Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

He's fading again and I still haven't pried the answer out of him—depressing evidence that my interviewing skills have waned. In the old days somebody loaded on this much hospital-grade narcotics would have been a pushover. By now I'd have had him confessing to the JFK assassination.

"Tito, wake up. Why does Cleo want Jimmy's master recording? I can't figure it out."

"She doesn't want the whole thing," he says irritably. "There's one cut she's hot for, and the rest she couldn't give two shits about."

I assume he's talking about "Cindy's Oyster," but when I try the title on Tito he says it doesn't ring a bell. However, Tito's bell is made of Jell-O at the moment.

"Naw, that ain't the song," he insists. "This is one she wants for her own record. She said Jimmy promised to give it to her, but that ain't what Danny told me. He said it was gonna be on Jimmy's own album. His comeback single, he said."

"Come on, Tito. Try to remember the name of the cut."

"Back off, guy ... "

"The long-haired kid at the club with Cleo," I say, "you remember him?"

But Tito is distracted by a stab of pain that causes him to twist around and glower at the door. "Where'd Nurse Wretched go? I believe she shot me up with sugar water."

"Loreal," I press onward, "that's what he calls himself."

"Aw, he's just some junior jerkoff with a Pro Tools setup. His job is to lay Cleo's vocals over Jimmy's guitar, once they lift it off the master. That's my read."

I can't help but notice that Tito has begun to bleat intermittently, like a baby goat. "Think hard," I encourage him. "This is important."

"Know what? This gettin'-shot shit is strictly for the youngbloods. I'm fifty motherfuckin' years old."

"Count your blessings. Steve McQueen checked out at fifty." I am powerless to edit myself.

"That was cigarettes," Tito snaps. "I quit the cigarettes." He curses under his breath. "What's the name of the wife's album again? She told me but I forgot."

"It's going to be called Shipwrecked Heart."

He smiles grimly and points a callused finger. "That's it, chico. That's Jimmy's song. The one she wants. The one she sang at the church."

And just like that, bingo, it all adds up.

The guitar part I heard last night sounded familiar for a reason. The widow Stomarti had played it at the funeral, while singing the only verse she knew ...

You took me like a storm, tossed me out of reach,

Left me like the tide, lost and broken on a beach.

Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart ...

" 'Shipwrecked Heart.' That's it." Tito is pleased with himself for remembering. "One time Jimmy was gonna let me hear the final mix but we went lobsterin' instead. I remember Jay or Danny, they said it was pretty good."

"I'd sing it for you myself but you're in enough pain. Cleo says she and Jimmy wrote that song together."

"What a joke. That girl couldn't write a Christmas card."

This goes immediately into the notebook. Tito watches the transcribing with an amused resignation. "You're gonna put my name in your newspaper?"

"It's very possible."

"Then maybe I should take a long vacation like Danny." He raises himself to look out the window, where the morning sky over Hollywood is pink with sun-tinted smog. "You think they offed Jimmy's sister? I liked her. She was a real decent kid."

"I liked her, too. May I borrow the phone?"

"Be my guest." Tito's curly noggin begins to loll. "I believe I'm fixin' to crash."

It's still early in Florida and Emma's probably in the middle of her workout, but I dial the number anyway because I can't wait. After thirteen days I've finally dug up a motive for the murder of James Bradley Stomarti. It might not have been conspicuous but it was heartbreakingly simple.

His wife killed him for a song.

From Cedars I head straight to LAX and catch a flight that should get me home by midnight. Hunkered like a parolee in a window seat, I snap on the Discman and painstakingly tick through the "Shipwrecked Heart" tracks until I locate what sounds like a fully mixed version. It's pretty good, too. I understand why Cleo Rio wants to steal it for herself.

Nothing intricate—just Jimmy playing an acoustic guitar and bits of harmonica. The nimble 12-string bridge is way out of his league, and undoubtedly was contributed by one of his famous pals or a first-rate session player. Ironically, there's no bass track at all, which makes the shooting of poor Tito Negraponte even more insulting.

Above all I'm struck by Jimmy's voice, so stark and subdued that Slut Puppies fans would never guess it was him. A light background harmony comes in on the last two refrains—I'm certain it's Ajax and Maria Bonilla, the singers I met at the funeral.

While the lyrics are a bit top-heavy with similes, the song is still more interesting than most of the formulaic crap on the radio. Over and over I play the piece, and from beginning to end it comes through as one voice—definitely not Cleo's. I'd bet the farm that Jimmy wrote it long before he met her, and that he wrote it for another woman.

You took me like a storm, tossed me out of reach,

Left me like the tide, lost and broken on a beach.

Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart ...

Watching for your sails on the horizon.

Years we took the sea, together cold and rough.

The weather in our souls, we never got enough.

Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart ...

Dreaming of your sails on the horizon.

The waves won't let me sleep, night whispers to the shore.

Stars run behind the clouds, an empty sea wants more,

The empty sea wants more.

Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart ...

Watching for your sails on the horizon.

Watching for your love on the horizon.

Sitting beside me on the plane is a kid of Evan's age, maybe slightly younger. He seems curious about the open spiral notebook and the unmarked CDs stacked on my lap, but he's too shy to speak up. So I take off the headphones and ask his name.

Kyle, he says.

"Mine's Jack Tagger. You like music?"

Kyle is nineteen, it turns out, and attends the University of South Florida on a baseball scholarship. He plays third base and left field, which means he's got an arm. I ask what kind of music he likes, and he says Rage Against the Machine, Korn, stuff like that. "My girlfriend's favorite is PJ Harvey," he adds.

"That's promising. And, Kyle, how might she feel about Ms. Britney Spears?"

He makes a gagging motion with a forefinger.

"You should probably marry that girl," I say.

"Sometimes I think about it."

Kyle hails from Redondo Beach, where the love of his life works in a gym. She drove him to the airport this afternoon and waited at the gate until his flight was called. She's twenty, he adds, opening his wallet to show me a picture. I would have been stupefied if she weren't blond and breathtaking, a statutory requirement for female health-club instructors in Southern California. The name of Kyle's girlfriend is Shawna, and under the circumstances he seems to be holding up well.

"Would you mind doing me a favor?" I say. "Could you listen to a song and tell me what you think."

I hand the headset to Kyle and cue up "Shipwrecked Heart." As the track plays, he gives an approving nod and a thumbs-up. Obviously he thinks I've got a proprietary connection to the recording, some creative or financial stake, because the moment it's over he says, "Hey, that's sweet."

"It's all right if you don't like it. Just tell me the truth."

"But I do. I mean, it's sorta slow but it's ... I dunno—"

"Pretty?"

"Yeah. Pretty," he says. "Like an old song."