Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

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."

She finds this uproariously funny. "Don't worry, Daddy, I'll be fine. Now beat it."

I reach the beachfront parking lot just as Loreal is mounting his Harley. By the time I get the Mustang started and wedge myself into the heavy flow on A1A, Cleo's studhunk already has a five-block head start.

Florida's legislature recently passed a law allowing motorcyclists to ride without helmets, a boon for neurosurgeons and morticians. Tonight I benefit as well, for Loreal's lack of a head protector makes him easy to follow even at night, his long hair streaming behind him like a red contrail.

He doesn't go far; a billiards joint called Crabby Pete's. I park my car next to the chopper and wait twenty minutes, enough time for Loreal to get at least two more drinks in his system. Then I grab my notebook and enter the bar.

"What paper'd you say you were from?"

"The Union-Register."

"Never heard of it."

"We're the only rag in town."

"To be perfectly honest, I don't have time to read all that much."

This hardly comes as a thunderous shock. Loreal and I have been chatting for an hour and it's my impression he'd need a personal tutor to get through a set of liner notes. Mostly we've been discussing music—specifically, his sizzling career as a record producer. His resume lengthens with each beer, though he has stumbled once or twice when reciting the various artists who've sought out his genius. My notes reflect a certain recurring confusion, for example, between the Black Crowes and Counting Crows. Young Loreal's credibility has also been dented by boastful references to his clever (though uncredited) studio work for a band he insists on calling "Matchbox Thirty." I've made no effort to correct him because—as any reporter will tell you—there's no finer thrill in our business than interviewing a hapless liar. I've gotten him rolling by telling him that I recognized him from a photo in Ocean Drive, and that I need a few quotes for a feature story about Cleo Rio's soon-to-be-released CD.