Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

"Novelist," says Carla.

"No shit. Have I heard of him?"

"It's possible."

"Don't tell me his name!"

"Don't worry," Carla says.

"And, for God's sake, don't tell your mother I asked."

"Jack, they're getting married."

Me, I don't flinch. "Can I see those pictures again?"

Carla says, "I've gotta get back to work."

I buy her a mocha-flavored shake and walk her to the drugstore. At the door she pats me on the cheek and says she's sorry about breaking the news. She thought it was something I ought to know, lest I call up Anne and make a fool of myself again.

"How old is this writer guy?" I ask innocently.

"Forty-four."

"Ha!"

"'Ha!' what?" Carla asks. "What's so bad about forty-four?"

"Never you mind," I say, thinking: Robert Louis Stevenson.

I call home and check the machine: one message from Emma and three from Janet Thrush. As usual, Janet's line rings busy so I drive straight to Beckerville. She answers the door wearing a knit hood with eye slits and a tight-fitting black jumpsuit. A gas mask hangs loosely at her neck, and she's carrying a toy M-16.

"So now it's SWAT-Cam," I say.

"Yeah, my pervs got bored with Rita Meter. Come on in, Jack." Janet peels off the headcloth. "Happened to your nose?"

"Logging mishap," I say. "What's up?"

"You will not believe it."

Sitting under the light racks, she tells me she was summoned by a man called Charles Chickle, whose name I know. He's a big-shot lawyer in Silver Beach; not a shyster or a barracuda, either, but legitimate weight. It seems Jimmy Stoma left a clause in his will retaining Mr. Chickle to represent Janet's interests in probate court in the event Jimmy died. Most beneficiaries don't need an attorney, but Jimmy obviously anticipated legal hurdles for his sister.

"He left me a hundred grand," Janet Thrush says excitedly. "You believe that?"

"How much for Cleo?"

"The same."

"Ho-ho. That explains the need for Barrister Chickle."

"But she also gets the boat, the cars, the condo," Janet says.

"And his tapes?"

"You mean the album? He never dreamed he wouldn't live to finish it," Janet says.

"Is it mentioned in the will?"

"Jack, I didn't even think to ask."

As for the house in the Bahamas, Janet says her brother left it to a charity called Sea Urchins, which sponsors marine camps for underprivileged kids. According to Charles Chickle, it was to Sea Urchins that James Bradley Stomarti left the bulk of his estate, including $405,000 in stocks and annuities, his share of future music royalties, and a $1 million life insurance policy.

"Cleo must be thrilled," I say.

"I guess Jimmy figured she didn't need the dough after her single charted. He figured she was on her way."

I'm on the verge of telling Janet what her songbird sister-in-law was doing yesterday on the balcony of her dead brother's condo when she blurts: "I don't think Cleo killed him."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because she knew already, Jack. She knew what she was getting if Jimmy was to pass away. He already told her most of the money was going to Sea Urchins—which is a really cool idea—and he also told her she wasn't getting squat from the insurance. The more I think about it, I just can't believe she'd kill him for a hundred thousand dollars. To me it's a fortune, but to Cleo it's a weekend in Cannes."

She's right about that. A woman like Cleo doesn't get lathered up over anything less than seven figures.

"I'm thinkin' he drowned accidental, Jack, like they told us all along. You always said it was possible."

"It is."

"Even though they screwed up the autopsy."

"And you said you wouldn't believe a word that came out of Cleo's mouth," I remind her. "What if I told you she was having an affair."

Janet shrugs. "What if I told you my brother wasn't exactly Husband-of-the-Year."

The computer on the coffee table bleeps for an incoming call; another cyberwanker. Janet sighs and glances morosely at the toy M-16, propped in a corner. I ask if she can think of any other motive for Cleo to have murdered Jimmy, and she says no.

"Would she have done it because she was mad about the will?"

"Then why not just dump his ass?" Janet says. "I'm sure she could've squeezed a lot more than a hundred grand out of a divorce." Another excellent point.

Again the computer bleeps imploringly.

"Aren't you sweating to death in that getup?" I ask her.

"Don't worry, it's comin' off soon enough. This one here"—Janet motions over her shoulder toward the PC—"is Ronnie from Riverside. His deal is boots, panties, bra and assault rifle. He's been hopin' I lose the bra and panties, but he's in for a major letdown. Anyhow, the setup is: I'm in the middle of a DEA raid on a Colombian drug lord's mansion when I suddenly decide to sneak a quick shower, like that makes sense. What I don't know is that one of the bad guys—Ronnie, of course—is hidin' in the Jacuzzi, spying on me. This'll drag on for an hour."

"Oh well. Four bucks a minute," I say brightly.

"Only for a few more months," Janet says. "That's how long Mr. Chickle says it's gonna take to get the inheritance."

"If Cleo doesn't contest the will."

"Mr. Chickle thinks she won't. He knows her lawyer."

"And most of the probate judges," I add, "on a first-name basis."

"Jimmy always looked out for me," Janet says tenderly. "Now he's gone and he's still lookin' out for me."

Ronnie from Riverside beeps again.

"Shit." Janet plugs in the light rack and the living room goes white with glare. She tugs the knit hood down over her face and positions the gas mask. This is my cue to leave.

"So, what should we do about the story?" I ask. "You don't have to decide this minute. Sleep on it and we'll talk over the weekend."

Janet's reply is muffled by the hood and the mask, but I can still make out the words. I wish I couldn't.

"What story?" she says.

I'm lying in bed with the lights off, listening to A Painful Burning Sensation, the last album recorded by Jimmy and the Slut Puppies.

Jimmy's voice sounds huge because at the time he was huge, 240-plus pounds of post-rehab voracity. Then he totally changed his life and wound up dying buff, the eternal male dream. Jimmy didn't plan it that way, checking out at thirty-nine, but fans will remember him more fondly for being tanned and fit at the end. Most celebrities would kill to die looking so fine.

Baby, you're a fool to count on yours truly,

I'm a self-centered, self-absorbed, self-abused boy.

My love goes where it pleases, and pleases who gets it,

Don't cry, beg or pray, you'll just get me annoyed.

That's the chorus of a cut called "Slithering Love," and I can visualize Jimmy sneering when he sings "annoyed," dragging the word into three syllables, the way Jagger might. What I enjoy about the Slut Puppies is that most of their songs were base, unpretentious, simple-minded fun. Even the blatantly derivative ones—"Slithering Love" owes everything to "Under My Thumb"—had an appealing, self-deprecatory pose. The more I hear of his records, the more I believe I would have liked Jimmy Stoma as a person.

And I'm still not convinced he drowned accidentally. Unfortunately, as long as I'm the only one with such doubts I've got nothing to put in the newspaper.

Which leaves me back on the obituary beat, under Emma's leery watch. On Monday I'll begin to write the MacArthur Polk opus, and she should be pleasantly surprised by my enthusiasm. I haven't told her what the old coot has asked me to do, or that I've decided to play along. It no longer matters whether Polk is insane or not; without the Jimmy Stoma story, I'm unglued and adrift. I need something to reach for, a filament of hope ...