Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

When I say I’ve never heard of her, Jimmy’s sister chuckles. A television murmurs in the background. Meet the Press, it sounds like.

“Well, pretend you know who Cleo is,” she advises, “and I guarantee she’ll give you an interview.”

Obviously Sis and the widow have some issues. “What about you?” I ask.

“Lord, don’t mention my name.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say. “I was hoping you would talk to me. Just a few quick questions? I’m sorry, but I’m on a tight deadline—”

“After you get hold of Cleo,” Jimmy’s sister says, “call me back.”

“Do you have her phone number?”

“Sure.” She gives it to me, then says: “I’ve got an address, too. You ought to go out to the condo.”

“Good idea,” I say, but I hadn’t planned to leave the newsroom. I can do five phoners in the time it takes to drive to Silver Beach and back.

Jimmy’s sister says, “You want to get this story right, you gotta go meet Cleo.” She pauses. “Hey, I’m not tryin’ to tell you how to do your job.”

“I appreciate the help, but just tell me one thing. How’d your brother die? Was he sick?”

She knows exactly what I mean. “Jimmy’s been straight for nine years,” she says.

“Then what happened?”

“It was an accident, I guess.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Go ask Cleo,” says Jimmy’s sister, and hangs up.

I’m on my way out the door when Emma cuts me off. She’s almost a whole foot shorter than I am; sneaky, too. I seldom see her coming.

She says, “Did you know Rabbi Levine took up hang gliding at age seventy? That’s good stuff, Jack.”

“Did he die in his hang glider, Emma? Crash into the synagogue, by chance?”

“No,” she concedes. “Stroke.”

I shrug. “Nice try, but I’m off to visit the widow Stomarti.”

Emma doesn’t budge. “I like the rabbi better.”

Hell. Now she’s forcing me to show my cards. I glance quickly around the newsroom and notice, with some relief, that none of the young superstars are working today. That’s one good thing about a Sunday shift, the newsroom is like a tomb. Emma wants to take away my story, she’ll have to write the damn thing herself.

And Emma, bless her sorority-sister soul, has never been a reporter. Judging by the strenuous syntax of her memos, she likely would have difficulty composing a thank-you note.

So, here goes.

“James Stomarti was Jimmy Stoma,” I say.

Emma’s brow crinkles. She senses that she ought to know the name. Rather than admitting she doesn’t, she waits me out.

“Of Jimmy and the Slut Puppies,” I prompt.

“No kidding.”

“Remember that song, ‘Basket Case’?”

“Sure.” Emma turns slightly, her raptor eyes scanning the rows of cubicles. The plan, I know, is to hand off Stoma to another reporter and dispatch me to do the dead rabbi.

But Emma’s coming up empty. The only warm body on the city desk is Griffin, the weekend cop guy. Griffin is sixty years old, nasty and untouchable. Emma has no authority over the police reporters. Griffin looks up from his desktop and stares right through her, as if she were smoke.

With a trace of a frown, Emma turns back to me. “Suicide, right?”

“Nope. Accident.”

Grudgingly, Emma moves out of my way. “Twelve inches,” she says curtly. “That’s all we’ve got, Jack.”

“For a dead rock star,” I say drily, “a Grammy Award-winning musician who dies tragically at age thirty-nine? Honey, I promise you the New York Times will give it more than twelve inches.”

Emma says, “Not on the Death page, they won’t.”

I smile. “That’s right. Not there.”

Emma’s expression darkens. “Ungh-ugh, Jack. I’m not pushing this for Page One. No way!”

Jesus, what a hoot. The Times won’t put Jimmy Stoma out front—he’ll be lucky to end up as the lead obit. But Emma’s in a sweat, rattled at the possibility of me breaking out of the dungeon. No doubt she perceives that as a career-threatening crisis, for part of her mission as a junior editor is to see that I remain crushed, without hope of redemption. The next best thing to canning me would be to make me quit in disgust, which of course I’ll never do.