Basket Case (37 page)

But I would gladly settle for saving Emma, period.

Nothing momentous will take place at the club; of that I'm sure. They'll want the exchange to go down somewhere else, someplace quiet and remote. They might not even agree to do it tonight. I've tried to convince myself that all Cleo cares about is Jimmy's song, and that once I give it up she'll free Emma. Except that Emma is now a major problem because she can nail Cleo—or at least Jerry—for abduction and assorted other felonies. So can I. Thus a case could be made for eliminating both of us. It would be moronic, true, but the prisons of Florida aren't overflowing with Mensa candidates.

Here's something: When I told Carla I had a heavy meeting with some unpleasant characters, she offered to loan me a pistol.

And I took it. Guns scare the daylights out of me, but dying scares me more. So on my kitchen counter now sits a loaded Lady Colt.38, which supposedly is more petite and purse-friendly than the macho-oriented model. That's fine by me; I've got my dainty side. Also on the counter are two external hard drive units—Jimmy's original, and an identical copy made this afternoon by Juan's whiz-kid pal in exchange for twenty dollars' worth of Upper Deck baseball cards.

Juan is the person I most need to consult, but he's over in Tampa covering a Devil Rays game. He's the one fellow I know who is intimate with the primal impulse; he could tell me what it's like to make that decision and then live with it. My plan doesn't include killing anybody but I believe I might do it for Emma; that and more. Once the realization sinks in, I feel oddly liberated and energized. Emma's alive, and I'll do whatever it takes to get her back. No other option exists, so why fret?

When I asked Carla Candilla why she owned a pistol, she said, "Get real, Jack—hot single chick, living alone. Hul-lo?"

"Does your mother know?"

"That's who gave it to me."

"No way," I said.

"Seriously. She's got one, too."

"Anne packs a rod? Our Anne?"

Carla said, "She never told you because she didn't want you to freak. No big deal."

The things I didn't know.

I arrive at the club at quarter past ten. Cleo Rio suspects I'm wearing a wire so, in a scene worthy of a Derek Grenoble potboiler, Jerry leads me to the men's room and roughly pats me down. Fortunately, I've left Lady Colt under the front seat of the Mustang.

In the coziness of the toilet stall I remark upon the stylishness of Jerry's black velvet eye patch. "That cologne, though, smells like fermented pig piss. Why does she make you wear it?"

"Shut the fuck up," he says, slugging me in the ribs. When my respiration stabilizes, we return to the table. Loreal has arrived, hair aglimmering, to complete the motley foursome. Cleo is sporting white leather pants and a matching vest with nothing but skin beneath it. Tonight her pageboy is magenta while her eyelids and lips are done in cobalt. The look clashes badly with her Tortola-caliber tan.

Drinks are ordered and small talk is commenced, mostly by Loreal. He has been creatively inspired by something "funky" he heard on a No Doubt CD, and is confident he can replicate the effect on Cleo's record. She nods impassively and lights another cigarette. No screwdrivers for the widow tonight; it's black coffee. Loreal and I are tending Budweisers, while one-eyed Jerry sticks with Diet Coke. For a goon he's quite the sober professional.

As soon as the Nordic Rastafarian DJ takes a break, I invite Loreal to shut up so I can talk business with Cleo. She seems amused by my rude treatment of her boyfriend—clearly she'll be dumping this joker as soon as the album is finished. I expect she's already gotten stingy with the blow jobs.

"Here's the situation, Mrs. Stomarti," I begin. "You want Jimmy's song. I want my friend back."

"It's not just Jimmy's song. We did it together."

"Save that crap for the media tour. I listened to the tracks myself. Your husband wrote that number a long time ago, probably for another girl."

Cleo takes a hard drag. Her hand is steady. Eyeing me, she says, "Tagger, you got a death wish?"

I feel the hairs prickle on the back of my neck. "It's a good song," I say, "wherever it came from."

"A damn good song," Cleo says with a chuckle.

"And we'll make it even better," Loreal chimes in. "Time we're done, it won't sound anything like Jimmy's."

The widow and I ignore him. To her I say: "When I get Emma, you get the computer drive with all the music."

"Don't forget the discs you made."

"Them, too. Absolutely."

Jerry, sipping his soda, gives a scornful grunt. Turning to him, I can't resist saying: "You know what I belted you with, that night you busted into my apartment? A frozen lizard."

Reflexively Jerry touches a knuckle to his patch.

"That's right, tough guy. Your eye was put out by a one-hundred-and-seventy-seven-pound weakling armed only with a dead reptile. It's something to tell your grandchildren, when they ask how it happened."

Loreal says, "That's not funny, dude."

Jerry angrily states that I'm full of shit.

"Cleo, you should've been there," I say. "Your man saw all that blood on the floor and figured I was dead, so he ran away. But I wasn't dead."

"Unfortunately not," she says. "But you're gettin' closer by the minute, Tagger."

Her tone is not entirely unconvincing, but I laugh it off. "Is that supposed to be a threat? For God's sake, you're twenty-three years old!"

"Twenty-four," she says, "and my coffee's cold. So, how we gonna do the trade?"

I hear myself warning her to watch her step. "If you harm Emma or me, prepare for an eternal rain of shit. Lots of people know what I've been working on, and they'll come inquiring. And then they'll come back again and again."

Here I lay it on thick, dropping the names of detectives Hill and Goldman and of course Tarkington, the prosecutor. "By the way," I tell Cleo, "he was a big fan of your husband's."

She appears unmoved. "How can I, like, trust you to keep quiet?" she demands. "About the song, I mean."

"No, you mean about everything." Here comes the hairy part. "Look, I know you killed Jimmy, but I'll never prove it because the autopsy was a joke and the body's been cremated. Jay Burns was cool with the program because you promised he could play on 'Shipwrecked,' and who doesn't want to be on a hit record? But then I showed up at the boat, Jay went jiggy and you guys decided he wasn't all that terrific a piano player. The cops are ready to believe he got drunk and dozed off under that mullet truck. I seriously doubt it but, again, where's the proof?"

I shrug. Cleo yawns like a lioness and bites into an ice cube. Loreal starts to say something but wisely changes his mind. Jerry, meanwhile, folds his cable-sized arms across his chest. I think he picked this up from a Mr. Clean commercial.

"Now, let's talk about Tito Negraponte," I say. "Poor Tito wasn't lying when he told you he didn't know anything about 'Shipwrecked Heart.' He had nothing to do with the Exuma sessions. Jimmy didn't use him."

Cleo levels a moist glare at Loreal, who looks as if he wants to crawl under the ashtray.

"That's correct, darling," I inform the widow. "You tried to murder the wrong bass player. I'm guessing the Mexican gentlemen who took the job were recruited by Jerry here. Old prison chums, am I right, Jer? You look as if you spent some time in the yards."

The bodyguard's lips curl into a pale smile. I wink obnoxiously and plow ahead:

"I'm also guessing that the two fellows who visited Tito are no longer with us, meaning the shooting can't be traced to anyone at this table. Which leaves me with what? A song."

"The song," says Cleo, whose sphynx-like composure is unnerving.

"Yes, the song you claim was a conjugal effort. I know the truth, but the only people who can back me up won't do it. Danny Gitt, the singers, the other studio players—they figure you'll sue 'em if they say anything, and who needs the hassle. Long as they got paid for the sessions, they'll stay quiet."

We are interrupted by an autograph seeker, a gothed-out Ecstasy twerp with a silver safety pin in each nostril.

"You rule, girl," she says to Cleo, who brusquely signs the cocktail napkin as "Cindy Zigler," her given name. Puzzled but grateful, the young fan departs.

"Getting back to the song," I say to Cleo, "maybe you just want to swipe the lyrics, or maybe you want Loreal to loop some of Jimmy's vocals, too—sort of a duet with the dead. That'll get some crossover air play. And I can't wait to see the pop-up video."

"Why the fuck should you care?"

"I was a fan, that's why. But as long as I get Emma back, I don't give damn what you do with Jimmy's song. It'll never be as good as the one he did, but that's show business."

Cleo says, "You're forgettin' one thing. His sister."

"What about her?"

"She don't like me."

"So what? She doesn't know about all this." The secret of big-league bullshitting is to keep it coming.

Loreal says, "I bet she knows about the Exuma sessions."

"No doubt." Cleo scowls and crunches another ice cube.

"She doesn't know anything about this song," I say firmly. "Jimmy never told Janet—I asked her myself." Another hefty lie. I've got no idea if he ever played "Shipwrecked Heart" for his sister. The crucial thing is to convince Cleo that Janet poses no threat.

"She seems perfectly thrilled," I add, "to be getting a hundred grand from the estate."

Cleo laughs acidly. "Her and the goddamn Sea Urchins." She turns to Jerry. "Whaddya think? You said he wanted money."

Jerry says, "He will. Don't worry."

Guys like this, they make it too easy. "That's right, Jerry. The first time I saw you in that snazzy bomber jacket and those Beatle boots, I told myself: I'm gonna squeeze a couple million bucks out of that chrome-domed, noodle-dicked troglodyte."

Now, getting in Cleo's face, I really crank up the charm. "And no offense, Mrs. Stomarti, but if you were sitting here having drinks with Clive Davis, I might be impressed enough to hit you up for a few bucks. Unfortunately, you're here with a dork who's named himself after a fucking hair product, and couldn't get into the Grammys with an AK-47."

A plum blush rises in young Loreal's cheeks, and he huffily challenges me to fisticuffs in the nearest alley. The rest of us stare at him pitilessly.

"Someday you might be a star," I say to Cleo, "but so far you've had exactly one hit single for a rinky-dink label. Whatever money you made is already spent on dope and wardrobe. Beyond the fact you're not worth blackmailing, it's significant to note that I've got nothing to blackmail you with. I can't write a story alleging you stole your husband's song without somebody else saying so. The paper wouldn't print it—please tell me you're not too fried to understand."

The widow paws absently at her bangs. She seems cordially immune to insult. "Suppose you burn another copy of Jimmy's solo version—that'd queer things up for me, it ever got out on the Net. What's to stop you from shakin' me down six months from now? Or a year?"

"Nothing," I say, "except an intense distaste for cliches."

Cleo puffs her cheeks and snorts. "Bottom line, all you want is the chick?"

"Correct."

"What's her name again?"

"Emma. And I want my portable computer, too." I grab one of Jerry's earlobe hoops and pull his grimacing mug close to mine. "The laptop doesn't belong to me, Jer. It belongs to the Maggad-Feist Publishing Group, a publicly held company that is fiercely accountable to its shareholders."

Loreal says, "Jesus, knock it off. We'll buy you a brand-fucking-new Powerbook."

Now the DJ has returned to the podium, and I feel the mother of all headaches taking hold. I release the bodyguard's ear and lean my face across the table into a cloud of Cleo's cigarette smoke. "Let's get this over with."

"I gotta pee." And off she goes.

"So, when can we do it?" I ask Jerry.

"Not tonight," he says. "That's for damn sure."

"Then when?"

He cuffs me sharply on the side of the head and says, "We'll call you tomorrow, asswipe."

"Yeah, we'll be in touch," says Loreal.

As I rise from the table the speakers in the rafters start pounding—a hideous house-mix version of "MacArthur Park."

"You two should cut loose," I advise Cleo's boys. "Don't wait for something slow and romantic. Just let it happen."

27

Knock-knock. Emma opened the door. They snatched her.

Smooth and easy, it appears. The apartment is unlocked. Her purse is on the bed; on the kitchen table, car keys and a cold cup of espresso. For breakfast she had toast and a bowl of Special K.

Two in the morning, this isn't the best place to be. If I stay much longer I'll put a fist through the wall. Emma is gone and it's my fault.

But somebody's got to feed the cat, which cries and turns figure eights on the tile. I lift her into my arms, saying, "It's all right, Debbie. She'll be home soon."

Staring at the damn telephone, just like in the old days.