Although Tito was the eldest of the original Slut Puppies by ten years, the press clippings indicated he had no trouble keeping pace, socially or pharmaceutically, with the other band members. Three drug arrests and an equal number of paternity suits put his name in the entertainment columns, as did his gloating arrival at the Grammys with the freakishly bosomy wife of the same record-company executive who’d originally rejected “Mouthful of Muscle,” the Slut Puppies’ breakthrough single. After Jimmy disbanded the band in the late eighties, Tito formed his own group called Montezuma, which opened exactly once for Carlos Santana. A CD featuring a peppy Spanish version of “Hey Joe” was never released.
The most recent mention of Tito Negraponte in print occurred a few years back, when the Boston Phoenix asked several heavy-metal guitarists for capsule reviews of the classic rock satire, This Is Spinal Tap. Tito said that while he enjoyed the movie, its verisimilitude would have been enhanced “if the bass player had got more pussy.”
The article said Tito was keeping busy doing studio work for solo artists. I don’t know what he’s been up to lately, but this interview should earn him more ink than he’s seen in a decade—providing I can steer him through ten minutes of semi-linear thought. Upon returning to the hospital room, I see that the nurse has turned him over to face the window. I drag a chair into his fuzzy vision and sit myself down. Tito is drifting like a feather in the thermals, but I can’t sit here and wait for him to float back to earth. This might be my only chance; a relative or girlfriend could show up any moment to chase me off.
Firmly I put a hand on his shoulder. “Remember I told you about the computer hard drive we found on Jimmy’s boat?”
His eyelids flutter. “The master.”
“Right. That’s what everybody’s after, isn’t it?”
Tito coughs out a laugh. “Not everybody, man. Not MCA or Virgin or Arista. Just the vicious bitch Jimmy was married to,” he says. “She thought I had a copy but I don’t. I told her but she didn’t believe me.”
“That was Saturday night at the club.”
“Yeah. I hooked up with some Brazilian chick at the funeral, so I hung around Miami for a few days. Then my manager called and said Cleo was tryin’ to reach me about a gig, and would I meet her up in Silver Beach.” Again Tito’s eyelids droop to half-staff. Licking at his gray lips, he adds, “She ain’t the quickest fox in the forest, that girl. I didn’t play a lick on those Bahamas sessions, man, not one note. I didn’t know what the hell she was talkin’ about… ”
As Tito slides into dreamland, I’m scribbling down his quotes, trying not to lose a single phrase. The fact he was able to say “quickest fox in the forest” is impressive, considering his current dosage levels. The same beetle-browed nurse returns with a plump, fresh IV bag. She frowns at the notebook. I smile innocently, but my remaining time here can now be measured in minutes. As soon as she leaves, I nudge Tito awake. “What does Cleo want with the master? Did she say?”
He snorts groggily. “Stupid twat. She shot the wrong bass player. You believe that?”
“Then who was playing with Jimmy in the Bahamas?”
“That’d be Danny.” Meaning Danny Gitt, the former lead bass guitarist for the Slut Puppies.
“Where is he now?” I ask.
“On a big jet plane, don’t you worry. Jimmy’s wife’ll never find him.”
“Why didn’t you tell this to the cops?”
“That’s very funny. Christ, I’m thirsty again.”
Dutifully I fetch the plastic pitcher and pour more water for Tito. He levers himself to one elbow and takes a long noisy guzzle. “The cops, they think those two Mexicans came to my place lookin’ for dope. If I told ’em they was hired by a pop singer tryin’ to rip off her dead husband, well… ” Tito keels back on the pillows. “They’d never believe it.”
I ask him when was the last time he saw Jimmy Stoma. He says four or five months ago.