"How much for Cleo?"
"The same."
"Ho-ho. That explains the need for Barrister Chickle."
"But she also gets the boat, the cars, the condo," Janet says.
"And his tapes?"
"You mean the album? He never dreamed he wouldn't live to finish it," Janet says.
"Is it mentioned in the will?"
"Jack, I didn't even think to ask."
As for the house in the Bahamas, Janet says her brother left it to a charity called Sea Urchins, which sponsors marine camps for underprivileged kids. According to Charles Chickle, it was to Sea Urchins that James Bradley Stomarti left the bulk of his estate, including $405,000 in stocks and annuities, his share of future music royalties, and a $1 million life insurance policy.
"Cleo must be thrilled," I say.
"I guess Jimmy figured she didn't need the dough after her single charted. He figured she was on her way."
I'm on the verge of telling Janet what her songbird sister-in-law was doing yesterday on the balcony of her dead brother's condo when she blurts: "I don't think Cleo killed him."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because she knewalready, Jack. She knew what she was getting if Jimmy was to pass away. He already told her most of the money was going to Sea Urchinswhich is a really cool ideaand he also told her she wasn't getting squat from the insurance. The more I think about it, I just can't believe she'd kill him for a hundred thousand dollars. To me it's a fortune, but to Cleo it's a weekend in Cannes."
She's right about that. A woman like Cleo doesn't get lathered up over anything less than seven figures.
"I'm thinkin' he drowned accidental, Jack, like they told us all along. You always said it was possible."
"It is."
"Even though they screwed up the autopsy."
"And you said you wouldn't believe a word that came out of Cleo's mouth," I remind her. "What if I told you she was having an affair."
Janet shrugs. "What if I told you my brother wasn't exactly Husband-of-the-Year."
The computer on the coffee table bleeps for an incoming call; another cyberwanker. Janet sighs and glances morosely at the toy M-16, propped in a corner. I ask if she can think of any other motive for Cleo to have murdered Jimmy, and she says no.
"Would she have done it because she was mad about the will?"
"Then why not just dump his ass?" Janet says. "I'm sure she could've squeezed a lot more than a hundred grand out of a divorce." Another excellent point.
Again the computer bleeps imploringly.
"Aren't you sweating to death in that getup?" I ask her.
"Don't worry, it's comin' off soon enough. This one here"Janet motions over her shoulder toward the PC"is Ronnie from Riverside. His deal is boots, panties, bra and assault rifle. He's been hopin' I lose the bra and panties, but he's in for a major letdown. Anyhow, the setup is: I'm in the middle of a DEA raid on a Colombian drug lord's mansion when I suddenly decide to sneak a quick shower, like thatmakes sense. What I don't know is that one of the bad guysRonnie, of courseis hidin' in the Jacuzzi, spying on me. This'll drag on for an hour."
"Oh well. Four bucks a minute," I say brightly.
"Only for a few more months," Janet says. "That's how long Mr. Chickle says it's gonna take to get the inheritance."
"If Cleo doesn't contest the will."
"Mr. Chickle thinks she won't. He knows her lawyer."
"And most of the probate judges," I add, "on a first-name basis."
"Jimmy always looked out for me," Janet says tenderly. "Now he's gone and he's still lookin' out for me."
Ronnie from Riverside beeps again.
"Shit." Janet plugs in the light rack and the living room goes white with glare. She tugs the knit hood down over her face and positions the gas mask. This is my cue to leave.
"So, what should we do about the story?" I ask. "You don't have to decide this minute. Sleep on it and we'll talk over the weekend."
Janet's reply is muffled by the hood and the mask, but I can still make out the words. I wish I couldn't.
"What story?" she says.
I'm lying in bed with the lights off, listening to A Painful Burning Sensation,the last album recorded by Jimmy and the Slut Puppies.
Jimmy's voice sounds huge because at the time he washuge, 240-plus pounds of post-rehab voracity. Then he totally changed his life and wound up dying buff, the eternal male dream. Jimmy didn't plan it that way, checking out at thirty-nine, but fans will remember him more fondly for being tanned and fit at the end. Most celebrities would kill to die looking so fine.
Baby, you're a fool to count on yours truly,
I'm a self-centered, self-absorbed, self-abused boy.
My love goes where it pleases, and pleases who gets it,
Don't cry, beg or pray, you'll just get me annoyed.
That's the chorus of a cut called "Slithering Love," and I can visualize Jimmy sneering when he sings "annoyed," dragging the word into three syllables, the way Jagger might. What I enjoy about the Slut Puppies is that most of their songs were base, unpretentious, simple-minded fun. Even the blatantly derivative ones"Slithering Love" owes everything to "Under My Thumb"had an appealing, self-deprecatory pose. The more I hear of his records, the more I believe I would have liked Jimmy Stoma as a person.
And I'm still not convinced he drowned accidentally. Unfortunately, as long as I'm the only one with such doubts I've got nothing to put in the newspaper.
Which leaves me back on the obituary beat, under Emma's leery watch. On Monday I'll begin to write the MacArthur Polk opus, and she should be pleasantly surprised by my enthusiasm. I haven't told her what the old coot has asked me to do, or that I've decided to play along. It no longer matters whether Polk is insane or not; without the Jimmy Stoma story, I'm unglued and adrift. I need something to reach for, a filament of hope ...
I must've fallen asleep because the Slut Puppies are no longer singing when I open my eyes. The apartment is dark and quiet except for the sound of someone jiggling the doorknob. Occasionally Juan lets himself in, so I shout his name and command him to go away. Emma probably told him she slugged me, so he's come to appraise my nose and perhaps scold me for the toenail-peeking incident.
"Even a deviate deserves privacy!" I holler, and soon the rattling ceases.
But no departing footfalls are heard on the walkway, so I boost myself to a sitting position and listen hard. I swear I hear breathing other than my own.
I swing my legs out of bed, pad to the doorway and peer around the corner. Immediately I wish I hadn't, because a fist connects solidly with my jawbone. I would gladly fall down except that a second, upward-driving blow has found my rib cage, momentarily suspending me. This is the work of large arcing punches, nothing like Emma's economical left cross. When my head finally hits the floor I squeeze my eyes closed and lay motionless, the cleverest move I've made all day.
The intruder pokes me with a heavy shoe but I don't move. Pain shrieks from every muscle. The man grabs a handful of hair and lifts my head. Next thing I know: blackness and the smell of damp wool. I've been blindfolded.
A ripping noise is followed by a fumbling attempt to tape my wrists behind my back. Terror would be a logical reaction, but for now I concentrate on appearing limp and unconscious. Meanwhile, the intruder roots through the place, yanking out drawers, flinging open cabinets and closets. This shouldn't take long, as my apartment is small and there's hardly anything worth stealing. I find myself feeling smug about having pitched the television off the balcony, thus depriving my visiting dirtbag of at least forty bucks from the corner pawnshop.
But something doesn't add up. I know from covering the police beat that burglars don't usually do fourth-story jobs because it's hard to be stealthy hauling computers, fax machines and home-entertainment components down multiple flights of stairs. Burglars generally prefer first-floor apartments with sliding glass doors. Now, a jewel thief doesn't worry about a building's height because everything he's stealing fits inside a pocket or a pillowcase, but only the most optimistic or uninformed jewel thief would target the one-bedroom flat of a bachelor. I don't even own a matching set of cuff links.