Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

The kitchen is embarrassingly cramped, unsuitable for a life-or-death struggle. We roll around the linoleum like a couple of drunken circus bears until, by blind luck, my left hand comes to rest on the as-yet-unthawed Colonel Tom. I resume whaling at the bald guy with a manic resolve—if he is Cleo’s neckless bodyguard, a gun will be close at hand. No sense in holding back.

Groaning, the intruder shields himself with one arm and begins punching robotically with the other; an effective technique, it turns out. A blow catches me flush on the tip of my nose, the same nose earlier tenderized by Emma, and I black out from the pain.

Honestly I didn’t expect to wake up. I expected to be shot dead, “execution-style” (as we’re fond of saying in the news biz). But I awaken alive and alone, curled in a puddle of blood so bounteous that it cannot be entirely my own. Crimson bootprints mark the intruder’s wobbly path from the kitchen to the living room and out the front door.

Gingerly I strip off my sticky clothes and head for the shower; every square inch of me stings or throbs, but at least the bleeding has stopped. Toweling off, I notice a stranger with a misshapen face scowling from the mirror.

One advantage to living the spartan life, it’s easy to clean up after a looting. In thirty minutes the place is put back together, and nothing is missing except my laptop. Stored on the hard drive were a couple of canned obits—a railroad tycoon and some retired opera soprano—but that’s no big deal; I’d already wired electronic copies to my terminal in the newsroom.

The most unsavory chore is disposing of Colonel Tom, who was soundly pulped in the altercation. Snugly I wrap his cold, scaly form in an old bedsheet and lob it from the balcony. The bundle tumbles into a Dumpster, four stories below, where it lands with a muted thwock. Instantly I regret the toss, for there’s a sturdy knock on the door and I find myself unarmed and defenseless. The knocking persists, and eventually a flat male voice identifies itself as an authority figure.

Cops!

Neighbors, none of whom have ever shown an interest in my personal affairs, apparently heard the commotion in my kitchen and alerted the police. I open the front door to see not one but two men of similar age and stature, neither in uniform. I’m poised to slam the door when one of them flashes a badge.

“Detective Hill,” he says. “And this is Detective Goldman.”

Obviously I appear thoroughly puzzled, because Detective Hill adds: “We’re from Homicide, Mr. Tagger.”

Numbly I step back, my arms falling slack at my sides. Apparently I’ve killed a man with a frozen lizard.

“It was self-defense!” I protest. “He broke in while I was sleeping… ”

The cops exchange perplexed glances. The talker, Hill, asks what in the name of Jesus Christ I’m babbling about.

“The dead guy! The one who busted into my place.”

Hill peers over my shoulder, scoping out the tidiness of my modest living quarters. “Mr. Burns broke into this apartment? Tonight?”

“You’re damn right he… who?”

“John Dillinger Burns,” he says. “Otherwise known as Jay.”

“No! No, this guy was bald,” I blabber, “it wasn’t Jay Burns. I know Jay Burns. No way.”

“Yeah, that woulda been some nifty trick,” says Detective Goldman, breaking his silence, “since we just saw Mr. Burns laid out at the county morgue.”

“He’s been dead since early this morning,” Detective Hill adds informatively. “What would you know about that, Mr. Tagger?”

“Not a damn thing.” My voice is a dry croak.

“Really?” Hill is holding something inches in front of my eyes, something pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a business card from the Union-Register. My name is printed on it.

“Burns had this in his pocket,” Detective Hill explains, “when his body was found.”

“Now, why would that be?” his partner inquires.

“And what happened to your face, Mr. Tagger?” Hill asks.

Me, I don’t panic.

“Officers,” I say, “I wish to report a burglary.”

15

Emma’s couch is too short for my legs.

She tugs down the sheet to cover my feet and fits a pillow under my head. She informs me I’ve suffered a mild concussion, a diagnosis based on the fact I got dizzy, vomited and fainted on her doorstep. She tells me she went to nursing school for two years before switching to journalism, and I say she would have made an outstanding nurse. She appraises my rubescent schnozz guiltily, so I assure her that somebody else punched me harder than she did.

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