Firmly I put a hand on his shoulder. "Remember I told you about the computer hard drive we found on Jimmy's boat?"
His eyelids flutter. "The master."
"Right. That's what everybody's after, isn't it?"
Tito coughs out a laugh. "Not everybody, man. Not MCA or Virgin or Arista. Just the vicious bitch Jimmy was married to," he says. "She thought I had a copy but I don't. I told her but she didn't believe me."
"That was Saturday night at the club."
"Yeah. I hooked up with some Brazilian chick at the funeral, so I hung around Miami for a few days. Then my manager called and said Cleo was tryin' to reach me about a gig, and would I meet her up in Silver Beach." Again Tito's eyelids droop to half-staff. Licking at his gray lips, he adds, "She ain't the quickest fox in the forest, that girl. I didn't play a lick on those Bahamas sessions, man, not one note. I didn't know what the hell she was talkin' about ... "
As Tito slides into dreamland, I'm scribbling down his quotes, trying not to lose a single phrase. The fact he was able to say "quickest fox in the forest" is impressive, considering his current dosage levels. The same beetle-browed nurse returns with a plump, fresh IV bag. She frowns at the notebook. I smile innocently, but my remaining time here can now be measured in minutes. As soon as she leaves, I nudge Tito awake. "What does Cleo want with the master? Did she say?"
He snorts groggily. "Stupid twat. She shot the wrong bass player. You believe that?"
"Then who was playing with Jimmy in the Bahamas?"
"That'd be Danny." Meaning Danny Gitt, the former leadbass guitarist for the Slut Puppies.
"Where is he now?" I ask.
"On a big jet plane, don't you worry. Jimmy's wife'll never find him."
"Why didn't you tell this to the cops?"
"That's very funny. Christ, I'm thirsty again."
Dutifully I fetch the plastic pitcher and pour more water for Tito. He levers himself to one elbow and takes a long noisy guzzle. "The cops, they think those two Mexicans came to my place lookin' for dope. If I told 'em they was hired by a pop singer tryin' to rip off her dead husband, well ... " Tito keels back on the pillows. "They'd never believe it."
I ask him when was the last time he saw Jimmy Stoma. He says four or five months ago.
"Did he talk to you about the solo project?"
"I think he felt weird 'cause he hired Danny instead of me. So all we talked about was fish."
Wincing, Tito repositions himself on the bed. "You wouldn't think it could hurt so much, gettin' popped in the butt cheeks. Fucked me up bad."
He's fading again and I still haven't pried the answer out of him—depressing evidence that my interviewing skills have waned. In the old days somebody loaded on this much hospital-grade narcotics would have been a pushover. By now I'd have had him confessing to the JFK assassination.
"Tito, wake up. Why does Cleo want Jimmy's master recording? I can't figure it out."
"She doesn't want the whole thing," he says irritably. "There's one cut she's hot for, and the rest she couldn't give two shits about."
I assume he's talking about "Cindy's Oyster," but when I try the title on Tito he says it doesn't ring a bell. However, Tito's bell is made of Jell-O at the moment.
"Naw, that ain't the song," he insists. "This is one she wants for her own record. She said Jimmy promised to give it to her, but that ain't what Danny told me. He said it was gonna be on Jimmy's own album. His comeback single, he said."
"Come on, Tito. Try to remember the name of the cut."
"Back off, guy ... "
"The long-haired kid at the club with Cleo," I say, "you remember him?"
But Tito is distracted by a stab of pain that causes him to twist around and glower at the door. "Where'd Nurse Wretched go? I believe she shot me up with sugar water."
"Loreal," I press onward, "that's what he calls himself."
"Aw, he's just some junior jerkoff with a Pro Tools setup. His job is to lay Cleo's vocals over Jimmy's guitar, once they lift it off the master. That's my read."
I can't help but notice that Tito has begun to bleat intermittently, like a baby goat. "Think hard," I encourage him. "This is important."
"Know what? This gettin'-shot shit is strictly for the youngbloods. I'm fifty motherfuckin' years old."
"Count your blessings. Steve McQueen checked out at fifty." I am powerless to edit myself.
"That was cigarettes," Tito snaps. "I quit the cigarettes." He curses under his breath. "What's the name of the wife's album again? She told me but I forgot."
"It's going to be called Shipwrecked Heart."
He smiles grimly and points a callused finger. "That's it, chico. That's Jimmy's song. The one she wants. The one she sang at the church."
And just like that, bingo, it all adds up.
The guitar part I heard last night sounded familiar for a reason. The widow Stomarti had played it at the funeral, while singing the only verse she knew ...
You took me like a storm, tossed me out of reach,
Left me like the tide, lost and broken on a beach.
Shipwrecked heart, my shipwrecked heart ...
" 'Shipwrecked Heart.' That's it." Tito is pleased with himself for remembering. "One time Jimmy was gonna let me hear the final mix but we went lobsterin' instead. I remember Jay or Danny, they said it was pretty good."
"I'd sing it for you myself but you're in enough pain. Cleo says she and Jimmy wrote that song together."
"What a joke. That girl couldn't write a Christmas card."
This goes immediately into the notebook. Tito watches the transcribing with an amused resignation. "You're gonna put my name in your newspaper?"
"It's very possible."
"Then maybe I should take a long vacation like Danny." He raises himself to look out the window, where the morning sky over Hollywood is pink with sun-tinted smog. "You think they offed Jimmy's sister? I liked her. She was a real decent kid."
"I liked her, too. May I borrow the phone?"
"Be my guest." Tito's curly noggin begins to loll. "I believe I'm fixin' to crash."
It's still early in Florida and Emma's probably in the middle of her workout, but I dial the number anyway because I can't wait. After thirteen days I've finally dug up a motive for the murder of James Bradley Stomarti. It might not have been conspicuous but it was heartbreakingly simple.
His wife killed him for a song.
From Cedars I head straight to LAX and catch a flight that should get me home by midnight. Hunkered like a parolee in a window seat, I snap on the Discman and painstakingly tick through the "Shipwrecked Heart" tracks until I locate what sounds like a fully mixed version. It's pretty good, too. I understand why Cleo Rio wants to steal it for herself.
Nothing intricate—just Jimmy playing an acoustic guitar and bits of harmonica. The nimble 12-string bridge is way out of his league, and undoubtedly was contributed by one of his famous pals or a first-rate session player. Ironically, there's no bass track at all, which makes the shooting of poor Tito Negraponte even more insulting.
Above all I'm struck by Jimmy's voice, so stark and subdued that Slut Puppies fans would never guess it was him. A light background harmony comes in on the last two refrains—I'm certain it's Ajax and Maria Bonilla, the singers I met at the funeral.