Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

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.

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