“Would she have done it because she was mad about the will?”
“Then why not just dump his ass?” Janet says. “I’m sure she could’ve squeezed a lot more than a hundred grand out of a divorce.” Another excellent point.
Again the computer bleeps imploringly.
“Aren’t you sweating to death in that getup?” I ask her.
“Don’t worry, it’s comin’ off soon enough. This one here”—Janet motions over her shoulder toward the PC—”is Ronnie from Riverside. His deal is boots, panties, bra and assault rifle. He’s been hopin’ I lose the bra and panties, but he’s in for a major letdown. Anyhow, the setup is: I’m in the middle of a DEA raid on a Colombian drug lord’s mansion when I suddenly decide to sneak a quick shower, like that makes sense. What I don’t know is that one of the bad guys—Ronnie, of course—is hidin’ in the Jacuzzi, spying on me. This’ll drag on for an hour.”
“Oh well. Four bucks a minute,” I say brightly.
“Only for a few more months,” Janet says. “That’s how long Mr. Chickle says it’s gonna take to get the inheritance.”
“If Cleo doesn’t contest the will.”
“Mr. Chickle thinks she won’t. He knows her lawyer.”
“And most of the probate judges,” I add, “on a first-name basis.”
“Jimmy always looked out for me,” Janet says tenderly. “Now he’s gone and he’s still lookin’ out for me.”
Ronnie from Riverside beeps again.
“Shit.” Janet plugs in the light rack and the living room goes white with glare. She tugs the knit hood down over her face and positions the gas mask. This is my cue to leave.
“So, what should we do about the story?” I ask. “You don’t have to decide this minute. Sleep on it and we’ll talk over the weekend.”
Janet’s reply is muffled by the hood and the mask, but I can still make out the words. I wish I couldn’t.
“What story?” she says.
I’m lying in bed with the lights off, listening to A Painful Burning Sensation, the last album recorded by Jimmy and the Slut Puppies.
Jimmy’s voice sounds huge because at the time he was huge, 240-plus pounds of post-rehab voracity. Then he totally changed his life and wound up dying buff, the eternal male dream. Jimmy didn’t plan it that way, checking out at thirty-nine, but fans will remember him more fondly for being tanned and fit at the end. Most celebrities would kill to die looking so fine.
Baby, you’re a fool to count on yours truly,
I’m a self-centered, self-absorbed, self-abused boy.
My love goes where it pleases, and pleases who gets it,
Don’t cry, beg or pray, you’ll just get me annoyed.
That’s the chorus of a cut called “Slithering Love,” and I can visualize Jimmy sneering when he sings “annoyed,” dragging the word into three syllables, the way Jagger might. What I enjoy about the Slut Puppies is that most of their songs were base, unpretentious, simple-minded fun. Even the blatantly derivative ones—”Slithering Love” owes everything to “Under My Thumb”—had an appealing, self-deprecatory pose. The more I hear of his records, the more I believe I would have liked Jimmy Stoma as a person.
And I’m still not convinced he drowned accidentally. Unfortunately, as long as I’m the only one with such doubts I’ve got nothing to put in the newspaper.
Which leaves me back on the obituary beat, under Emma’s leery watch. On Monday I’ll begin to write the MacArthur Polk opus, and she should be pleasantly surprised by my enthusiasm. I haven’t told her what the old coot has asked me to do, or that I’ve decided to play along. It no longer matters whether Polk is insane or not; without the Jimmy Stoma story, I’m unglued and adrift. I need something to reach for, a filament of hope…
I must’ve fallen asleep because the Slut Puppies are no longer singing when I open my eyes. The apartment is dark and quiet except for the sound of someone jiggling the doorknob. Occasionally Juan lets himself in, so I shout his name and command him to go away. Emma probably told him she slugged me, so he’s come to appraise my nose and perhaps scold me for the toenail-peeking incident.