Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

So I retreated to a habitable motel on Wilshire Boulevard near Alvarado Street, and as a light rain fell I dozed off with a can of Sprite in one hand and my portable Sony tuned to the endless Jimmy Stoma sessions. The rhythm guitar track for one of the numbers seemed distantly familiar, which was odd because it was the first cut of the song—”Gltitle0l”—that I’d called up. Yet I found myself humming the tune in the shower this morning, and it played in my skull all the way to Cedars, where I’m now standing in the elevator holding a preposterously large vase of fresh-cut carnations, sunflowers and daisies.

Flowers will get you practically anywhere in a hospital. I’ve told the front desk I’m taking them to my brother in Room 621. Because my arms were full and I acted like I knew the drill, nobody made me sign in; a plastic pass was clipped to my shirt and here I am, getting off on the sixth floor.

Tito Negraponte was admitted under his own name—this I’d discovered earlier when, pretending to be a florist, I phoned the hospital switchboard. His private room number was disclosed so offhandedly I had to conclude that neither a Grammy Award nor a gunshot wound is enough to elevate a bass player to the A-list at Cedars. I’m feeling optimistic about a one-on-one interview until Tito’s door is opened by a cheerless Los Angeles County detective. Even minus the badge on his belt I would have figured him as a cop. Luckily he’s on his way out, and I receive only a nod and a cursory glance at my floor pass.

“How is he?” I whisper in the tone of a concerned friend.

“Lucky,” says the detective, stepping aside so that I and my flowers may enter the room. Once the door closes I’m alone with the fallen Slut Puppy, who is propped on his side, two pillows lumped beneath his head. Plainly he’s not at death’s door.

“Now what?” he mutters with a healthy scowl.

Before getting on the plane I’d looked up the news story about Tito’s shooting on the Los Angeles Times Web site, which gave more details than the short AP item. The attempted murder had occurred inside the musician’s Culver City townhouse. A police spokesman was quoted as saying Mr. Negraponte had returned from a trip to Florida and surprised a pair of armed burglars. After a struggle the guitarist was shot twice “in the lower torso” with a semiautomatic machine pistol of a brand favored by street gangs and drug dealers. The article ended with a paragraph about the salad years of the Slut Puppies, and a solemn mention of Jimmy Stoma’s recent death “on a scuba-diving expedition in the Bahamas.”

“Who sent the flowers?” Tito hoists his head and suspiciously eyes the arrangement. I introduce myself and deposit a business card on his medicine tray. “You came all the way to California to write how I got capped in the ass? Great.” He chuckles in a droopy-lidded way that suggests liberal access to Dilaudid. A tandem IV rig hangs by the bed.

“I saw you at Jimmy’s funeral,” I tell Tito, “and I was at Jizz the other night when you met his widow.”

“You some kinda groupie, or what?”

“I told you what I am. I flew out here because I’m working on a story about how Jimmy died. Jay Burns, too. And now you, almost.”

Here’s the moment when Tito Negraponte could tell me to get lost—a reasonable response from a man with a.45 caliber hole in each buttock. But instead of kicking me out of his room, Tito invites me to sit. He says, “You think it wasn’t an accident, Jimmy dying the way he did?”

“I’ve had a lousy feeling about it from the beginning. You sure you’re up for an interview?”

” ‘Up’ is definitely the word for it. You shoulda been here before they took away the morphine pump.” This time Tito’s laugh dissolves into a grimace.

“Let me tell you what’s happened so far.” And I do, recounting the non-autopsy in Nassau, the balcony scene between Cleo and Loreal, my interview with Jay Burns, the burglaries of Jimmy’s boat and my apartment, Jay’s bizarre demise, Janet’s disappearance under murky circumstances—and the discovery of Jimmy’s hard drive hidden aboard the Rio Rio.

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