Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

Shaking the pudgy hand of Jay Burns, I introduce myself and say I’d like to get together for a profile of Jimmy that I’m writing. He grunts agreeably, which is a surprise. Then I notice he’s completely ripped, eyelids at half-staff and a tendril of drool hanging from his lower lip. Tomorrow he won’t remember agreeing to an interview; he’ll be lucky to remember his name.

When I finally work my way up the line to Cleo, I notice that she’s switched to black contact lenses in honor of the somber occasion. She greets me as if we’ve never met.

“Jack Tagger,” I prompt helpfully, “from the Union-Register.”

“Oh. Right.”

I embrace her and say, “We really need to talk again.”

Cleo pulls free.

“Oh, not now,” I add solicitously. “Not today”

“I’m leavin’ for L.A., like, tomorrow,” Cleo says. “Talk about what?”

“Bad chowder. Bad autopsies.” I smile. “Just a few questions. Won’t take long.”

Cleo looks like she’s got a hockey puck lodged in her gullet. “You… no, g-g-get the fuck outta here,” she stammers.

“You’re upset. I’m sorry—”

Cleo turns to flag down the bald guy in the bomber jacket. “Jerry? Jerry, I wa-wa-want this g-g-guy outta here—”

But already I’m moving for the door. There seems no point in asking if I can tag along on the boat ride for the scattering of James Stomarti’s mortal remains.

Outside in the parking lot, I catch up with Ajax and Maria as they’re getting into a rented Saturn convertible. They inform me that they’re legally not allowed to talk about the recent studio sessions with Jimmy Stoma.

Maria says, “We signed a, whatcha call it, a confidentiality agreement. I’d like to help you, man, but I don’t wanna get blackballed. I need the work.”

Ajax says, “Same here. I got a little girl at home.”

“Then forget the sessions. Tell me about Jimmy. What was he like?” St. Stephen’s is emptying fast. The limo drivers forsake the shade of an ancient banyan tree and, stubbing out their cigarettes, hustle back to their cars.

“Jimmy was real cool. A nice guy,” Ajax says.

“And Cleo?”

Maria laughs acidly. “No comment, chico.”

“Ditto for me.” Ajax says, disgustedly. “Why you even gotta ask? You saw the bitch with your own eyes. She’s in it for capital M-E.”

“Think he loved her?”

Ajax howls and starts up the car. Maria waves me around to her side. “You’re gettin’ a little carried away,” she tells me, not unkindly. “We’re backup singers. You unnerstand?”

I watch them drive off. Then I go find my Mustang, toss the notebook on the front seat, crank up the air conditioner. I feel whipped, as I always do after a funeral service. But through the windshield I notice a scene that makes me grin—the widow Stomarti, clutching the brass urn on the steps of the church while being interviewed by Timmy Buckminster.

I roll down all the windows and crank up the Slut Puppies full blast and roll out of the parking lot nice and easy.

Rock on, Jimmy Stoma.

8

Janet Thrush opens the door and says, “Oh. You.”

“I come in?”

“Look, lemme explain.”

“Not necessary.”

“About this getup,” she says sheepishly. “I wanna explain.”

Janet is decked out in a Halloween-quality police costume: shiny black boots, dark blue slacks with a gray martial stripe down the sides, a starched white shirt with a cheap tin badge on the breast, and a holster with a toy pistol. Hooked over the top button of her shirt is a pair of plastic reflector sunglasses with neon-blue lenses. In her back pocket is a ticket pad. All that’s missing is a set of handcuffs.

“Sorry,” I say. “Didn’t know you had company.”

“I don’t have company. Not exactly.”

She waves me in and signals me to keep my voice low. The small living room is lit as brightly as a TV studio, which evidently it is. She directs me to a corner and whispers, “I’ll just be a sec.”

Janet slips on the sunglasses and runs a hand through her hair. Then she steps into the lights and, cocking one hip, squares to face a video camera no larger than a pencil sharpener. The camera is centered on a coffee table next to a personal computer. Lines of words appear in staggered bursts on the screen, but I’m not close enough to read them.

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