Basket Case (36 page)

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?"

"How could I forget."

The burglar had gotten stuck sneaking into Mrs. Feiffer's kitchen through the kitty door. She thought he was the neighbor's chow, trying to get at her Siamese, and emptied her late husband's revolver into him. Then she fixed herself a cup of chicken broth and lay down for a nap.

"Well, she finally passed on," Eddie says. "Natural causes, God bless her. We happen to be handling the arrangements—"

"Evan'll do a nice job on the story."

"Wait, wait! The best part, she asked to be buried with her NRA patches—the ones they sent her after she wasted that guy." Eddie is breathless. "She was so proud, she stitched 'em to the front of her favorite housedress. By hand!"

"Patches," I say.

"Plus an autographed picture of Charlton Heston—she wanted that in the casket, too. Come on, Jack. This one cries out for your touch, no?"

"I'll have Evan call you."

Two beats after I hang up, the phone rings again.

"Jack?"

It's Emma. What lousy timing.

"Where are you?" I ask. "I can't talk now—Janet's supposed to call on this line any second."

"I don't think so," she says dully.

"What does that mean?"

"This is your phone call, Jack. The one you're waiting for."

I'm telling myself no, it can't be.

But in a chilling monotone she says: "Do whatever they tell you. Please." Then the line goes dead.

"Emma?" a tremulous voice repeats. My own.

"Emma!" My hand is shaking as I hang up the receiver. Almost instantly the phone rings again, and I jump like a mouse.

"Hello." It feels like I'm shouting though I can barely hear myself. I seem to have forgotten how to inhale.

"So, dickhead." It's Jerry on the other end, gloating. "What d'you think now?"

"I think maybe we can work something out."

"Okay then. Be there tonight."

"Not so fast." I've lost my relish for smart-ass banter, so this won't be easy. "Let me speak to the boss."

"She ain't available."

"Jer, please don't make me hurt you again."

"I shoulda killed you when I had the chance."

"Yeah, and I should've bought Amazon at fifteen and a quarter."

Cleo's bodyguard hangs up. I turn to see the approach of Rhineman, our eternally queasy Metro editor.

"I was looking for Emma," he says. "The diversity committee meets at four."

This is a group that convenes regularly to suggest ways for the Union-Register to become more ethnically diverse. To date, its only useful recommendation is that the paper shouldn't employ so many white people.

Rhineman asks me to remind Emma about the meeting. "Four o'clock in the executive conference room."

She's not here, I tell him. She called in sick.

I entrusted the thing to Carla, who entrusted it to a young woman known on the club circuit as Thurma, a breeder and keeper of exotic wildlife. It was from Thurma's private collection that Carla had procured my Savannah monitor, the late Colonel Tom. Thurma lives in the piney glades on the western edge of the county, and in my agitated condition I'm pleased to let Carla do the driving. She is mercifully casual with her questions, even though she knows there's a shitstorm in the works. Today her hair is the color of watermelon, arranged in whimsical cornrows.

"Mom called last night, half out of her skull. Derek's written a poem to read at the reception Saturday. It's three frigging pages!" Carla reports delightedly. "He's having it printed up special and handed out to all the guests—hey, Blackjack? Wake up. This is for your benefit, pal."

"Sorry. Go on."

"Guess what it's called, Derek's matrimonial poem."

"Got to be an ode to something," I say absently. "Ode to a princess. Ode to a maiden… "

Carla crows, banging her hands on the steering wheel. "You are goodl It's 'Ode to a Brown-Eyed Goddess.' I swear to Christ, if he goes through with this, the wedding's gonna be a pukefest."

"Hey, your mom's happy. That's all that counts."

"Don't go soft on me now, you gnarly old fart."

"Carla, I need a favor." "What else."

"Something happens to me"—I've got my notebook open, trying to scribble Rick Tarkington's name and number—"if something happens to me, you call this guy. Tell him I went to meet the merry widow tonight at Jizz."

"Hey! I'll go with you and we can flirt disgracefully."

"Like hell." I tear the page from the notebook and slip it into her handbag. "Also, please tell him there's a woman who's been abducted. Her name is Emma Cole and she works for the paper. She's only twenty-seven."

"Oh God, Jack. What did you do?"

"Outsmarted myself. How much farther?"

Thurma and her creatures dwell in a double-wide trailer enclosed by a tall chain-link fence. The name on the mailbox says "Bernice Mackle." Chained to a pine tree in front of the trailer is a coyote, of all things, pacing irritably in the shade.

Thurma is out running errands but she taped a note to the front door: "Cage #7. Slow and easy."

Carla digs the door key out of a flower pot and we enter warily. I don't know where Thurma eats or sleeps, the trailer is stacked with so many glass terrariums. Each contains one or more formidable reptiles. Thurma has accommodatingly unlocked the lid to number 7, which is home to the largest Eastern diamondback I've ever seen, its head the size of my fist. The rattler is coiled upon an anvil-shaped rock. Next to the rock is a water dish, and propped next to the water dish sits a familiar black box, once the secret pride and joy of James Bradley Stomarti.

"I told her to stash it in a safe place," Carla explains.

The snake is oblivious and somewhat lethargic, a condition attributable to a bunny-sized lump in one of its coils.

"Now what?" I ask Carla.

She points to a pair of barbecue tongs. "Slow and easy, remember."

"How much do you adore me?"

"Not that much, Jack."

"Honestly, my reflexes aren't what they used to be."

"Come on. It's practically in a coma," Carla says.

Carefully I lift the plastic lid off the tank.

"You want, I'll try and distract him." Carla presses her nose against the glass but jumps back when the rattler halfheartedly flicks its tongue.

"Screw that," she says.

Wielding the barbecue tongs, I take aim at the hard drive. Twice I panic and yank my arm away before getting a solid grip. On the third try I snatch hold of the box but, while lifting it, I see the snake's skin ripple and its nose turn slightly toward me. Then comes the rattle, which is unlike any other sound in nature. Brilliantly I pull my hand from the tank just as the beast strikes, fangs ticking harmlessly against the glass. Carla squeals as the tongs and the hard drive clatter to the floor.

Somewhere, Jimmy Stoma must be laughing his ass off.

If I'd checked my voice mail like a real reporter I would have known that Janet Thrush was neither dead nor being held captive by her sister-in-law. She'd left three messages, starting with: "Hi, Jack. It's Janet. Something super weird happened and I had to get outta Dodge for a while. I'm staying with some girls down in Broward. Call me, soon as you get a chance. It's, uh, 954-555-6609." The number connected to a service, where I left word for Ms. Thrush to phone me at home as soon as possible.

But when I returned from Dommie's house, the tape on my answer machine was empty. So I'm sitting here, in the same faded old armchair where Emma and I made love, waiting for calls and plotting the big rescue. The most ambitious version of my plan is to save Emma, get Cleo busted, break open the Jimmy Stoma story and sail onto the front page of the Union-Register for the first time in 987 days.