janet is most likely alive; that the trashing of her place and the burglary of mine had nothing to do with each other; that it wasn't an impostor who phoned the sheriff's substation and Charles Chickle's law office, but Janet herself. What fantastic news that would be.

I love a juicy murder mystery as much as any reporter does, but the fun quickly goes out of the hunt when innocent persons start turning up dead. Maybe it's because I want to believe Janet's all right that I'm more receptive to the possibility that her brother's drowning was accidental; that Jay Burns's death was unconnected, the randomly squalid result of booze, dope and bad company; and that the concealment of the hard drive aboard the Rio Rio doesn't prove anything except that Jimmy Stoma, like many musicians, was obsessed with keeping his project safe from studio rats and pirates. God only knows where Prince hides his masters.

Over breakfast I run this scenario past Emma, who says, "But what about all the lies?"

She's perched at the dinette, buttering a piece of wheat toast. Her breakfast attire is a T-shirt with a parrotfish silk-screened on the front—my only souvenir, besides the credit card receipts, from the Nassau trip. The nape of Emma's neck is still damp from the bath.

"Whenever you were pushing for this story," she says, "you'd remind me how the wife gave out different details about the diving accident. And how she said her husband was producing her new record when his own sister said it wasn't true. And don't forget Burns. You said he lied to you about the recording sessions in the Bahamas."

"He surely did."

It was just Jimmy by himself, the keyboardist had told me; Jimmy picking away on an old Gibson. No side players or singers, he'd said.

"Jack, people don't lie unless they're covering something up." Emma announces this with a world-weary somberness I find endearing.

"Doesn't mean it's a murder," I say. "Doesn't even mean it's a newspaper story." Over the whine of the electric juicer I tell her that people lie to reporters every day for all types of reasons—spite, envy, guilt, self-promotion.

"Even sport, Emma. Some people think lying is fun."

"Yes, I've known a few."

A comment like that should be stepped around as carefully as a dozing viper. I turn my attention to straining the seeds and pulp out of Emma's orange juice.

"Jack, have you ever been married?"

"Nope."

"But you've thought about it."

"Only when the moon is full."

Emma has put on her wire-rimmed reading glasses to better appraise my responses. She says, "I was married once."

"I didn't know that."

"College sweetheart. It lasted two years, two weeks, two days and two hours. And I was twenty-two at the time. Not that I believe in numerology, but it makes you wonder. What happened was so strange. One night I woke up shaky and drenched in sweat, and suddenly I knew I had to leave. So I kissed him goodbye, grabbed Debbie and took off." Debbie is her cat.

Now I'm sitting next to Emma at the table, so close that our arms are touching.

"He was a nice guy," she says. "Smart, good-looking. Great family, too. His name was Paul." She smiles. "I've got a theory. I think Paul and I peaked too soon."

"That's a good one," I say. "It's much better than 'growing apart,' which is my usual excuse. You ever miss him?"

"No, but sometimes I wish I did."

I know what she means.

"Just to feel something," she says.

"Exactly." I figure now is as good a moment as any. "What about last night?"

"You first," Emma says.

"I thought it was wonderful."

"The sex or the cuddling?"

"Both." Her directness has set me back on my heels.

Emma says, "For me, too."

"I was worried, you got so quiet."

"I was busy."

"Yes, you were. So, now what?"

"We tidy ourselves up and go to the office," she says, "and act like nothing ever happened… "

"Gotcha," I say glumly.

"... until next time."

Then Emma takes my face in her hands and kisses me a long time. Her lips slowly widen into a smile, and soon I'm smiling, too. By the end of this kiss we're giggling uncontrollably into each other's mouths, which leads to rambunctious entwining on the kitchen floor. I end up on my back, being scooted in ardent bursts across the cool linoleum. The sledding ends when the crown of my skull thumps the door of the refrigerator, Emma wilting against my chest. Ten minutes later, when we've caught our breath, she lifts her chin and observes that she's late for work. I'm amused to see that she's still wearing her glasses, though they teeter askew on the tip of her nose.

Scampering down the hall, she says, "Jack, I want to be clear about something. I want to make sure you're not bailing out on Jimmy Stoma."

"No way," I call after her. "I'm in this thing till the bitter end."

On the pretense of explaining I slip into the bedroom to watch her get ready. It's an operation I've always found fascinating and enigmatic. "Don't worry about me," I'm saying as Emma shimmies into her sundress, "this is what happens when I hit a wall on a big story. I start second-guessing every damn move I've made."

"You shouldn't, Jack. You've done a great job."

Emma, bless her heart, is too easily impressed. So was I at twenty-seven.

"I'm not giving up yet," I tell her. "I'm going to shake some bushes until something nasty falls out. One bush in particular."

"Speaking of Cleo—" Emma, kneeling to buckle her sandals.

"Young Evan's waiting in the newsroom," I say, "with a full report on his deli run."

"Put some clothes on and let's go."

"That's it? Slam bam?"

Emma points. "There's a slice of orange peel stuck to your butt."

Not exactly a line from a John Donne sonnet, but my spirits rocket nonetheless.

22

Good newspapers don't die easily. After three years in the bone-cold grip of Race Maggad III, the Union-Register still shows sparks of fire. This, in spite of being stripped and junk-heaped like a stolen car.

Only two types of journalists choose to stay at a paper that's being gutted by Wall Street whorehoppers. One faction is comprised of editors and reporters whose skills are so marginal that they're lucky to be employed, and they know it. Unencumbered by any sense of duty to the readers, they're pleased to forgo the pursuit of actual news in order to cut expenses and score points with the suits. These fakers are easy to pick out in a bustling city newsroom—they're at their best when arranging and attending pointless meetings, and at their skittish, indecisive worst under the heat of a looming deadline. Stylistically they strive for brevity and froth, shirking from stories that demand depth or deliberation, stories that might rattle a few cages and raise a little hell and ultimately change some poor citizen's life for the better. This breed of editors and reporters is genetically unequipped to cope with that ranting phone call from the mayor, that wrath-of-God letter from the libel lawyer or that reproachful memo from the company bean counters. These are journalists who want peace and quiet and no surprises, thank you. They want their newsroom to be as civil, smooth-humming and friendly as a bank lobby. They're thrilled when the telephones don't ring and their computers tell them they don't have e-mail. The less there is to do, the slimmer the odds of them screwing up. And, like Race Maggad III, they dream of a day when hard news is no longer allowed to interfere with putting out profitable newspapers.

The other journalists who remain at slow-strangling dailies such as the Union-Register are those too spiteful or stubborn to quit. Somehow their talent and resourcefulness continue to shine, no matter how desultory or beaten down they might appear. These are the canny, grind-it-out pros—Griffin is a good example—who give our deliquescing little journal what pluck and dash it has left. They have no corporate ambitions, and hold a crusty, subversive loyalty to the notion that newspapers exist to serve and inform, period. They couldn't tell you where the company's stock closed yesterday on the Dow Jones, because they don't care. And they dream of a day when young Race Maggad III is nabbed for insider trading or cheating the IRS or, even better, attaching a transvestite to his cock while cruising the shore of San Diego Bay in one of his classic Porsches. This vanishing species of journalist would eagerly volunteer to write that squalid story or compose its headline, then plaster it on the front page. Once upon a time they were the blood and soul of the newsroom—these prickly, disrespecting, shit-stirring bastards—and their presence was the main reason that bright kids such as Evan Richards lined up for summer internships at the Union-Register.

And five years ago most of those kids would have jumped at the chance to return here after college and join the paper at a humiliating salary, just to get in on the action. But after graduating next year, young Evan is heading straightaway to law school, his resume jazzed by a semester of working journalism once viewed as a baptism by fire, but these days regarded more as an act of exotic self-sacrifice; missionary work. Smart kids like Evan read the Wall Street Journal. They know that what's happened to the Union-Register is happening to papers all over the country, and that any Jeffersonian ideals about a free and independent press would be flogged out of their callow hides within weeks of taking the job. They know that the people who run most newspapers no longer seek out renegades and wild spirits, but rather climbers and careerists who understand the big corporate picture and appreciate its practical constraints. Kids like Evan know that most papers are no longer bold or ballsy enough to be on the cutting edge of anything, and consequently are no damn fun.

When Evan first came to work for Emma, I thought he might be a keeper so I gave him a pep talk. I told him that plenty of reporters start out as rookies on the obituary desk, which is true, and that the talented ones advance quickly to bigger things, including the front page. And I recall Evan looking up at me with such rumpled perplexity that I burst out laughing. Obviously what the kid was aching to ask—had every right to ask—was: "What about you, Jack Tagger? Why are you writing obits after twenty years in the business?" And since the answer offered both a laugh and a lesson, I told young Evan the truth. His earnest reply: "Oh wow."

Not wishing to spook him, I hastened to portray myself as an incorrigible hothead who more or less dug his own grave, at which point Evan politely interrupted. He said that while he appreciated my candor and encouragement, he'd never planned to make a career of the newspaper trade. He said that from all he'd been reading, it was clear that dailies were "over." A dying medium, he told me. He had come to the Union-Register mainly to "experience" a newsroom, before they were all gone. His second choice was undoubtedly a cattle drive.

So I had no qualms about recruiting young Evan to help on the Jimmy Stoma story. Who wants to spend a whole summer banging out six-inch obits of dead preachers and retired schoolteachers? The kid deserved a taste of adventure, something memorable for his scrapbook. What a gas to be able to tell your college buddies that you helped sort out the mysterious death of a rock star.

And now I'm Evan's hero. He's as high as a kite.

"I almost freaked when she answered the door," he's saying. "I couldn't believe it was really her. And she's like, 'What's going on? I didn't order any subs!' At first I couldn't hardly say a word because she's standing there in a see-through bra… "

"Easy, tiger," I tell him.

We're sitting in the cafeteria, Emma and I sharing one side of a bench table and Evan on the other. I'm taking notes, Emma is sipping coffee and the kid's gobbling a plateful of miniature glazed donuts.

"Who else was there?" I ask him.

"Two guys. The taller one had shiny hair, like, down to his butt. The other one, the baldy, he had one eye and—"