Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

"How is Dave's colon?"

"Seriously, don't you think I seem better?"

"Yes, honey, for now. But it'll start all over again, like always. The obsessing, the dreams, the midnight monologues ... "

She's kind enough not to mention the actuarial charts I once taped to the medicine cabinet.

"I hope I'm wrong," she says, "but I'm afraid it'll kick in like gang-busters on Saturday when you turn forty-seven. This year was Elvis and Kennedy, next year it's bound to be someone else."

My spine turns into an icicle.

"Someone like who?"

Anne shakes her head. "Don't do this, Jack."

"Come on. Who died at forty-seven that I would possibly fixate on?"

Angrily she drops my hand like it was a hot coal. "Here we go again. That goddamn job of yours ... "

"You're winging it," I tell her, definitely asking for trouble. "You're blowing smoke. You can't give me one name, can you? Not one."

She grabs the empty vodka glass and steams for the kitchen.

"Anne!"

"Jack Kerouac," she calls over her shoulder.

And I hear myself muttering, "Oh Christ."

I couldn't sleep last night so I drove back to Beckerville in a rainstorm at two in the morning. Janet's Miata was filling with water in the driveway and the house was exactly as Emma and I had left it. Incredible: The cops never showed up. I thought about calling 911 again, but decided to hold off.

Now I'm at my desk in the newsroom, looking at a picture of Jack Kerouac on the Internet. He's standing beside a desert highway, his shoulders rounded and hands shoved into his pockets. The biography accompanying the photograph divulges that English was his second language, and that he wrote On the Road in three weeks. It's enough to sink me into a funk of disconsolate envy. Reading on, I see that Anne was correct: the man punched out at age forty-seven. I seem to recall that he drank himself into a mortal spiral, and this detail is also confirmed. I will cling to it like a chunk of driftwood for the next twelve months, uplifted by the knowledge that this particular Jack wasn't taken randomly from life; he delivered himself free of it. He wasn't shot by a crazed fan or flattened by a runaway Winnebago or bitten by a Texas sidewinder. He boozed himself to death, a fate that I'm unlikely to replicate, given my tendency to fall into a snoring coma after three cheap vodkas.

So there.

From across the newsroom I hear a familiar, tubercular hacking: Griffin, the weekend cop reporter, sneaking a smoke. It's unusual to find him working so late.

"Three domestics," he explains in a tone of infinite boredom. "Knife, gun and claw hammer. Two 'graphs each. What the hell're you doing here?"

Griffin favors solitude. He has his own special way of working the phones. On impulse I ask: "Is there anybody worth a shit at the Beckerville substation?"

"Sure." With a pencil he laconically stirs a cup of black coffee. "Sure, I got a sergeant up there on night shifts. He'll talk to me." Translation: He's my source exclusively, so don't bug me for the name.

"You got time to make a call?"

"All depends, Jack."

I'm careful not to tell old Griffin too much. After I'm finished he squints up and says: "What're you working on? I thought you were still stuck on obits."

"Sad but true."

"So who's this 'Evan Richards' I've been reading?"

"Just an intern," I assure him. Griffin is always alarmed by new bylines in the newspaper.

"Ivy League, am I right? Where else do they go for a name like 'Evan'? I'm guessing Columbia or Yale."

"Bingo," I say. Griffin is good. "The kid's helping out Emma while I chase down this story."

"Must be a good one for her to cut you loose."

"I wish I could tell you more but I can't."

Griffin is cool with that; after twenty years on the police beat, he's at ease with secrecy. "So you want to know what happened with this Janet T-H-R-U-S-H. Spelled like the bird, right? You got a date of birth?"

"No, but here's the address. A 911 call was made to the sheriff's office but it doesn't look as if they sent anyone to the house."

"Lazy humps." Griffin plucks the paper bearing Janet's address from my fingers. "I'll get back to you."

Over the next few hours I make four trips to the vending machines and knock out seven paltry inches of background filler for the MacArthur Polk obituary. My brain is working like cold sludge:

Polk learned the newspaper business from his father, Ford, who founded the Union-Register as a weekly in 1931. The front-page headline in the debut edition: jellyfish bloom closes silver beach.

As Florida's coastal population exploded, the Union-Register broadened its circulation area and its mission. In January 1938 it added a midweek edition during tourist season and by the winter of 1940 the paper was publishing daily. "The Brightest News Under the Sun," proclaimed the motto beneath the masthead.

Ford Polk gave no special treatment to his only son, who started in the newsroom as a telephone clerk and eventually worked his way up to managing editor. When his father retired unexpectedly to breed dwarf minks, MacArthur Polk was given the helm of the Union-Register.

That was in 1959, and within a decade he had doubled its readership. His formula for success was simple, Polk later recalled. Serious readers were given plenty of aggressive local reporting; everybody else got color comics.

"We turned the paper into a first-class outfit," Polk said in a candid interview, __weeks before his death. "I always believed we should be the conscience of our community."

But in May 1997, conscience and class fell victim to slavering greed when Polk sold the Union-Register to the Maggad-Feist Publishing Group for $47 million. Almost immediately the newspaper took a screaming nosedive into the shitter ...

I hear a gasp and spin my chair. It's young Evan Richards, ever the early bird.

"Jack, can you say that in the paper? 'Shitter'?"

"The last intern caught reading over my shoulder is now writing press releases for homeopathic penile enlargers."

Evan tests me with a tentative smile. "Man, you look like you've been at it all night."

"Know who Cleo Rio is?"

"Yeah, the chick that did the 'Me' song."

"Right."

"And flashed her pubes in the video. She's way hot."

"Sorry, Evan, but those were stunt pubes."

"Get out!" he says, goggle-eyed.

"Trust me."

"No way!"

"How'd you like to meet her?" I ask. "Sort of."

"Sweet," Evan says. "You're not kidding? Cleo Rio?"

"In the flesh."

Charles Chickle, Esq., says he was expecting my call—a baffling remark. Did Janet Thrush tell him I was investigating her brother's death? Does he already know something has happened to her?

We're chatting in his law office, which features a Picasso and a stuffed peacock bass on the same wall. Charlie Chickle has thinning silver hair, a ruddy face and sly blue eyes. He's wearing an expensive gray suit, a burgundy silk tie and a University of Florida class ring on one of his chubby fingers. Mounted under Plexiglas on a corner of his desk is an orange and blue football autographed by Steve Spurrier, confirming Chickle as a diehard Gator. That would explain his mystic political connections.

"So," he says, "you saw our friend Mac at Charity."

"Mr. Polk?"

"Of course. How'd he look?"

"Absolutely terrible," I say.

Chickle is amused. "For what it's worth, Jack—may I call you Jack?—in fifteen years I've never seen him look like he would make it through the night. But don't be fooled, he's one tough sonofabitch." The lawyer opens a manila file on the desk. "I've got depositions in an hour. Shall we get right to it?"

"I think there's been a misunderstanding."