Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

“Something like that.”

“Naw, you’re just scared. Obituary Boy is scared of little ole Emma.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t worry, Jack, she won’t bite,” he says drily, “no matter how nicely you ask.”

This is getting us nowhere.

“Do me a favor,” I say, “don’t talk about me anymore when you two are hanging out.”

“Okay. But that’ll leave us a lot of free time and not much else to do.” Juan looks both amused and resigned.

“Oh, come on. You expect me to believe you and Emma still aren’t humping like alley cats?”

He shrugs. “Like I said, she’s different.”

“Gay?”

“Nope.”

“Frigid?”

“Don’t think so,” Juan says.

“Then what?”

“Picky,” he says, rising, “or maybe just preoccupied. Thanks for the bagel, Jack, but now I’ve got to hustle back to the shop—the Dolphins just signed a running back with no felony record and no drug habit. That’s big news.”

“What should I do about lunch?”

“Put in a good word for your favorite Cuban,” Juan says with a wink. “Tell her I’m hung like Secretariat.”

When noontime rolls around, I pretend to be stuck on the phone in order to duck Emma’s offer of a ride. I tell her to go on ahead and I’ll catch up, thinking I can use the extra time to plot strategy. But my thoughts remain jumbled and I set off with no plan.

The restaurant is Mackey’s Grille, not one of the usual newsroom hangouts. I’m surprised to find Emma sipping a glass of white wine. Daringly I order an imported beer. We make agonizing small talk until the waiter shows up—Emma asks for the tuna salad and I decide on a steak, medium rare.

Once we’re alone again, Emma says: “I had an unexpected visitor the other day. Race Maggad.”

“My hero.”

“He came to talk about you, Jack.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about you, Emma—in particular, your toes.”

Carefully she sets her wineglass on the table. A flash of pink appears in her cheeks, but she says nothing.

“That afternoon outside your apartment, I couldn’t help but notice your toenails. They were all painted up like bright little orange and red gummy bears. Frankly, it was a revelation,” I say. “Made me think I’ve jumped to some unfair conclusions.”

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you do this?” she asks. There’s nothing weak or wounded in her voice; her stare is like a laser.

I’ve got no good explanation for my nettlesome banter. Nerves, maybe. Unease. Self-consciousness. But about what?

This is why I didn’t want to be alone with her. This is what I was afraid of.

“It’s a brutal occupation we’ve chosen, Emma, it takes a terrible toll. Look at me,” I tell her. “Once upon a time I was tolerable company. I had my charming moments. I was not immune to empathy. Believe it or not, I could sustain healthy relationships with friends, co-workers, lovers. But not anymore—could you pass the banana nut bread?”

Emma says, “Race Maggad thinks you’re a dangerous fellow.”

“I would give anything to make that true.”

“Yet he wants you to be the one who writes Old Man Polk’s obituary. He came by the newsroom to tell me personally, to ‘assure’ me—his word, Jack—that there’s no unspoken corporate directive to keep you off the front page.”

“Which you know to be horseshit.”

“Totally,” Emma nods. “That’s why I’m confused. And why I asked you out to lunch.”

With relish I explain that MacArthur Polk wants me to do his obituary because he knows it enrages Race Maggad III, whom MacArthur Polk hates almost as much as he hated Race Maggad II.

“Why?” Emma asks.

“Have you looked closely at our newspaper lately? Or any of Maggad-Feist’s papers? They’re all dumbed-down crapola, fluff and gimmicks and graphics. The old man knows he fucked up his legacy by selling out. He’s bitter and spiteful and rich enough to play chicken with these bastards.”

“He told you all this?” she says uncomfortably.

“In language unfit for publication,” I say. “But here’s the glorious part, the real reason young Race Maggad took time off from his precious polo practice to visit you. He’s determined to make sure MacArthur Polk gets the obituary he wants. Why? Because young Race wants the old man to sell his Maggad-Feist stock back to the company before he dies, or at least leave those instructions for his estate.”