Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

“Did he talk to you about the solo project?”

“I think he felt weird ’cause he hired Danny instead of me. So all we talked about was fish.”

Wincing, Tito repositions himself on the bed. “You wouldn’t think it could hurt so much, gettin’ popped in the butt cheeks. Fucked me up bad.”

He’s fading again and I still haven’t pried the answer out of him—depressing evidence that my interviewing skills have waned. In the old days somebody loaded on this much hospital-grade narcotics would have been a pushover. By now I’d have had him confessing to the JFK assassination.

“Tito, wake up. Why does Cleo want Jimmy’s master recording? I can’t figure it out.”

“She doesn’t want the whole thing,” he says irritably. “There’s one cut she’s hot for, and the rest she couldn’t give two shits about.”

I assume he’s talking about “Cindy’s Oyster,” but when I try the title on Tito he says it doesn’t ring a bell. However, Tito’s bell is made of Jell-O at the moment.

“Naw, that ain’t the song,” he insists. “This is one she wants for her own record. She said Jimmy promised to give it to her, but that ain’t what Danny told me. He said it was gonna be on Jimmy’s own album. His comeback single, he said.”

“Come on, Tito. Try to remember the name of the cut.”

“Back off, guy… ”

“The long-haired kid at the club with Cleo,” I say, “you remember him?”

But Tito is distracted by a stab of pain that causes him to twist around and glower at the door. “Where’d Nurse Wretched go? I believe she shot me up with sugar water.”

“Loreal,” I press onward, “that’s what he calls himself.”

“Aw, he’s just some junior jerkoff with a Pro Tools setup. His job is to lay Cleo’s vocals over Jimmy’s guitar, once they lift it off the master. That’s my read.”

I can’t help but notice that Tito has begun to bleat intermittently, like a baby goat. “Think hard,” I encourage him. “This is important.”

“Know what? This gettin’-shot shit is strictly for the youngbloods. I’m fifty motherfuckin’ years old.”

“Count your blessings. Steve McQueen checked out at fifty.” I am powerless to edit myself.

“That was cigarettes,” Tito snaps. “I quit the cigarettes.” He curses under his breath. “What’s the name of the wife’s album again? She told me but I forgot.”

“It’s going to be called Shipwrecked Heart.”

He smiles grimly and points a callused finger. “That’s it, chico. That’s Jimmy’s song. The one she wants. The one she sang at the church.”

And just like that, bingo, it all adds up.

The guitar part I heard last night sounded familiar for a reason. The widow Stomarti had played it at the funeral, while singing the only verse she knew…

You took me like a storm, tossed me out of reach,

Left me like the tide, lost and broken on a beach.

Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart…

” ‘Shipwrecked Heart.’ That’s it.” Tito is pleased with himself for remembering. “One time Jimmy was gonna let me hear the final mix but we went lobsterin’ instead. I remember Jay or Danny, they said it was pretty good.”

“I’d sing it for you myself but you’re in enough pain. Cleo says she and Jimmy wrote that song together.”

“What a joke. That girl couldn’t write a Christmas card.”

This goes immediately into the notebook. Tito watches the transcribing with an amused resignation. “You’re gonna put my name in your newspaper?”

“It’s very possible.”

“Then maybe I should take a long vacation like Danny.” He raises himself to look out the window, where the morning sky over Hollywood is pink with sun-tinted smog. “You think they offed Jimmy’s sister? I liked her. She was a real decent kid.”

“I liked her, too. May I borrow the phone?”

“Be my guest.” Tito’s curly noggin begins to loll. “I believe I’m fixin’ to crash.”

It’s still early in Florida and Emma’s probably in the middle of her workout, but I dial the number anyway because I can’t wait. After thirteen days I’ve finally dug up a motive for the murder of James Bradley Stomarti. It might not have been conspicuous but it was heartbreakingly simple.

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