Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

Putting an arm around his spindly shoulders, I hear myself say, "What makes you think I'll get away with it?"

A cardinal rule of the business is that reporters should never become part of the story. I'm hopelessly up to my nuts in this one. And while I'm dying to tell Emma about the telephone call from Cleo, I know she'd want me to call the cops.

But here's what would happen: Hill and Goldman or some equally unsmooth detectives would show up at Jizz to confront Jimmy's widow. Indignantly she would deny drowning her husband or snuffing Jay Burns or kidnapping her sister-in-law. She'd claim to have no interest in obtaining the master copy of Jimmy's recording sessions, and insist she didn't even know it was missing. And she'd say that meeting at the nightclub was my idea, and she had no idea what we were to discuss. The detectives would bluff, badger and ask a series of uninformed questions before calling it a night. Tomorrow Cleo would quietly start shopping for a songwriter to hammer out a new version of "Shipwrecked Heart," Janet Thrush would never be seen again and I'd have no story for the newspaper.

On the other hand, it won't be my story anyway if I meet with Cleo and things get ugly. Griffin, the crime reporter, would be writing about me, possibly followed by young Evan, which is no less than I deserve: an obituary penned by a college intern. At least the kid would get a front-page byline, which might be enough to change his mind about law school.

Dying is not in my plans, though it would certainly elevate my profile at the Union-Register. American journalists are rarely slain in pursuit of a story, so the paper would trumpet my heroic demise with moonwalk-type headlines. Abkazion, smelling a Pulitzer, would unleash a squad of all-stars to unravel the crime. Emma, stoically overcoming her grief, would volunteer to edit the project ...

I wouldn't be so worried if Cleo Rio were smart, because a smart criminal would never bother to kill a reporter. It's easier, and infinitely more effective, to discredit them. Killing one only brings out an infestation of others, banging on doors, asking impertinent questions. In fact, dying in the line of duty is one of the few ways for an obscure middle-aged obituary writer to make a splash, the last thing Cleo should want. Tonight I'll explain to her the downside of murdering me, in case she and Jerry haven't thought that far ahead.

In the meantime, I'll tell Emma that I spoke to Jimmy's widow but she admitted nothing, which is true. I'll also tell her that the blood samples we took from Janet's house matched up, and that I shared our information with a state prosecutor who found it "highly suspicious." I will not tell her of my plan to trade Jimmy's music for the release of his sister, as I haven't yet figured out how to pull that off. The less anyone at the paper knows about tonight's summit, the better for me.

No sign of Emma when I arrive at the newsroom, but young Evan is eagerly waiting. He crowds my desk, whispering, "Well? Did it work?"

"Like a charm. She called at noon sharp."

"How cool is that! I guess she found the CD."

"Unfortunately, she also figured out who it came from."

Evan blanches. "It wasn't me, Jack! Swear to God."

"My fault. The deli guys probably went back and got the phone number off the original order."

"So what'd Cleo have to say?"

"Nothing that a howler monkey on acid couldn't understand. Evan, let's not mention our infiltration scheme to anybody, okay?"

"Why? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, buddy, you were perfect. But Abkazion's got a thing about reporters 'misrepresenting' themselves."

Evan's face goes gray. "You mean like pretending to be a delivery man."

"You're new here. You didn't know any better."

"But you asked me to do it!" he splutters. "You trying to get me in trouble?"

"No, I'm trying to save a woman's life. Sometimes rules need to be twisted, Evan. This can't possibly come as a shock, given your choice of a future career."

"But Emma knew!"

"Don't blame Emma—lately she's been under my ambrosial spell. Is she still at lunch, our fearless leader?"

"Haven't seen her all day. You sure I'm not in trouble?"

"For God's sake, you're an intern. Newspapers don't fire interns," I assure him. "Worst that could happen, they'll move you to the Food and Fine Dining section. You'll spend the rest of the summer fact-checking matzo ball recipes." I pause while Evan shudders. "Just the same, I don't see why anyone except you, me and Emma needs to know about the deli caper."

Evan agrees wholeheartedly as he backpedals toward his desk. I wish I felt worse about using him, but at least the kid had some fun. A nubile MTV starlet rubbed an unfettered breast against his flesh—how many pre-law majors can make that claim?

Time crawls toward three-thirty. My eyes tick between the phone on my desk and the clock on the newsroom wall. Two o'clock. Two-twenty. Two forty-three.

Ridiculous. Emma must be stuck in a meeting.

Now I remember: It's Thursday, and Thursdays are a marathon day for meetings at the Union-Register. Emma has come to hate them, which is a positive sign. All good editors hate meetings because they steal precious hours from the hectic task of putting out a paper. It's the very same reason bad editors love meetings; some Thursdays they can make it through an entire news cycle without having to make an independent decision or interact with an actual reporter.

Looking around the place now, I see a few stiffs and climbers but also plenty of authentic talent; as good as Emma could be if she ignores my advice and sticks with the business. Nobody with a living brain cell goes into the newspaper business for the money. They're in it because digging up the truth is interesting and consequential work, and for sheer entertainment it beats the hell out of humping product for GE or Microsoft. Done well, journalism brings to light chicanery, oppression and injustice, though such concerns seldom weigh heavily on those who own the newspapers. Race Maggad III, for instance, believes hard-hitting stories are fine as long as they don't encroach upon valuable advertising space or, worse, affront an advertiser.

It's pleasing to report that since Maggad-Feist acquired the Union-Register, circulation has declined commensurately with each swing of the budget ax. This trend suggests newspaper readers expect some genuine news along with their coupons and crosswords. Young Race Maggad will tolerate losing readers only as long as profits rise, which he achieves by the aforementioned paring of the budget, shrinking of the staff and cold-blooded gouging of local retailers. Eventually, however, Wall Street will take note of the sliding circulation numbers and react in a manner that could jeopardize young Race Maggad's blond and breezy lifestyle. His trepidation over this prospect has leached into the management ranks of all the company's newspapers, including ours. The result has been the urgent convening of even more newsroom meetings, one of which undoubtedly imprisons Emma at this moment.

Quarter past three on Thursday afternoon.

Phone rings. Eddie Bell from the Bellmark Funeral Home.

"Jack, you been out sick, or what? I miss your stuff in the paper lately. That Evan kid, he's okay but—"

"I can't talk now, Eddie. I'm waiting on a call."

"This'll just take a sec. I got one cries out for your golden touch, Jack. I'm so glad you're not sick, God forbid," he says. "Remember a few years back, widow lady shot some dirtbag that was breaking into her condo? Eighty-four years old, she popped him like five times point-blank. Pow! Blew his gourd off."

"Yeah, I remember, Eddie. Let me call you back—"

"Made all the networks. Maury Povich, too." One thing about Eddie Bell, he loves the hype. "Lady name of Audrey Feiffer?"