So, regarding the death of James Bradley Stomarti, I'm still stumped for a motive. And while I've gotten no word from Janet Thrush, I've found myself hoping she was right—that Cleo hadn't any plausible reason to kill Jimmy, so there's no blockbuster story here after all. Because that would mean Janet is most likely alive; that the trashing of her place and the burglary of mine had nothing to do with each other; that it wasn't an impostor who phoned the sheriff's substation and Charles Chickle's law office, but Janet herself. What fantastic news that would be.
I love a juicy murder mystery as much as any reporter does, but the fun quickly goes out of the hunt when innocent persons start turning up dead. Maybe it's because I want to believe Janet's all right that I'm more receptive to the possibility that her brother's drowning was accidental; that Jay Burns's death was unconnected, the randomly squalid result of booze, dope and bad company; and that the concealment of the hard drive aboard the Rio Riodoesn't prove anything except that Jimmy Stoma, like many musicians, was obsessed with keeping his project safe from studio rats and pirates. God only knows where Prince hides hismasters.
Over breakfast I run this scenario past Emma, who says, "But what about all the lies?"
She's perched at the dinette, buttering a piece of wheat toast. Her breakfast attire is a T-shirt with a parrotfish silk-screened on the front—my only souvenir, besides the credit card receipts, from the Nassau trip. The nape of Emma's neck is still damp from the bath.
"Whenever you were pushing for this story," she says, "you'd remind me how the wife gave out different details about the diving accident. And how she said her husband was producing her new record when his own sister said it wasn't true. And don't forget Burns. You said he lied to you about the recording sessions in the Bahamas."
"He surely did."
It was just Jimmy by himself, the keyboardist had told me; Jimmy picking away on an old Gibson. No side players or singers, he'd said.
"Jack, people don't lie unless they're covering something up." Emma announces this with a world-weary somberness I find endearing.
"Doesn't mean it's a murder," I say. "Doesn't even mean it's a newspaper story." Over the whine of the electric juicer I tell her that people lie to reporters every day for all types of reasons—spite, envy, guilt, self-promotion.
"Even sport, Emma. Some people think lying is fun."
"Yes, I've known a few."
A comment like that should be stepped around as carefully as a dozing viper. I turn my attention to straining the seeds and pulp out of Emma's orange juice.
"Jack, have you ever been married?"
"Nope."
"But you've thought about it."
"Only when the moon is full."
Emma has put on her wire-rimmed reading glasses to better appraise my responses. She says, "I was married once."
"I didn't know that."
"College sweetheart. It lasted two years, two weeks, two days and two hours. AndI was twenty-two at the time. Not that I believe in numerology, but it makes you wonder. What happened was so strange. One night I woke up shaky and drenched in sweat, and suddenly I knew I had to leave. So I kissed him goodbye, grabbed Debbie and took off." Debbie is her cat.
Now I'm sitting next to Emma at the table, so close that our arms are touching.
"He was a nice guy," she says. "Smart, good-looking. Great family, too. His name was Paul." She smiles. "I've got a theory. I think Paul and I peaked too soon."
"That's a good one," I say. "It's much better than 'growing apart,' which is my usual excuse. You ever miss him?"
"No, but sometimes I wish I did."
I know what she means.
"Just to feel something," she says.
"Exactly." I figure now is as good a moment as any. "What about last night?"
"You first," Emma says.
"I thought it was wonderful."
"The sex or the cuddling?"
"Both." Her directness has set me back on my heels.
Emma says, "For me, too."
"I was worried, you got so quiet."
"I was busy."
"Yes, you were. So, now what?"
"We tidy ourselves up and go to the office," she says, "and act like nothing ever happened ... "
"Gotcha," I say glumly.
" ... until next time."
Then Emma takes my face in her hands and kisses me a long time. Her lips slowly widen into a smile, and soon I'm smiling, too. By the end of this kiss we're giggling uncontrollably into each other's mouths, which leads to rambunctious entwining on the kitchen floor. I end up on my back, being scooted in ardent bursts across the cool linoleum. The sledding ends when the crown of my skull thumps the door of the refrigerator, Emma wilting against my chest. Ten minutes later, when we've caught our breath, she lifts her chin and observes that she's late for work. I'm amused to see that she's still wearing her glasses, though they teeter askew on the tip of her nose.
Scampering down the hall, she says, "Jack, I want to be clear about something. I want to make sure you're not bailing out on Jimmy Stoma."
"No way," I call after her. "I'm in this thing till the bitter end."
On the pretense of explaining I slip into the bedroom to watch her get ready. It's an operation I've always found fascinating and enigmatic. "Don't worry about me," I'm saying as Emma shimmies into her sundress, "this is what happens when I hit a wall on a big story. I start second-guessing every damn move I've made."
"You shouldn't, Jack. You've done a great job."
Emma, bless her heart, is too easily impressed. So was I at twenty-seven.
"I'm not giving up yet," I tell her. "I'm going to shake some bushes until something nasty falls out. One bush in particular."
"Speaking of Cleo—" Emma, kneeling to buckle her sandals.
"Young Evan's waiting in the newsroom," I say, "with a full report on his deli run."
"Put some clothes on and let's go."
"That's it? Slam bam?"
Emma points. "There's a slice of orange peel stuck to your butt."
Not exactly a line from a John Donne sonnet, but my spirits rocket nonetheless.
22
Good newspapers don't die easily. After three years in the bone-cold grip of Race Maggad III, the Union-Registerstill shows sparks of fire. This, in spite of being stripped and junk-heaped like a stolen car.
Only two types of journalists choose to stay at a paper that's being gutted by Wall Street whorehoppers. One faction is comprised of editors and reporters whose skills are so marginal that they're lucky to be employed, and they know it. Unencumbered by any sense of duty to the readers, they're pleased to forgo the pursuit of actual news in order to cut expenses and score points with the suits. These fakers are easy to pick out in a bustling city newsroom—they're at their best when arranging and attending pointless meetings, and at their skittish, indecisive worst under the heat of a looming deadline. Stylistically they strive for brevity and froth, shirking from stories that demand depth or deliberation, stories that might rattle a few cages and raise a little hell and ultimately change some poor citizen's life for the better. This breed of editors and reporters is genetically unequipped to cope with that ranting phone call from the mayor, that wrath-of-God letter from the libel lawyer or that reproachful memo from the company bean counters. These are journalists who want peace and quiet and no surprises, thank you. They want their newsroom to be as civil, smooth-humming and friendly as a bank lobby. They're thrilled when the telephones don't ring and their computers tell them they don't have e-mail. The less there is to do, the slimmer the odds of them screwing up. And, like Race Maggad III, they dream of a day when hard news is no longer allowed to interfere with putting out profitable newspapers.