Carl Hiassen - Basket Case

"Your favorite cologne."

It was called "Timberlake." Carla and I spent an hour sniffing samples at the men's counter in Burdines until we found the right one.

"All your fellas wear it," I said to Cleo. "Loreal. Jerry the gorilla. You even doused it on Jimmy in his casket."

"I like what I like," she said, "but on you it would gag a maggot."

Carla hooted. I deserved no less.

Listing slightly to starboard, Cleo said, "I gotta know, Tagger. Was it really you who did this to me? All by your lonesome?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm just a tired old obituary writer."

"As if," she snorted.

Here Carla cut in: "Cleo, honey, your sleeve's in the salsa."

"Shit. This is a Versace."

The bartender sent a club soda, and Cleo went to work scrubbing on the stain. I asked if it was true that the record label had canceled her contract. She said so what, it was a chickenshit outfit anyway. "After the trial I'm getting an incredibly sweet deal. My new manager's talking mega."

"Awesome," I said, which seemed to please her. "Hey, have you found a new producer yet?"

Cleo's response was to pulverize an ice cube with her molars.

"Or a new bodyguard?"

"That's not funny, man. When this is over," she said, "I'm gonna sue your newspaper for about twenty million bucks."

"When this is over, Cindy Zigler, you'll be in prison."

"Yeah, right."

Carla couldn't help but notice the wane of bonhomie. "Cleo, before we say goodbye, I gotta ask—in the video, was that you or a body double?"

The widow perked up. "It was all me. Every curly little hair."

Her arrest was bannered on the front page: Singer Charged in Death of Rock-Star Husband.That was the headline. Here was the byline:

By Jack Tagger Staff Writer

For the first time in four years I sent a clipping to my mother. I also saved a copy for Anne, at her request. She and Derek were in Italy where he was researching a new spy novel, The Bishop's Chambermaid. Anne mentioned it, with a gently appropriate joke, in a postcard.

The truth behind James Bradley Stomarti's death received heavy play in the celebrity press as well as the music trades. By the time the trial started, Jimmy and the Slut Puppies were hot all over again. The record company repackaged Floating Hospice and A Painful Burning Sensation as a double album, spiced with previously unreleased bonus tracks. In only three weeks, a digital re-mix of the "Basket Case" single drew sixty-two thousand downloads off the band's interactive Web site. A new video, starring Kate Hudson as the bipolar mama, features never-before-seen concert footage of the Slut Puppies, including Jimmy's lewd spoof of Pat Robertson.

The group is making money again. Miraculously, some of it has found its way to Jimmy's estate, and many deserving little urchins will be trundling off to sea camps next summer.

Cleo Rio's trial lasted three weeks. Danny Gitt flew in from the Seychelles to testify about a heated argument he'd heard between Jimmy and his wife in the studio, an argument about a song. Tito Negraponte arrived from California with his pockets full of Percocets, so Rick Tarkington wisely elected not to depose him. He didn't need to. Janet Thrush proved to be a devastating witness, shredding Cleo's contention that she and her husband had collaborated on "Shipwrecked Heart."

I'd anticipated that Cleo's defense team might try to drag me into the case, but they must have figured out it would backfire. Their client already had plenty to explain without adding the criminal antics of Jerry and Loreal. It was no surprise that the widow Stomarti declined to take the stand in her own defense. Her lawyers gamely presented the theory that Jimmy had accidentally overdosed himself before the fatal dive. Their star witness was a retired ophthalmologist who claimed it was not impossible for a farsighted person to have grievously misread the label on a Benadryl package.

The jury was out less than three hours. Cleo got convicted, and the judge gave her twenty-to-life. On the day of sentencing, the number 9 rock single on the Billboard charts was "Cindy's Oyster," recorded by Jimmy Stoma.

"Shipwrecked Heart" was number 5.

And Janet Thrush was moving from her modest house in Beckerville to a three-bedroom waterfront apartment on Silver Beach. From there she will manage her dead brother's career, and a charitable foundation established in his name. The tracks from the Exuma sessions were purchased for $1.6 million by Capitol Records, and the full Shipwrecked Heart CD is due for release in six weeks. A company press release said there's enough material for two more compilations.

Before signing the deal, Janet had called from Los Angeles to ask my advice.

"Well, what would Jimmy have done?" I said.

"Grabbed the money," she replied. "What the hell am I thinking?"

Janet never told another soul that she'd switched the tags on the coffins. The court order to open the grave emanated from a confidential tip to Rick Tarkington's office. I was the only journalist to report that Jimmy Stoma's favorite Doors album was found with his body. Ultimately, the mistaken cremation of Eugene Marvin Brandt was pinned on Ellis, the thieving funeral director, who proclaimed his innocence even as he quietly settled out of court with Gertie Brandt for a sum rumored to be in the six figures. It might have been less had Ellis not pried the custom golf spikes off Gene's dead feet, and had he not been wearing them the day the process server found him on a public driving range in Port Malabar.

The investigation, indictment and prosecution of Cleo Rio generated thirteen front-page articles in the Union-Register, all of them written by me. Race Maggad III was said to be enraged by the reappearance of my byline, but Abkazion refused to delete it, or to yank me off the story. Usually such adherence to principle would cost a managing editor his job, but those days might be over.

On the morning Cleo was convicted, I walked into the newsroom and asked Emma to fire me. She said no. Immediately I took her into a broom closet on the third floor, removed her panties and made love to her.

"You're cruising for trouble," she warned.

After lunch I did it again.

"Now you've gone too far. You've made me miss the one o'clock," Emma declaimed after we'd caught our breaths. "You're fired, Jack."

"Thanks. I'll see you tonight."

Charles Chickle, Esq., had the trust documents ready to sign when I arrived. Race Maggad III was stewing outside, so Charlie and I took our sweet time. I commended him on prolonging the probate of MacArthur Polk's estate until the Stoma story ran its course. Then we talked bass fishing and Gator football.

Finally, Charlie said, "You ready?" He'd already spent an hour with Maggad, tenderizing him.

"Bring in the sulky young mandrill," I instructed.

Presently a secretary escorted the chairman of the Maggad-Feist Publishing Group into the lawyer's office, and barrister Chickle excused himself.

"Master Race, sit down!" I bubbled.

He wore a peerless wool suit but otherwise he looked terrible, drawn and sleepless, with scrotal bags under his anxious green eyes. Even his hair refused to shine.

"Good afternoon, Jack," he said tautly.

"You never told me how you liked the old man's obit."

"Didn't I? I thought it was fine."

"I'll pass along your compliments to the writer."

Maggad scowled. "But I thought you wrote it."

"At my right hand was a college intern named Evan Richards. Bright kid, too. He's not coming back to the Union-Register because he noticed that you've run it into the shitter."

I reminded young Race that it had been several months since we'd last spoken, and that significant events had occurred in the interim. Maggad-Feist lost a costly antitrust suit in upstate Washington, and had been forced to sell two profitable radio stations. The price of company stock spiraled from 40 1/4 to 22 1/4, a five-year low. Two competing media conglomerates—one German, one Canadian—had initiated hostile attempts to take over the chain.