Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

At random moments my mind flashes back to that gothic image of Cleo's boys, Jerry sitting headless in the reeds and Loreal no less dead, scalped and gaping. Juan says we're not meant to forget such things—it's the price of surviving.

According to the news story, the crashed airboat was stolen from a deer camp near Palmdale. A game warden is quoted speculating that the men were probably out hunting for alligators when they got caught in rough weather and wiped out at high speed. A loaded .22 caliber pistol—a favorite of gator poachers—was found in a jacket worn by young Freddie Moulter. That sneaky little shit!

The Post says the police are continuing to investigate the two deaths, but foul play is not suspected. The absence of .38 caliber holes confirms my ineptitude with the Lady Colt.

"Hello, stranger!"

It's Janet Thrush. I give her a squeeze as I lead her to a booth in the corner. "You had me scared to death," I whisper.

"Dooms." She laughs. "All you had to do was check your messages." She's wearing a lime-colored halter, a flowered bikini bottom and feathered earrings made from salmon streamers. Her nose is sunburned and her ash-blond hair has been dyed auburn.

"Wanna hear what happened?"

"Oh heck, why not."

"This was, like, Friday a week. The afternoon you and me talked about Jimmy's last will and testimony. Anyways, that night I was get-tin' ready for work—hey, can I have a croissant or a muffin? Coffee would be good, too."

I snag a waitress so that Janet can order.

"Anyways, I'm gettin' dressed for work—"

"For Janet-Cam."

"Right. I'm in the bathroom puttin' on the SWAT gear when all hell breaks loose. The front door busts open and then there's voices, men's voices, and they're trashin' out my place big-time. I don't know whether to jump out the window or hide."

"Did they know you were home?"

"I don't think it mattered, Jack. I don't think they cared," she says. "So I'm locked in the John, scared shitless—pardon my French—when I hear the TV lights go crashin' down. I swear to God, I just lost it. I mean I really wigged ... those damn lights cost me a week's pay. So I pull on the black hood and go busting out with my nine-dollar plastic rifle. 'Police! Police! You're all under arrest!' And the two guys, they freak. I don't know what they were expectin' but they took one look at me in that SWAT getup and they hauled ass."

"Did you recognize them?" I ask.

The croissants arrive and Janet pauses to gobble one. "Never saw 'em before in my life. One guy was bald and had a pirate patch over one eye. The other was tall and freckly."

"Longhair?"

"Down to his butt. I first saw him, I thought he was a chick. He was messin' with my computer—that's another thing, Jack, these assholes ripped off my PC. I got no idea why."

"I'll tell you in a minute."

"Anyway, they ran off like their balls were on fire."

"And then ... ?"

Janet calls another time-out for a blueberry muffin. Afterwards she says, "They garbaged my car, so a friend came and got me. I've been down in Lauderdale ever since, just chillin'."

"Was it you who called the sheriff's office and told them not to check the house?"

She nods guiltily. "I remembered I had a bag of buds under the mattress. I knew the cops'd find it and I wasn't up for a hassle, so I gave 'em a story—'My boyfriend raised some hell but everything's okay now so please don't send a squad car.'"

"Well, it worked."

"Remember I told you about the Convent-Cam setup, the girls who dress up like nuns? That's who I've been stayin' with. To be honest, Jack, I been scared to go home."

"You want to know what scared me? The blood on the carpet, Janet. What the hell happened?"

"I stepped on a broken lightbulb, that's what." She swings a long leg up on the breakfast table and kicks off her sandal, revealing a large dirty bandage on the sole of her foot. "When they broke my kliegs, the glass went all over the place. I bled like a hippo."

A waitress carrying a coffeepot is poised beside our table, staring uneasily at the grungy gauze.

"Stitches?" I inquire politely.

"Seven," Janet reports. "No biggie."

"The big bald goon was Cleo's bodyguard. The long-haired one was her so-called record producer."

Janet hoots. "That little bimbo has a bodyguard!" She pulls her leg off the table. "Why'd they bust into my place? What'd they want?"

"Your brother's music." I signal for the waitress to deliver the check. "Jimmy's final album."

"No way!" Janet sits forward, smoldering. "No way. That is not happening."

"Don't worry. They're both dead."

"If only."

I slide the Post across the table and point to the headline next to the picture: Airboat Theft Ends in Fatal Crash.Her eyes widen.

"Come on," I say. "Let's go for a drive."

Certain details of the story need not be disclosed. For instance, there's no reason for Janet to know that Emma was kidnapped, or that I was shooting a gun at Jerry and Loreal when they swamped.

But I'm telling her enough to paint the picture.

"What they wanted was the master recording of everything Jimmy wrote in the islands. We found it hidden on the boat after Jay Burns was killed."

"Jay was in on this?"

"At least the pirating of the tracks, yeah. Maybe more."

"His 'best friend,' "Janet says acidly. "I'm so over these people. But why'd they kill him?"

"He got spooked."

"And what's with this 'accident'?" She taps two fingers on the newspaper photo.

"I told Cleo Rio I had the master. We set up a trade. The guys on the airboat were coming to get it when they wrecked."

"A trade for what?"

"Something personal. Something they stole from me."

We're cruising in the Mustang because a busy donut shop isn't the best place to be chit-chatting about murder.

Janet says, "I can't believe they shot Tito. Holy shit."

"They thought he had a copy of the hard drive. That's the computer box where your brother stored the album tracks. They figured you had one, too. That's why they broke into your house."

"This is nuts. Totally."

"It's Cleo," I say.

"But why would she care about Jimmy's stuff? She's the one with the dumbass hit song." Janet gazes out the window, shaking her head. "Crazed," she mutters.

I ask her if she sat in on any of the Exuma sessions. "Did your brother ever play any of the songs for you?"

"Long time ago," she says. "He wrote it for some girl, she dumped him for one of the Ramones."

"What was the name of the track?"

"God, lemme think. Jimmy only had a few lines written. Mostly he just hummed and played along on the guitar."

"Would you know it if you heard it again?"

"I dunno. I remember it was a really nice song, but we're talkin' like three years ago. Maybe longer."

I insert the disc of "Shipwrecked Heart" into the stereo and twist up the volume. Janet hunches intently toward the speakers. After about eight bars she says, "Pull the car over!"

This requires some slick navigating, as we are boxed in the center lane on the interstate.

"Jack, come on!" She's beating the dashboard with both fists.

Flashing my headlights, I shoot through a Fiat-sized gap between two eighteen-wheelers. Snaking a course toward the shoulder of the highway, I'm greeted by upraised digits from a corpulent biker and a swarthy businessman in a Lincoln. As I brake to a halt, Janet begins stabbing at the buttons on the stereo console.

"Play it again! I want to hear it again," she demands tearfully. "Where's the damn Replay thingie?"

"Calm down. Deep breaths."

I re-cue the disc and take her hands in mine. Once more we listen to her brother's song, Janet protesting, "But isn't that the name of Cleo's album—'Shipwrecked Heart'? How can that be?"