Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

“‘Crack the case’?” All of a sudden I’m Angela Lansbury.

Emma rolls her eyes and heads for the sack. Moments later, her room goes black. I swallow the aspirins dry, and blink exhaustedly. Bedsprings squeak as Emma arranges herself beneath the covers. In the darkness I hear myself saying, “Hey, I never answered your snoopy question.”

“What’s that?” Emma calls back, testily.

“You asked if I was sleeping with anybody. Well, I’m not.”

“I know.” She replies so quietly I can barely hear it. “Get some rest, Jack.” And I obey…

Later I awake to a rhythm of breathing that’s not my own. The ice has been removed from my brow, and my cheeks have been patted dry. Emma is pulling the blanket down to cover my feet.

When I stir, she whispers, “It’s just me.”

“You missed your calling.”

“Close your eyes.”

“How old are you, Emma?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

Oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ oh Christ

“Why do you ask?” she says.

Hendrix Joplin Jones Morrison Cobain—I could scream out their names. But instead all I say is: “Twenty-seven. Wow.”

“Wow yourself. It’s not as great as you remember.”

“Are you kidding? It’s beautiful.”

“I threw away those Valiums,” she says. “After lunch I went back to my desk and tossed them in the garbage, every damn pill.”

Silence in the darkness. Has she returned to the bedroom?

“Emma?”

“What?”

Good. She’s still here.

“Thanks for taking care of me tonight.”

“Thanks for the adventure, Jack.” She leans down and kisses me as lightly as a butterfly brushing my lips. Then I’m alone again, tumbling into a fine dreamless sleep.

16

There’s nothing wrong with me, not even a mild concussion. That’s the word from my doctor, Susan, who is six years younger than I am and works the rookie shift, Saturdays, for a downtown medical group. Susan isn’t impressed by my swollen nose, the knots on my jaw or the knuckle-shaped welt on my ribs. However, the tale of how I came by these scrapes and bruises intrigues her, especially the business about the frozen lizard. I feel pressure to be entertaining, knowing she believes my monthly physical examinations are a waste of time. I always insist on the works, of course, including a full spectrum of blood-gas analysis and the ever-popular prostate excursion, upon which Dr. Susan is preparing to embark.

“No offense, Jack,” she’s saying, “but I’m damn tired of looking up your ass every four weeks. It’s totally unnecessary, as the nice folks at your HMO have pointed out.”

“Humor me, okay? And don’t I always pay cash?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Susan says again. “You’re a completely healthy specimen—physically, at least.”

“You married yet?”

“No, but if I was,” says Susan, from behind, “I’d keep a three-carat diamond ring on this finger”—the dreaded snap of latex!—”just for you, buddy.”

The death of John Dillinger Burns rates two paragraphs on page three of the Union-Register’s Metro section. Police are investigating the circumstances… Alcohol and drugs are believed to be involved… Burns, 40, formerly had been the keyboard player for a popular rock band, Jimmy and the Slut Puppies. Ironically, the group’s lead singer, Jimmy Stoma, recently died in a diving accident in the Bahamas…

And that’s that. Onward to the Sports page, where Juan has a story about a college basketball star who became a gambling addict by the age of twenty—another superb piece, unsparing and poignant at the same time. What I’d give to have Juan’s touch!

“Hey, handsome.”

It’s Carla Candilla. Her hair is now… I want to say turquoise.

“Close enough,” she allows. “Sorry I’m late. Is this Pellegrino for me? You’re such a sweetheart.”

We’re meeting at her favorite cafe, Iggy Cheyenne’s, which overlooks the beach and the old wooden fishing pier. Seagulls are a menace at lunchtime, but today they’re wheeling clear of our table. For this I credit Carla’s vivid dye job.

She wants to hear all about the break-in at my apartment, enthralled at the thought of me fighting back and drawing blood. I purposely don’t mention the handy role of the late Colonel Tom, whom Carla believes to be alive and running free with other lizards.

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