His wife killed him for a song.
From Cedars I head straight to LAX and catch a flight that should get me home by midnight. Hunkered like a parolee in a window seat, I snap on the Discman and painstakingly tick through the “Shipwrecked Heart” tracks until I locate what sounds like a fully mixed version. It’s pretty good, too. I understand why Cleo Rio wants to steal it for herself.
Nothing intricate—just Jimmy playing an acoustic guitar and bits of harmonica. The nimble 12-string bridge is way out of his league, and undoubtedly was contributed by one of his famous pals or a first-rate session player. Ironically, there’s no bass track at all, which makes the shooting of poor Tito Negraponte even more insulting.
Above all I’m struck by Jimmy’s voice, so stark and subdued that Slut Puppies fans would never guess it was him. A light background harmony comes in on the last two refrains—I’m certain it’s Ajax and Maria Bonilla, the singers I met at the funeral.
While the lyrics are a bit top-heavy with similes, the song is still more interesting than most of the formulaic crap on the radio. Over and over I play the piece, and from beginning to end it comes through as one voice—definitely not Cleo’s. I’d bet the farm that Jimmy wrote it long before he met her, and that he wrote it for another woman.
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…
Watching for your sails on the horizon.
Years we took the sea, together cold and rough.
The weather in our souls, we never got enough.
Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart…
Dreaming of your sails on the horizon.
The waves won’t let me sleep, night whispers to the shore.
Stars run behind the clouds, an empty sea wants more,
The empty sea wants more.
Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart…
Watching for your sails on the horizon.
Watching for your love on the horizon.
Sitting beside me on the plane is a kid of Evan’s age, maybe slightly younger. He seems curious about the open spiral notebook and the unmarked CDs stacked on my lap, but he’s too shy to speak up. So I take off the headphones and ask his name.
Kyle, he says.
“Mine’s Jack Tagger. You like music?”
Kyle is nineteen, it turns out, and attends the University of South Florida on a baseball scholarship. He plays third base and left field, which means he’s got an arm. I ask what kind of music he likes, and he says Rage Against the Machine, Korn, stuff like that. “My girlfriend’s favorite is PJ Harvey,” he adds.
“That’s promising. And, Kyle, how might she feel about Ms. Britney Spears?”
He makes a gagging motion with a forefinger.
“You should probably marry that girl,” I say.
“Sometimes I think about it.”
Kyle hails from Redondo Beach, where the love of his life works in a gym. She drove him to the airport this afternoon and waited at the gate until his flight was called. She’s twenty, he adds, opening his wallet to show me a picture. I would have been stupefied if she weren’t blond and breathtaking, a statutory requirement for female health-club instructors in Southern California. The name of Kyle’s girlfriend is Shawna, and under the circumstances he seems to be holding up well.
“Would you mind doing me a favor?” I say. “Could you listen to a song and tell me what you think.”
I hand the headset to Kyle and cue up “Shipwrecked Heart.” As the track plays, he gives an approving nod and a thumbs-up. Obviously he thinks I’ve got a proprietary connection to the recording, some creative or financial stake, because the moment it’s over he says, “Hey, that’s sweet.”
“It’s all right if you don’t like it. Just tell me the truth.”
“But I do. I mean, it’s sorta slow but it’s… I dunno—”
“Pretty?”
“Yeah. Pretty,” he says. “Like an old song.”
“It was written a while back, but never released.”
“Oh,” says Kyle. “Is there, like, maybe a faster version?”
“I’m afraid not. Think your girlfriend would go for it?”