Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

Charles Chickle, Esq., says he was expecting my call—a baffling remark. Did Janet Thrush tell him I was investigating her brother’s death? Does he already know something has happened to her?

We’re chatting in his law office, which features a Picasso and a stuffed peacock bass on the same wall. Charlie Chickle has thinning silver hair, a ruddy face and sly blue eyes. He’s wearing an expensive gray suit, a burgundy silk tie and a University of Florida class ring on one of his chubby fingers. Mounted under Plexiglas on a corner of his desk is an orange and blue football autographed by Steve Spurrier, confirming Chickle as a diehard Gator. That would explain his mystic political connections.

“So,” he says, “you saw our friend Mac at Charity.”

“Mr. Polk?”

“Of course. How’d he look?”

“Absolutely terrible,” I say.

Chickle is amused. “For what it’s worth, Jack—may I call you Jack?—in fifteen years I’ve never seen him look like he would make it through the night. But don’t be fooled, he’s one tough sonofabitch.” The lawyer opens a manila file on the desk. “I’ve got depositions in an hour. Shall we get right to it?”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“That would’ve been my reaction, too,” says Chickle. “You probably thought he was nuts. That’s what I thought, too. But he’s not nuts, Jack, he’s just vengeful.”

Now I get it: Charlie Chickle is also MacArthur Polk’s attorney. He doesn’t know the latest about Janet Thrush; he thinks I’ve come to discuss the old man’s business proposition.

“Before we—”

“Please.” He raises a calming forefinger. “I know you’ve got questions but I’ll answer most all of ’em, you give me a chance.”

“I’m listening.”

“As you know, Mr. Polk sold the Union-Register to Maggad-Feist a few years back. In return he received a considerable heap of company stock and a series of options, which he’s purchased during the last six months to add to his holdings. The total held by Mr. Polk comprises roughly ten percent of all outstanding Maggad-Feist shares—a formidable slice of the pie.”

The old man had told me eleven percent, not that it matters.

Chickle proceeds: “Last year, two publishing companies independently started buyin’ up Maggad-Feist stock, each with an eye toward a takeover. One is a German outfit whose name I can’t pronounce and the other is Canadian, Bachman something-or-other. Anyhow, they got Race Maggad scared good and shitless, so he does what? Starts buying back blocks of Maggad-Feist as fast as he can. Meanwhile the price goes up and naturally some investors are sitting on their holdings, waitin’ to see if there’s a bidding war and so forth. You with me?”

“Yeah. Maggad wants Polk to sell back his shares.”

“In the worst way, Jack. Failing that, he wants the old man to put in his will that Maggad-Feist gets first crack at the stock after he dies. Now,” Chickle says, glancing up from the file, “Mac Polk wouldn’t cross the street to piss on Race Maggad if he was on fire. I don’t need to tell you that, do I? The old man is of the belief that Maggad-Feist has plucked his beloved newspaper like a Christmas goose. Some days he won’t even look at the front page, on doctor’s orders, case he busts a valve.”

“You’ll forgive me,” I say to the lawyer, “if I don’t get all choked up. What was Polk thinking when he sold the Union-Register to these creeps? All you had to do was look at what they’d done to their other papers.”

“Everybody screws up, Jack. I don’t think Mr. Polk would mind if I told you he was given certain assurances by the Maggad family—ironclad assurances, or so he believed, about how the newspaper would be operated. Now he feels deceived,” Chickle says, “and, as I said, vengeful to the extreme.”

“Which is where I come in?”

“That’s correct.”

“So he wasn’t just ranting, that day at the hospital?”

“Oh, I’m sure he was.” Chickle nods fondly. “And I’m equally sure he was sane and sober. He told you about the trust?”

“He did. I said I’d think about it.”

“Good answer. It tells me that money isn’t what makes you tick.” Chickle keeps talking as he leafs intently through more papers. “When Mr. Polk dies, all his shares of Maggad-Feist will automatically be put into a trust. As trustee, your duties would be relatively simple: Keep the stock away from Race Maggad. Throw away his letters. Ignore his phone calls. And when the proxy notices arrive, always vote the opposite of what the Maggad-Feist board recommends. The job description, in a nutshell, is to make Mr. Maggad miserable. Jerk him around at every available opportunity. Does that appeal to you?”

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