Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

JS: Sure, because I had Jay on grand piano and Tito on bass. Even though it's a solo album I'm not gonna turn my back on the band. We still make great fucking music together and I'd be a jackass not to take advantage of that chemistry on my own projects. I just don't want to tour as a group anymore. No way.

RS: Do you have a favorite cut on the new album?

JS: No, I dig 'em all.

RS: Oh, come on. "Derelict Sea" is a cool number, and very different from anything you did with the Slut Puppies.

JS (laughing): Okay, you busted me. That one is definitely at the top of the list.

RS: What inspired you to try the acoustic?

JS: Hey, I love acoustic. Always did. And I love to sing without screamin' at the top of my frigging lungs, but when you're up onstage with not one but two bass guitars, you've gotta howl like a witch.

RS: Do you plan on writing more songs like that?

JS: For sure. My next project is a whole folk-rock kind of thing – not all acoustic but thematic, you know, where the pieces weave together into a story. Maybe it'll even be a double album, only this time I'm gonna produce it myself.

RS: All right, what's your least favorite cut on Stomatose?

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.