Last year, he debuted a new act in which he juggled four talking cockatoos. The birds had been taught to recite well-known passages from Shakespeare, Chekhov and Tennessee Williams, a hometown favorite.
Williams himself quipped, "Jack's damn cockatoos do a better job with 'Streetcar' than half the actors I've seen."
Emma says, "All right, stop. That's enough."
"No, please. Let me finish."
"This is your dad? Really?"
"It was."
The obituary is accompanied by a black-and-white photograph of my father juggling lobster buoys on a pier. He's wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and rectangular black sunglasses, but the smile is unmistakable; the same smile from my dreams.
Onward:
Little is known about Tagger's life before he arrived in Key West about three years ago. Like many of the island's vagabond street performers, he did odd jobs by day while honing his evening act for the crowds at Mallory Square.
"He was a fun-loving cat. He made me laugh," said Samuel "Snake Throat" Procter, a local sword-swallower who once crewed with Tagger on a lobster boat.
Police records show Tagger had been arrested here twice for marijuana possession, and once for driving a moped while intoxicated.
Funeral arrangements are incomplete at this time. A short sunset ceremony honoring the juggler will be held at the Mallory Square docks on Wednesday. He was 46 at the time of his death.
Forty-six at the time of his death. Damn, that was a close one. "Are you all right?" Emma asks.
I hand her the newspaper article, then I open my mother's birthday card. Inside it, she gaily wrote:
Happy 47th, Jack! (See? You made it!) Love, Mom.
30
I found a newsstand that sells the Palm Beach Post,and I'm reading it at the counter of the donut shop. The story about the airboat accident is in the local section, with an aerial photograph of the craft upturned in the lake. One of the dead men remains unidentified while the other is known to be Frederick Joseph Moulter, a sound engineer formerly of Santa Monica, California. The self-styled Loreal. His age is reported as twenty-nine, the same as Hank Williams when he died. I'm guessing Cleo's bodyguard eventually will be identified from fingerprints; a mug shot would be of no use.
At random moments my mind flashes back to that gothic image of Cleo's boys, Jerry sitting headless in the reeds and Loreal no less dead, scalped and gaping. Juan says we're not meant to forget such thingsit's the price of surviving.
According to the news story, the crashed airboat was stolen from a deer camp near Palmdale. A game warden is quoted speculating that the men were probably out hunting for alligators when they got caught in rough weather and wiped out at high speed. A loaded .22 caliber pistola favorite of gator poacherswas found in a jacket worn by young Freddie Moulter. That sneaky little shit!
The Postsays the police are continuing to investigate the two deaths, but foul play is not suspected. The absence of .38 caliber holes confirms my ineptitude with the Lady Colt.
"Hello, stranger!"
It's Janet Thrush. I give her a squeeze as I lead her to a booth in the corner. "You had me scared to death," I whisper.
"Dooms." She laughs. "All you had to do was check your messages." She's wearing a lime-colored halter, a flowered bikini bottom and feathered earrings made from salmon streamers. Her nose is sunburned and her ash-blond hair has been dyed auburn.
"Wanna hear what happened?"
"Oh heck, why not."
"This was, like, Friday a week. The afternoon you and me talked about Jimmy's last will and testimony. Anyways, that night I was get-tin' ready for workhey, can I have a croissant or a muffin? Coffee would be good, too."
I snag a waitress so that Janet can order.
"Anyways, I'm gettin' dressed for work"
"For Janet-Cam."
"Right. I'm in the bathroom puttin' on the SWAT gear when all hell breaks loose. The front door busts open and then there's voices, men's voices, and they're trashin' out my place big-time. I don't know whether to jump out the window or hide."
"Did they know you were home?"
"I don't think it mattered, Jack. I don't think they cared," she says. "So I'm locked in the John, scared shitlesspardon my Frenchwhen I hear the TV lights go crashin' down. I swear to God, I just lost it. I mean I really wigged ... those damn lights cost me a week's pay. So I pull on the black hood and go busting out with my nine-dollar plastic rifle. 'Police! Police! You're all under arrest!' And the two guys, they freak. I don't know what they were expectin' but they took one look at me in that SWAT getup and they hauled ass."
"Did you recognize them?" I ask.
The croissants arrive and Janet pauses to gobble one. "Never saw 'em before in my life. One guy was bald and had a pirate patch over one eye. The other was tall and freckly."
"Longhair?"
"Down to his butt. I first saw him, I thought he was a chick. He was messin' with my computerthat's another thing, Jack, these assholes ripped off my PC. I got no idea why."
"I'll tell you in a minute."
"Anyway, they ran off like their balls were on fire."
"And then ... ?"
Janet calls another time-out for a blueberry muffin. Afterwards she says, "They garbaged my car, so a friend came and got me. I've been down in Lauderdale ever since, just chillin'."
"Was it you who called the sheriff's office and told them not to check the house?"
She nods guiltily. "I remembered I had a bag of buds under the mattress. I knew the cops'd find it and I wasn't up for a hassle, so I gave 'em a story'My boyfriend raised some hell but everything's okay now so please don't send a squad car.'"
"Well, it worked."
"Remember I told you about the Convent-Cam setup, the girls who dress up like nuns? That's who I've been stayin' with. To be honest, Jack, I been scared to go home."
"You want to know what scared me? The blood on the carpet, Janet. What the hell happened?"
"I stepped on a broken lightbulb, that's what." She swings a long leg up on the breakfast table and kicks off her sandal, revealing a large dirty bandage on the sole of her foot. "When they broke my kliegs, the glass went all over the place. I bled like a hippo."
A waitress carrying a coffeepot is poised beside our table, staring uneasily at the grungy gauze.
"Stitches?" I inquire politely.
"Seven," Janet reports. "No biggie."
"The big bald goon was Cleo's bodyguard. The long-haired one was her so-called record producer."
Janet hoots. "That little bimbo has a bodyguard!" She pulls her leg off the table. "Why'd they bust into my place? What'd they want?"
"Your brother's music." I signal for the waitress to deliver the check. "Jimmy's final album."
"No way!" Janet sits forward, smoldering. "No way. That is nothappening."
"Don't worry. They're both dead."
"If only."
I slide the Postacross the table and point to the headline next to the picture: Airboat Theft Ends in Fatal Crash.Her eyes widen.
"Come on," I say. "Let's go for a drive."
Certain details of the story need not be disclosed. For instance, there's no reason for Janet to know that Emma was kidnapped, or that I was shooting a gun at Jerry and Loreal when they swamped.
But I'm telling her enough to paint the picture.
"What they wanted was the master recording of everything Jimmy wrote in the islands. We found it hidden on the boat after Jay Burns was killed."
"Jay was in on this?"
"At least the pirating of the tracks, yeah. Maybe more."
"His 'best friend,' "Janet says acidly. "I'm so over these people. But why'd they kill him?"
"He got spooked."
"And what's with this 'accident'?" She taps two fingers on the newspaper photo.
"I told Cleo Rio I had the master. We set up a trade. The guys on the airboat were coming to get it when they wrecked."