Taking notice of the sodden half-moons on his Oxford, young Race deftly folds his arms for concealment. "MacArthur Polk's obituary," he proceeds curtly. "I want to read it."
"It's not written yet."
"Bullshit."
"And even if it was"
"Bullshit. Your editor, Amy, said"
"Her name is Emma."
"She said she told you to get right on it."
"Indeed she did," I say, "and I will."
"So help me God, Tagger, if you're stonewalling ... "
I point out that Old Man Polk is not only still alive, but apparently on the rebound. "Whereas other people are dropping dead every day,"
I add, "significant people who deserve significant obituaries. We are woefully shorthanded, Mr. Maggad, due to severe reductions in our staffing and news resources. I am but one man."
Young Race ignores the dig about his budget slashing. Deep in sour rumination, he fingers the hump on his nose. "I'd like to know what Mr. Polk said at the hospital. Tell me what he asked you to write."
"Oh, I can't possibly do that."
"Why not?"
"Because it's confidential. The Union-Registerhas strict rules against reporters divulging unpublished information."
"Yes, to outsiders," interrupts Race Maggad III. "But I'm not an outsider, Tagger. I sign the paychecks around here."
"No, you sign the paychecks of the people who sign the paychecks. And if you're not an outsider, why does everybody stop and gape whenever you stroll into the building? I know two-headed carnies who don't attract so much attention."
"Have it your way. I'll speak to your editor and we'll get you straightened out, mister, and pronto."
"A solid game plan. And in the meantime, sir"I whip the notebook out of my pocket"I need a quote."
Judging by young Race's expression, I might as well have pulled the pin on a live grenade. Reflexively he takes a step backward, knocking over a copper sculpture of an angelfish on Abkazion's credenza.
"A quote for what?" inquires the young tycoon.
"Old Man Polk's obit. It's only fitting," I say. "You're the one who bought his precious newspaper. You're the big cheese."
Maggad re-seats himself. After a pensive pause, he gives the signal that I should prepare to write.
"MacArthur Polk," he begins, "was like a second father to me. He was a teacher, a friend and an inspiration. Mac Polk was the heart and soul of the Union-Register,and we are dedicated to keeping his spirit alive every day, on every page of this outstanding newspaper."
A deep, self-satisfied sigh, then: "You get all that, Tagger?"
"Every word." A tidy sentiment from such a vapid yuppie puke, I've got to admit.
"Do me a favor," he says. "Run it by Mr. Polk, would you?"
Again I start to giggle. I can't help it; the guy cracks me up.
"What's the matter now?" he demands.
"You want Mr. Polk to know in advance what you're going to say about him after he's dead."
"That's correct."
I cannot make young Race comprehend why this is so funny, because he doesn't know that I know why he's sucking up to the old man. So, let's play it out ...
"Mr. Maggad, you needn't worry. I'm sure he'd be very moved by your pre-posthumous tribute."
"Show him the damn quote anyway."
"While he's alert enough to appreciate it."
"Exactly." Race Maggad III checks his wristwatch, which clearly cost more than my car. Now he's up again, striding briskly out of Abkazion's office. I'm hard on his heels. "Tell Amy," he grumbles over his shoulder, "I want a copy of Mac Polk's obituary faxed to me the day you finish it."
"It's Emma,and you'll have to kill me first." Young Race and I draw a flurry of glances as we stride past the city deskit's all he can do to keep from breaking into a trot. When we reach the elevators, he literally punches the Down button. I wait beside him with a companionable airI'm heading for the cafeteria. I could sure go for a candy bar.
"You don't worry me," snarls the chairman and chief executive officer of Maggad-Feist Publishing Group. "You're a gnat on the radar screen."
"On the windshield, you mean," I say helpfully. "On a radar screen I would be a 'blip.' "
"Fuck you."
It's been mildly interesting, getting to know the dapper young publishing scion. Miserably he pokes again at the elevator button. When the door finally opens, he bolts inside. Quick as a bunny, I join him.
"You know what my career goal is, Master Race?"
"Get away from me."
"My goal is to work at this newspaper long enough to write yourobituary. Wouldn't that be something?"
17
From the Rolling Stoneinterview with Jimmy Stoma, dated September 20, 1991:
RS: Are you happy with the way Stomatoseturned out?
JS: Oh, yeah. The more I listen to it, the creamier it gets.
RS: Some of the cuts sound a lot like the Slut Puppies. "All Humped Out," for example, blows the doors down
JS: Sure, because I had Jay on grand piano and Tito on bass. Even though it's a solo album I'm not gonna turn my back on the band. We still make great fucking music together and I'd be a jackass not to take advantage of that chemistry on my own projects. I just don't want to tour as a group anymore. No way.
RS: Do you have a favorite cut on the new album?
JS: No, I dig 'em all.
RS: Oh, come on. "Derelict Sea" is a cool number, and very different from anything you did with the Slut Puppies.
JS (laughing): Okay, you busted me. That one is definitely at the top of the list.
RS: What inspired you to try the acoustic?
JS: Hey, Ilove acoustic. Always did. And I love to sing without screamin' at the top of my frigging lungs, but when you're up onstage with not one buttwo bass guitars, you've gotta howl like a witch.
RS: Do you plan on writing more songs like that?
JS: For sure. My next project is a whole folk-rock kind of thingnot all acoustic but thematic, you know, where the pieces weave together into a story. Maybe it'll even be a double album, only this time I'm gonna produce it myself.
RS: All right, what's your leastfavorite cut on Stomatose?
JS (shaking his head): Nuh-uh. I ain't fallin'for that.
RS: Don't wimp out on us now. Even Lennon didn't like every song he wrote.
JS: The only track that sort of got away from me was "Momma's Marinated Monkfish." A bit too much partying, I'm afraid. The original idea was this real sophisticated, Phil Spector kind of mix. You know, overdub the piss out of the guitars and the keyboards. But somehow it ended up as some ungodly hypermetal ... headache.
RS: Twelve and a half fun-filled minutes. JS: Yeah, and I don't even remember laying down the vocals, I was so bent.
I'm summoned by Juan to the Sports department, where he hunches like a safecracker over his PC.
"I got that external hard drive hooked up," he says, "but I can't read what's on it. I don't have the software." He taps a finger on the screen. "The best I can come up with is a directory, but take a look."
It's line after line of coded abbreviations, beginning with:
V7oyst10.all
B17oyst10.copy
BV22oyst7
LEADoyst.all
G1deal22
G2deal22.all
ALT.Vtitle22 ...
"Computer lingo?" I ask.
"Nope. Abbreviated file names that were keypunched in by whoever was running the program."
"What kind of files?"
"I don't know, but they're massive," Juan says. "The whole thing is, like, 400-plus megabytes. That's got to be more than text, Jack, to eat up so much memory. I'm guessing there's audio or video on here."
"Where can we get the software?"
Juan looks up ruefully from the screen. "Man, I can't even identifythe software."