Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

When Evan first came to work for Emma, I thought he might be a keeper so I gave him a pep talk. I told him that plenty of reporters start out as rookies on the obituary desk, which is true, and that the talented ones advance quickly to bigger things, including the front page. And I recall Evan looking up at me with such rumpled perplexity that I burst out laughing. Obviously what the kid was aching to ask—had every right to ask—was: "What about you, Jack Tagger? Why are you writing obits after twenty years in the business?" And since the answer offered both a laugh and a lesson, I told young Evan the truth. His earnest reply: "Oh wow."

Not wishing to spook him, I hastened to portray myself as an incorrigible hothead who more or less dug his own grave, at which point Evan politely interrupted. He said that while he appreciated my candor and encouragement, he'd never planned to make a career of the newspaper trade. He said that from all he'd been reading, it was clear that dailies were "over." A dying medium, he told me. He had come to the Union-Register mainly to "experience" a newsroom, before they were all gone. His second choice was undoubtedly a cattle drive.

So I had no qualms about recruiting young Evan to help on the Jimmy Stoma story. Who wants to spend a whole summer banging out six-inch obits of dead preachers and retired schoolteachers? The kid deserved a taste of adventure, something memorable for his scrapbook. What a gas to be able to tell your college buddies that you helped sort out the mysterious death of a rock star.

And now I'm Evan's hero. He's as high as a kite.

"I almost freaked when she answered the door," he's saying. "I couldn't believe it was really her. And she's like, 'What's going on? I didn't order any subs!' At first I couldn't hardly say a word because she's standing there in a see-through bra ... "

"Easy, tiger," I tell him.

We're sitting in the cafeteria, Emma and I sharing one side of a bench table and Evan on the other. I'm taking notes, Emma is sipping coffee and the kid's gobbling a plateful of miniature glazed donuts.

"Who else was there?" I ask him.

"Two guys. The taller one had shiny hair, like, down to his butt. The other one, the baldy, he had one eye and—"

"Whoa, boss. One eye?"

"He wore a black patch, Jack. It was sorta hard to miss. I asked him what happened and he said he was in a car crash last week."

"Big no-neck guy? Earrings?"

"That's the one," says Evan. "She called him Jerry. The patch was on his right eye, if that makes a difference."

I jot this down not because it's an invaluable detail, but because it makes Evan's day. He got the goon's name right, too; I remember it from the funeral at St. Stephen's.

"His forehead was all lumpy and bruised," Evan says, "like somebody pounded him with a hockey stick."

Emma is giving me a narrow look and I can't help but grin. Now it's official: Cleo Rio's bodyguard was my burglar. And I put out his eye with a dead lizard! Perhaps one day I'll be flooded with remorse.

"What else did you see?" Emma asks Evan.

"Hang on." He reaches into a back pocket and takes out his own notebook. "When I got back to my car I wrote down everything so I wouldn't forget. Let's see—they had Eminem on the CD player. The TV was on, too. Jerry was watching wrestling."

"Half-watching," I quip, avoiding Emma's gaze.

Evan continues skimming his notes, flipping pages. "Cleo was walking around in her bra, like I told you. I figured they were getting dressed to go out. The guy with the mermaid hair was hogging a blow dryer in one of the bathrooms."

"Was anything going on?" Emma asks.

"You mean like fooling around? Not in front of me," Evan says. "Cleo looked a lot different than on the video. No lipstick and really frail, like a ghost—but still she's way hot."

Emma smiles patiently. I ask the kid if he happened to notice a Toshiba laptop with a Grateful Dead decal, or possibly an Epson CPU in pieces on Cleo's dining room table. He saw nothing of the kind, of course. My stolen portable and Janet's missing computer are probably in a landfill by now, having failed to yield any goodies.

"But the guy with the hair," Evan says, "I did hear him talking to Jerry about a program. He said he was waiting for an upgrade."

"Aren't we all."

"An upgrade for his 'Pro Twos'"—Evan, squinting at his scribbles—"whatever that is."

"Pro Tools. It's a music-mixing program. The guy claims to be a record producer."

"Yeah? What's he done?"

"Exaggerate, mostly."

"Hey, I almost forgot." The kid slaps a takeout menu on the table. Emma and I move closer to examine it. Under the table she gives one of my kneecaps a naughty pinch.

"Cleo's autograph!" Evan exults.

"Nice work."

"Can I have it back when you're done?"

"We'll see." I pocket the deli menu. "How about some more donuts?"

Emma gets up. "I've got a budget meeting upstairs. Jack, we'll talk later." Then, to Evan: "You did a great job."

"Thanks. I just hope I didn't miss anything."

And as soon as Emma is gone, Evan asks why I didn't want her to know the real reason I sent him to the widow's penthouse on Silver Beach.

"Because she'd just get nervous," I say, "and there's no cause for that. So tell me: Where'd you leave it?"

Evan grins. "In the bag with the coleslaw."

"That's beautiful."

"While I was waiting for you to call back," he says, "that's when Cleo decided to keep the food. She got a major jones for that meatball sub. But then she took another phone call and the long-haired guy went off with the blow dryer, and Jerry was icing down his face. So for a couple minutes I'm standing there all alone—that's when I took it out of my jacket and slipped it in the deli bag."

"Quick thinking."

"Then you phoned back and said it was okay to give her the food, which was a major relief since that's where I'd already hidden it," Evan says. "Can I tell you something? She scared me, Jack."

"Cleo?"

"You should've heard her talkin' to Jerry when she got off that other call."

"Was she mad?"

"Mainly just ... cold. Her voice, man, I can't describe it. She's like, 'Do it. Get it done and no goddamn excuses this time.' Cold as ice, Jack. 'All these fuckups, Jerry, I'm over it.' Stuff like that. He's a big sonofabitch, too, and he's like, 'Yes, Ms. Rio. Right away, Ms. Rio.' Like a little kid standing in the principal's office. Tm sorry, Ms. Rio. I'll get right on it.' Really creeped me out."

"What were they talking about?" I ask Evan.

"No idea," he says. "But I was shakin' big-time when I handed her the coleslaw. And waiting for that elevator, Jack, I thought I was gonna wet my pants."

"You're a champ, Evan. First-rate job."

"Thanks." He leans closer and drops his voice. "When she was autographing the menu, she rubbed one of her boobs against me. On purpose, Jack, I swear to God!"

"And you're sure you don't want to be a reporter when you grow up?"

Evan's response is muffled by the donut he's cramming into his cheeks. "So, you promised to tell me. What was on that CD?"

"Just music."

"Come on, man. Who?"

"Her husband."

What I gave young Evan for covert delivery to Cleo Rio's apartment was the compact disc containing the first rough cut of "Cindy's Oyster." On the shiny face of the disc I used a red Sharpie to write a time, a date and a phone number.

"Oh wow," says Evan. "Her dead husband's music?"

Lunchtime. Emma's stuck in another meeting, so I take the Mustang and light out for Beckerville. Turning the corner of Janet's street, I feel my palms go clammy on the steering wheel. In my mind I've worked up this visual loop of Janet answering the door in her SWAT-team getup; tugging off her hood and smiling because it's me at the door ...