“Mr. Polk is slipping away. The doctors say it could happen any day,” she begins urgently. “Any minute, really.”
I stretch out supine on the floor and shut one eye. “I’m onto a possible celebrity murder, Emma. I’ve got a distraught sister who suspects foul play and I’m the only one who’ll help. What am I supposed to do, slam the door in her face? Tell her the paper doesn’t care that her only brother got whacked?”
Although I have liberally exaggerated Janet Thrush’s state of mind, Emma remains unmoved.
“I told you once, Jack. It’s Metro’s story if they want it. You did your job; you wrote the obit. You’re done.” She’s glaring at me, really glaring.
“What are you so afraid of?” As if I don’t know.
“Don’t be such an asshole,” she says.
I pop up, wide-eyed and beaming, and jig from foot to foot like a Polynesian coalwalker. What a breakthrough!
“Did you call me an onerous name? Yes, I’m sure of it. You did!”
“We’re not in the workplace.” Emma, reddening. Then: “Look, I’m sorry. That was unprofessional.”
“No, I’m glad. It means we’re making progress. Breaking down walls and so forth. You want some fresh orange juice? A decaf?”
Emma says, “Old Man Polk wants to see you, Jack.”
I stop prancing and suck a short breath. “What? I thought he was fading fast.”
“He wants a deathbed interview, believe it or not. To jazz up his obituary.”
“Dear Jesus.”
“This was not my idea, I swear.”
“A perverse final request.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Emma says, “but Abkazion already said yes.”
“Dipshit,” I mutter. “Fellator of mandrills.”
“I’m begging, Jack.”
“Why me?” I growl, pointlessly.
“Evidently the old man admires your writing.”
A side effect of the Halcion, no doubt. I peel off my Jaguars jersey and toss it over a lampshade. Next I tug absently at the waistband of my boxers, Emma eyeing me warily. She is in no mood to deal with a naked employee.
“Don’t get cute,” she advises.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I stalk off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, I emerge to find Emma still encamped. This, frankly, throws me. She has put on her reading glasses to study an obituary I recently cut out of the Times. Wrapped in a towel, I stand there dripping on the floor like some incontinent nuthouse savant.
Emma glances up, waves the clipping. “This is a fantastic headline.”
“That’s why I saved it.”
The single-deck head on the obituary said:
Ronald Lockley, 96, an Intimate of Rabbits
Emma says, “How can you not look at that story?”
“Precisely.”
“Even if you aren’t a fan of rabbits, which I’m not.” Then, as if she’s reading my mind: “For God’s sake, why couldn’t I write headlines like this?”
I say, “Here’s one: ‘MacArthur Polk, 88, Wealthy Malingerer.'”
“Jack, please. I’m begging you.”
Swathed in my damp bath linen, I lower myself carefully into the armchair across from Emma. My hair is still sopping and now I feel a droplet of water elongating itself on the lobe of my left ear. I pray Emma won’t be distracted.
“Don’t you worry. I’ll deal with Abkazion,” I venture brashly.
“It’s not just him,” Emma grumbles. “Mr. Maggad has taken an interest, as well. He went to see the old man at Charity and believes he’s delirious, in addition to terminal.”
Exultantly I tell Emma there must be a misunderstanding. Race Maggad III, who despises me, would never recommend me being assigned to a story as important as Old Man Polk’s obit.
Emma drums her fingers on her knees. “Abkazion is baffled. I’m baffled. You’re baffled. Yet here we are.”
I stall, racking my brain. “I get it. Maggad, that conniving yuppie fuck, he’s setting me up.”
“For what, Jack? Setting you up for what?”
There is a tender note of pity in Emma’s question, implying that I’ve already been so thoroughly shafted by management that there’s no place left to fall. My chin drops. Scrutinizing the sparse, south-running trail of hair on my belly, I notice a few shoots of gray.
Emma says, “I’m sorry, Jack. Now go put on some clothes.”
I lift my eyes to meet hers and say: “Jimmy Stoma for Old Man Polk.”