Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

"That would've been my reaction, too," says Chickle. "You probably thought he was nuts. That's what I thought, too. But he's not nuts, Jack, he's just vengeful."

Now I get it: Charlie Chickle is also MacArthur Polk's attorney. He doesn't know the latest about Janet Thrush; he thinks I've come to discuss the old man's business proposition.

"Before we—"

"Please." He raises a calming forefinger. "I know you've got questions but I'll answer most all of 'em, you give me a chance."

"I'm listening."

"As you know, Mr. Polk sold the Union-Register to Maggad-Feist a few years back. In return he received a considerable heap of company stock and a series of options, which he's purchased during the last six months to add to his holdings. The total held by Mr. Polk comprises roughly ten percent of all outstanding Maggad-Feist shares—a formidable slice of the pie."

The old man had told me eleven percent, not that it matters.

Chickle proceeds: "Last year, two publishing companies independently started buyin' up Maggad-Feist stock, each with an eye toward a takeover. One is a German outfit whose name I can't pronounce and the other is Canadian, Bachman something-or-other. Anyhow, they got Race Maggad scared good and shitless, so he does what? Starts buying back blocks of Maggad-Feist as fast as he can. Meanwhile the price goes up and naturally some investors are sitting on their holdings, waitin' to see if there's a bidding war and so forth. You with me?"

"Yeah. Maggad wants Polk to sell back his shares."

"In the worst way, Jack. Failing that, he wants the old man to put in his will that Maggad-Feist gets first crack at the stock after he dies. Now," Chickle says, glancing up from the file, "Mac Polk wouldn't cross the street to piss on Race Maggad if he was on fire. I don't need to tell you that, do I? The old man is of the belief that Maggad-Feist has plucked his beloved newspaper like a Christmas goose. Some days he won't even look at the front page, on doctor's orders, case he busts a valve."

"You'll forgive me," I say to the lawyer, "if I don't get all choked up. What was Polk thinking when he sold the Union-Register to these creeps? All you had to do was look at what they'd done to their other papers."

"Everybody screws up, Jack. I don't think Mr. Polk would mind if I told you he was given certain assurances by the Maggad family—ironclad assurances, or so he believed, about how the newspaper would be operated. Now he feels deceived," Chickle says, "and, as I said, vengeful to the extreme."

"Which is where I come in?"

"That's correct."

"So he wasn't just ranting, that day at the hospital?"

"Oh, I'm sure he was." Chickle nods fondly. "And I'm equally sure he was sane and sober. He told you about the trust?"

"He did. I said I'd think about it."

"Good answer. It tells me that money isn't what makes you tick." Chickle keeps talking as he leafs intently through more papers. "When Mr. Polk dies, all his shares of Maggad-Feist will automatically be put into a trust. As trustee, your duties would be relatively simple: Keep the stock away from Race Maggad. Throw away his letters. Ignore his phone calls. And when the proxy notices arrive, always vote the opposite of what the Maggad-Feist board recommends. The job description, in a nutshell, is to make Mr. Maggad miserable. Jerk him around at every available opportunity. Does that appeal to you?"

"For a hundred grand a year—he was serious about that, too?"

"Trustees are entitled to a fee, Jack. Some banks would charge much more."

I'm enjoying this conversation, as surreal as it is.

"Why can't his wife be the trustee?"

"Oh, she could," Charlie Chickle replies. "Ellen is a real spitfire. But Mac doesn't want her hassled day and night about selling the stock. He says you, on the other hand, shouldn't mind. He says your opinion of Race Maggad is almost as low as his."

"And I have been chosen because ... ?"

"Because it will infuriate Mr. Maggad. I'm given to understand that he loathes you."

"Intensely," I say.

"Mac has no children, as you know. That means Ellen will be the ultimate beneficiary of the trust, when and if the stock is sold. What's so funny?"

"I'm trying to imagine the circumstances under which the old man would want me to sell his shares to young Master Race."

"As a matter of fact, the circumstances are quite specific. I could tell you what they are"—Chickle checks his wristwatch—"but that's for another day, when we're farther along."

"Charlie, tell me what you think of all this."

The lawyer rubs a pudgy knuckle across his chin. "Mr. Polk knows my opinion of his little scheme and he's chosen to march ahead. Oh, it's perfectly legal, Jack, if that's your concern. And I'd be lying if I said it hasn't been amusing, drawing up these papers. Probate work isn't usually a laugh riot. Neither is your job, I imagine, writing obituaries all day long."

Chickle intends no insult, but I feel my neck flush. "You've got a real nice touch," he adds. "You've given a few of my favorite clients a lovely send-off. I'm sure you'll do the same for Mac."

"He may outlive all of us."

"Ha. I doubt it," Chickle says mirthlessly. He rises and I do the same. "It was a pleasure, Jack. Call me when you make up your mind."

"There's one other matter."

He frowns apologetically. "Is it super important? Because I'm really short on time—"

"It's life or death, Charlie. I'm working on a story about Janet Thrush's brother."

The lawyer's face crinkles around the eyes. "What kinda story?"

"Not a happy one. We're looking into the circumstances of his drowning in the Bahamas."

"But your paper said it was an accident."

"Right. And we never, ever make mistakes. Sit down, Charlie." And, by God, he does. "Somebody broke into Janet's house this weekend, somebody who thought she had something of Jimmy's. Now she's missing and—"

"No she's not."

My turn to sit down. "What?"

"She called this morning, Jack. Said some guy she'd been seeing got bombed and busted up her place. She's staying with friends down in Lauderdale or Boca somewhere. Said whatever I do, don't send the inheritance check to her house while she's gone, in case the asshole is still hangin' around." The lawyer chuckles. "I've only told that young woman about a hundred times that her brother's money won't be available for months."

"Did you speak to Janet yourself?"

"One of my secretaries did."

"And they know her voice?"

"Oh, come on."

"Charlie, how many clients do you have—a couple hundred? And your secretaries know each and every voice."

"No, son," he says, "but I've got no reason to suspect it was anyone but Ms. Thrush who phoned my office." The pause is an invitation for me to spit out my theory. I won't.

"Did she leave a phone number?"

"As a matter of fact, no. She told Mary she'll call back," Chickle says. "Now, why don't you tell me what you think you know—"

"I can't." The words catch in my throat like a hairball.

And before he sends me on my way, Charlie Chickle says, "Don't let your imagination run off with you, Jack. Sometimes things are exactly what they seem."

Emma wants to go to lunch and she insists on driving. She takes me to a darkly lit Italian joint, where we choose a booth in the back. She looks exhausted and says she, too, didn't sleep all night. Twenty-seven years old—I'm trying not to obsess about that. It's inconsiderate to project one's loony death phobias onto others; I'll have my plate full with Senor Kerouac soon enough.

The restaurant is chilly and Emma is rubbing her hands to warm up. I switch to her side of the booth and put an arm around her, a courtly deed that improves my mood more than hers. She does perk up when I tell her about that phone call to Charles Chickle—like me, she wants to believe it was really Janet. Neither of us mentions the blood on the carpet. Neither of us touches our wine, either.