The elevator door doesn’t close immediately, which annoys me because I’m on deadline. Every pissant delay will annoy me until the Jimmy Stoma obit is finished.
Repeatedly I punch the elevator button. Nothing happens. From down the hall, I hear the guy knocking on a door to one of the apartments. I hear the door open. I hear the voice of Cleo Rio, and though I can’t make out her words, the tone is clearly friendly and familiar.
Leading me to the brilliant conclusion that the shimmery-haired man who got out of the elevator was not a grocery-delivery guy, but an acquaintance of the bereaved.
And, as the elevator door finally closes in my face, I wonder: Why would anyone wear so much cologne to visit a widow?
3
Where is Janet Thrush?
I keep calling; no answer. I leave two messages on her machine.
Meanwhile, Emma hovers. She thinks I ought to be writing Jimmy Stoma’s obituary by now, but she knows better than to nag. Emma dislikes being reminded that I haven’t missed a deadline since she was in Huggies.
Come on, Janet, answer the damn phone.
From Jimmy’s sister I need two things. One is a nice warm quote about her brother—I hate to hang the entire obit on Cleo Rio. Second, I want to bounce Cleo’s version of Jimmy’s life off of Janet to make sure I’m not being steered off course. Wives have been known to lie extravagantly about dead husbands.
Janet Thrush could tell me if her brother had been producing Shipwrecked Heart for Cleo, and if the CD was nearly finished. Even if Jimmy’s widow is exaggerating for self-promotional purposes, at least the tide ought to hold up. That’s all I need for my last sentence, which we call the kicker.
While waiting for Janet, I try the Bahamian police. Talk about a long shot. Headquarters in Nassau refers me to Freeport. Freeport refers me to Chub Cay, which refers me back to Freeport. Sunday, it seems, isn’t the best day to track down a coroner in the islands.
Finally I hook up with a person who identifies herself as Corporal Smith. She’s aware that an American has “very unfortunately” passed away while on a diving trip to the Berry Islands, but she has no further information at hand. She politely instructs me to call Nassau tomorrow and ask for Sergeant Weems.
It’s futile to plead my case but I give it a try. And, as expected, Corporal Smith wants to know why I can’t wait one more day to write the obit. It’s a logical question. Jimmy Stoma certainly isn’t going anywhere.
“It’s news,” I explain valiantly to the corporal. “I’m in a competitive situation.”
“No one else from the press has called.”
“But they will.”
“Then they’ll be advised to phone back tomorrow,” she says, “just like you.”
I hang up. Emma is behind me, her presence a clammy vapor.
“How’s it going?”
“Peachy,” I say.
“When can I see something?”
“When it’s done.”
She slides away like a fog.
Desperate for a second quote, I look up the home phone number of our music critic. His name is Tim Buckminster, although he recently began using the initials T. O. in his byline, because he liked the rhythm of it: T. O. Buckminster! He even sent an all-points e-mail instructing everyone at the newspaper to refer to him henceforth as “T. O.,” please, and never Tim.
I cannot bring myself to do this. Tim Buckminster is only twenty-five years old, which is too young to be reinventing oneself. So I call him Timmy, as does his mother. Unfortunately, he turns out to be utterly unfamiliar with the music of the Slut Puppies, or of Jimmy Stoma as a solo artist.
“But you’ve heard of him, right?” I ask.
“Sure. Didn’t he marry Cleo Rio?”
Next I try a rock-writer pal in San Francisco. He is kind enough to cobble together an instant quote about the Reptiles and Amphibians of North America CD, which (he speculates) had an influence on current bands such as the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Foo Fighters.
Good enough.
I glance at the clock on the wall. Maybe Janet Thrush will call before deadline, which is ninety-four minutes away. On my desk I spread my meager notes and the morgue clippings, and begin to write: