Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

"Jack," he says, "we've never really talked, you know."

"About?"

"About what happened at that shareholders' meeting, I mean. I got your gracious note," he adds, "and I certainly took it to heart."

The apology was written, signed and sent to Race Maggad III without my knowledge. The author was Juan Rodriguez, who was trying to save my position on the investigations team.

"But I've been wanting to sit down like this, privately," says our polo-playing CEO, "to tell you—to assure you—that I believe as deeply as you do in thorough, hard-hitting journalism. And I believe it's possible to have great local newspapers that are also profitable newspapers. That's our goal at Maggad-Feist."

Young Race is aiming for annual profits of twenty-five percent, a margin that would be the envy of most heroin pushers.

"Were you ever a reporter?" I know the answer but I ask anyway, to make him squirm.

"No, Jack, I wasn't. I took an M.B.A. at Harvard."

"Ever work in a newsroom?"

"Look, I've been a newspaperman my whole life."

I hear myself cackling like a macaw. "You've been an owner of newspapers your whole life, that's hardly the same. Your daddy and your granddaddy were accumulators of newspapers," I say, "just as they were accumulators of waffle houses."

Maggad goes crimson in the ears, for I've touched a sore spot. When Maggad-Feist acquired the Union-Register, the press release mentioned that the family also owned "a chain of family specialty restaurants." One of our business writers, Teddy Bonner, made the mistake of elaborating in a section-front story. Within days a memo came down sternly informing the staff that, when writing about Maggad-Feist, it henceforth was "unnecessary" to mention Wilma's Waffle Dens, or the unfortunate bacterial outbreak that killed nine innocent customers and hospitalized fifty-four others who had dined upon improperly refrigerated breakfast sausages.

"By the way," I say to Race Maggad III, "are any of those pesky wrongful-death cases still kicking around?"

He steeples his long fingers and in a low voice says, "You're trying to get yourself fired, is that it? So you can turn around and sue us for God only knows what. Get your face in the paper, I bet you'd enjoy that."

I hear myself asking what kind of a name Race is. "When you were little, did they call you 'Master Race Maggad'? I bet they did. I bet they engraved it on all your birthday-party invitations."

Glaring hotly, he knifes to his feet. Dark crescents have bloomed in the armpits of his shirt. For a moment I think he's going to lunge across Abkazion's desk to strangle me, and who would blame him.

"Tagger," he hisses through clenched jaws, "what-is-your-goddamn-problem?"

"I suppose I don't like being jerked around. Why don't you just tell me why you're here and then I can tell you to fuck off, and we can both get on with our day."

Taking notice of the sodden half-moons on his Oxford, young Race deftly folds his arms for concealment. "MacArthur Polk's obituary," he proceeds curtly. "I want to read it."

"It's not written yet."

"Bullshit."

"And even if it was—"

"Bullshit. Your editor, Amy, said—"

"Her name is Emma."

"She said she told you to get right on it."

"Indeed she did," I say, "and I will."

"So help me God, Tagger, if you're stonewalling ... "

I point out that Old Man Polk is not only still alive, but apparently on the rebound. "Whereas other people are dropping dead every day,"

I add, "significant people who deserve significant obituaries. We are woefully shorthanded, Mr. Maggad, due to severe reductions in our staffing and news resources. I am but one man."

Young Race ignores the dig about his budget slashing. Deep in sour rumination, he fingers the hump on his nose. "I'd like to know what Mr. Polk said at the hospital. Tell me what he asked you to write."

"Oh, I can't possibly do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's confidential. The Union-Register has strict rules against reporters divulging unpublished information."

"Yes, to outsiders," interrupts Race Maggad III. "But I'm not an outsider, Tagger. I sign the paychecks around here."

"No, you sign the paychecks of the people who sign the paychecks. And if you're not an outsider, why does everybody stop and gape whenever you stroll into the building? I know two-headed carnies who don't attract so much attention."

"Have it your way. I'll speak to your editor and we'll get you straightened out, mister, and pronto."

"A solid game plan. And in the meantime, sir"—I whip the notebook out of my pocket—"I need a quote."

Judging by young Race's expression, I might as well have pulled the pin on a live grenade. Reflexively he takes a step backward, knocking over a copper sculpture of an angelfish on Abkazion's credenza.

"A quote for what?" inquires the young tycoon.

"Old Man Polk's obit. It's only fitting," I say. "You're the one who bought his precious newspaper. You're the big cheese."

Maggad re-seats himself. After a pensive pause, he gives the signal that I should prepare to write.

"MacArthur Polk," he begins, "was like a second father to me. He was a teacher, a friend and an inspiration. Mac Polk was the heart and soul of the Union-Register, and we are dedicated to keeping his spirit alive every day, on every page of this outstanding newspaper."

A deep, self-satisfied sigh, then: "You get all that, Tagger?"

"Every word." A tidy sentiment from such a vapid yuppie puke, I've got to admit.

"Do me a favor," he says. "Run it by Mr. Polk, would you?"

Again I start to giggle. I can't help it; the guy cracks me up.

"What's the matter now?" he demands.

"You want Mr. Polk to know in advance what you're going to say about him after he's dead."

"That's correct."

I cannot make young Race comprehend why this is so funny, because he doesn't know that I know why he's sucking up to the old man. So, let's play it out ...

"Mr. Maggad, you needn't worry. I'm sure he'd be very moved by your pre-posthumous tribute."

"Show him the damn quote anyway."

"While he's alert enough to appreciate it."

"Exactly." Race Maggad III checks his wristwatch, which clearly cost more than my car. Now he's up again, striding briskly out of Abkazion's office. I'm hard on his heels. "Tell Amy," he grumbles over his shoulder, "I want a copy of Mac Polk's obituary faxed to me the day you finish it."

"It's Emma, and you'll have to kill me first." Young Race and I draw a flurry of glances as we stride past the city desk—it's all he can do to keep from breaking into a trot. When we reach the elevators, he literally punches the Down button. I wait beside him with a companionable air—I'm heading for the cafeteria. I could sure go for a candy bar.

"You don't worry me," snarls the chairman and chief executive officer of Maggad-Feist Publishing Group. "You're a gnat on the radar screen."

"On the windshield, you mean," I say helpfully. "On a radar screen I would be a 'blip.' "

"Fuck you."

It's been mildly interesting, getting to know the dapper young publishing scion. Miserably he pokes again at the elevator button. When the door finally opens, he bolts inside. Quick as a bunny, I join him.

"You know what my career goal is, Master Race?"

"Get away from me."

"My goal is to work at this newspaper long enough to write your obituary. Wouldn't that be something?"

From the Rolling Stone interview with Jimmy Stoma, dated September 20, 1991:

RS: Are you happy with the way Stomatose turned out?

JS: Oh, yeah. The more I listen to it, the creamier it gets.

RS: Some of the cuts sound a lot like the Slut Puppies. "All Humped Out," for example, blows the doors down—