"I'm sorry. That's rough."
"She understands, though. Least she says so."
"You'll do a terrific job," I tell him. "Lizzy will be proud of you when she reads it."
I dive for the phone: Eddie Bell again, calling to flog the Audrey Feiffer obit. Quickly I transfer him to Evan's line and replace the receiver.
Juan says, "Tell me what's happened with your story, Jack."
"It ate me alive, that's what happened. They've grabbed Emma."
At first Juan doesn't say anything. He sets his half-eaten bagel on the desk and looks around, making certain we're not being overheard. Then he takes a drink of juice before calmly asking, "Who's got her, Jack?"
"The widow and her boys."
"What do they want?"
"A song." I tell him the title. "It was on the hard drive we took to Dommie's."
"So, give 'em the damn thing," Juan says.
"I fully intend to. The problem is"
"They might kill you anyway. You and Emma both."
"Bingo. So I've borrowed a gun."
Juan looks alarmed. "Jesus. Why don't you go to the police?"
"Because they'd never find Emma alive," I say. "This is not your textbook kidnapping, this is Fargosquared. These dipshits are making it up as they go along."
Somberly he eyes the silent telephone. "When are they supposed to call?"
"Any time," I say. "You know what numbskulls they are? They think I want money, in addition to Emma's return. They don't seem to grasp the concept of ransomthat it's the kidnappers who customarily make the demand. See what I'm dealing with?"
Juan leans back, staring into the distance. "What kind of gun?"
"Lady Colt. And don't laugh."
"Jack, you ever fired a pistol?"
"Once or twice. Okay, just once." It was on a police range. I plugged a paper-silhouette felon in the thigh, then wrote a humorous twelve-inch feature story about it.
Juan gets up stiffly. "Man, I need to think about this. Call me as soon as you get the word."
"You'll be the first."
Leaning closer, he says, "Where do you think they're keeping her? What's your best guess?"
"I've got no idea, brother. Not a clue."
"Mierda."
"Just tell me how you did it," I whisper, "that night on the boat from Cuba. Was it reflex? Or did you plan it all out? I need guidance here."
"I'll tell you what I remember, Jack. I remember it seemed easy at the time." Then he squeezes my shoulder and says, "The bad stuff comes later."
Half past noon, the phone finally rings again.
"Tagger?"
"Jerry, you old rascal. What's up?"
"Parry's at eight-thirty," he says.
"Tonight?"
"You're gonna need a boat and a GPS and a spotlight."
"You're nuts," I say.
"And bug spray, too. Better get your ass in gear."
"Where?" I'm scrambling to take down everything he says, word for word.
"The big lake."
"Not Okeechobee. You've got to be joking."
"What's your fucking problem, Tagger?"
"For starters, it's about forty miles long and thirty miles wide."
"Yeah, that's how come we're meeting in the middle. To make sure you ain't bringin' company."
"Jerry, you watch entirely too much TV."
"Write this down, fuckface." He reads me some numbers and instructions for navigating the lake, departing from a marina in Clewiston. I tell him I don't know how to work a GPS.
"Then it's gonna be a long night," he says.
Lake Okeechobeewhat unbelievable morons.
"I don't suppose you checked the weather station. What if the boat sinks and the 'package' gets ruined? Ever thought of that, Jer?"
"Then maybe ourboat sinks, too. Get the picture?"
He's a lost cause. Time for a different strategy. "Tell Mrs. Stomarti there's a better way to do this. A smarter way."
"She don't care. She won't even be there." Showing uncharacteristic good sense, I'm thinking. Hurriedly Jerry adds, "Anyway, I don't know who you're talkin' about. I never heard a that person." "Golly, you're too slick for me!"
"Eight-thirty," he says again. "Be sure and come alone."
"Where do I get a boat at night?"
"Steal one, you dumbass. That's what I'm doing."
I'm halfway to the elevator when Abkazion intercepts me. The gravity in his voice makes me think he's found out about Emma. That would be a large complication.
"Where you headed, Jack?"
"I've got to meet with a source."
"Better postpone it."
I follow him to his office, the same room where I bonded so warmly with Race Maggad III. Abkazion, however, is a different species of animal. He has no poses or pretensions; he fits comfortably in the newsroom, and his word is usually final. If he knowsand how he would, I can't imaginethat Emma has been kidnapped, it will be damn near impossible to make him back off.
The assertion that I alone can devise her safe return would strike Abkazion as preposterous. Yet that's the pitch I'm preparing to make when he says something startling:
"MacArthur Polk died this morning."
"No way."
"At home," Abkazion says.
"For real?"
"Oh yes."
"How? In his sleep?" I ask pointlessly.
"More or less. You ready to rock and roll?"
The irony, ruinous as it may be, is exquisite.
"I can't do the obit," I inform the managing editor of the Union-Register,
"What're you talking about?"
"I can't miss this meeting today. The source says it's now or never."
Abkazion peers at me as if he's examining for factory defects. "This would be a front-page story, Jack. Your first front-page story in about a thousand years."
"Yes, I'm painfully aware."
"Then you're also aware," he says, "there's a high level of corporate interest in Mr. Polk receiving a first-rate obituary. Not that I'm happy about the meddling but, hey, we learn to pick our battles."
I tell him I'm sorry. "This really sucks, I know."
"For reasons I don't pretend to understand, Mr. Maggad himself has been calling in advance of this story. He is emphatic, Jack, that you should be the one to write it."
"So he told me."
"Which makes it all the more baffling," Abkazion says, the cords of his neck going taut, "as to why you're refusing such an important assignment."
"I told you why."
It's Emma, I want to tell him. I've got to save Emma.
"For Christ's sake, talk to this source of yours. Explain the situation. Tell him to meet you tomorrow instead."
"That's impossible," I say.
"This is for that Slut Puppy story, right? The man's been dead two weeks and your source can't wait one more lousy day to spill his guts? Who is it?" Abkazion is shouting like a hypertensive Little League coach. "What's so goddamn important?"
But I can't tell him. Not about Emma or Cleo, or even about the song. Certainly I can't tell him about Maggad's covert quest to obtain MacArthur Polk's stock holdings, or about my perverse deathbed deal with the old buzzard.
Charles Chickle, Esq., was unequivocaclass="underline" The trust agreement is contingent on my writing Polk's obituary. By dumping the story, I'm surrendering not just a hundred grand in estate fees but the opportunity of a lifetimea chance to coerce Race Maggad III into reviving the Union-Register.
Abkazion might be pissed off, but I'm the one who's sick at heart.
"I've gotta go," I tell him.
"You're serious, aren't you?"
"Tell Mr. Maggad ... know what? Tell him I threatened to dismember you with needle-nosed pliers. Tell him I went delirious and started quoting from Milton. 'Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones lie scattered on Alpine mountains cold ... '"
"Jack," Abkazion says, "I'm late for the one o'clock."
"Of course."
"You've been waiting for a chance to dig yourself out of this hole. Now take it."
"Yes, chief," I say, exiting with a crisp salute.
It's all here on my deskthe stack of printouts of old stories, the notes from my hospital interview with Polk, the tepid background paragraphs I banged out a few days ago, even the fatuously reverential quote from Race Maggad III.