"Got to be an ode to something," I say absently. "Ode to a princess. Ode to a maiden ... "
Carla crows, banging her hands on the steering wheel. "You are goodlIt's 'Ode to a Brown-Eyed Goddess.' I swear to Christ, if he goes through with this, the wedding's gonna be a pukefest."
"Hey, your mom's happy. That's all that counts."
"Don't go soft on me now, you gnarly old fart."
"Carla, I need a favor." "What else."
"Something happens to me"—I've got my notebook open, trying to scribble Rick Tarkington's name and number—"if something happens to me, you call this guy. Tell him I went to meet the merry widow tonight at Jizz."
"Hey! I'll go with you and we can flirt disgracefully."
"Like hell." I tear the page from the notebook and slip it into her handbag. "Also, please tell him there's a woman who's been abducted. Her name is Emma Cole and she works for the paper. She's only twenty-seven."
"Oh God, Jack. What did you do?"
"Outsmarted myself. How much farther?"
Thurma and her creatures dwell in a double-wide trailer enclosed by a tall chain-link fence. The name on the mailbox says "Bernice Mackle." Chained to a pine tree in front of the trailer is a coyote, of all things, pacing irritably in the shade.
Thurma is out running errands but she taped a note to the front door: "Cage #7. Slow and easy."
Carla digs the door key out of a flower pot and we enter warily. I don't know where Thurma eats or sleeps, the trailer is stacked with so many glass terrariums. Each contains one or more formidable reptiles. Thurma has accommodatingly unlocked the lid to number 7, which is home to the largest Eastern diamondback I've ever seen, its head the size of my fist. The rattler is coiled upon an anvil-shaped rock. Next to the rock is a water dish, and propped next to the water dish sits a familiar black box, once the secret pride and joy of James Bradley Stomarti.
"I told her to stash it in a safe place," Carla explains.
The snake is oblivious and somewhat lethargic, a condition attributable to a bunny-sized lump in one of its coils.
"Now what?" I ask Carla.
She points to a pair of barbecue tongs. "Slow and easy, remember."
"How much do you adore me?"
"Not that much, Jack."
"Honestly, my reflexes aren't what they used to be."
"Come on. It's practically in a coma," Carla says.
Carefully I lift the plastic lid off the tank.
"You want, I'll try and distract him." Carla presses her nose against the glass but jumps back when the rattler halfheartedly flicks its tongue.
"Screw that,"she says.
Wielding the barbecue tongs, I take aim at the hard drive. Twice I panic and yank my arm away before getting a solid grip. On the third try I snatch hold of the box but, while lifting it, I see the snake's skin ripple and its nose turn slightly toward me. Then comes the rattle, which is unlike any other sound in nature. Brilliantly I pull my hand from the tank just as the beast strikes, fangs ticking harmlessly against the glass. Carla squeals as the tongs and the hard drive clatter to the floor.
Somewhere, Jimmy Stoma must be laughing his ass off.
If I'd checked my voice mail like a real reporter I would have known that Janet Thrush was neither dead nor being held captive by her sister-in-law. She'd left three messages, starting with: "Hi, Jack. It's Janet. Something super weird happened and I had to get outta Dodge for a while. I'm staying with some girls down in Broward. Call me, soon as you get a chance. It's, uh, 954-555-6609." The number connected to a service, where I left word for Ms. Thrush to phone me at home as soon as possible.
But when I returned from Dommie's house, the tape on my answer machine was empty. So I'm sitting here, in the same faded old armchair where Emma and I made love, waiting for calls and plotting the big rescue. The most ambitious version of my plan is to save Emma, get Cleo busted, break open the Jimmy Stoma story and sail onto the front page of the Union-Registerfor the first time in 987 days.
But I would gladly settle for saving Emma, period.
Nothing momentous will take place at the club; of that I'm sure. They'll want the exchange to go down somewhere else, someplace quiet and remote. They might not even agree to do it tonight. I've tried to convince myself that all Cleo cares about is Jimmy's song, and that once I give it up she'll free Emma. Except that Emma is now a major problem because she can nail Cleo—or at least Jerry—for abduction and assorted other felonies. So can I. Thus a case could be made for eliminating both of us. It would be moronic, true, but the prisons of Florida aren't overflowing with Mensa candidates.
Here's something: When I told Carla I had a heavy meeting with some unpleasant characters, she offered to loan me a pistol.
And I took it. Guns scare the daylights out of me, but dying scares me more. So on my kitchen counter now sits a loaded Lady Colt .38, which supposedly is more petite and purse-friendly than the macho-oriented model. That's fine by me; I've got my dainty side. Also on the counter are two external hard drive units—Jimmy's original, and an identical copy made this afternoon by Juan's whiz-kid pal in exchange for twenty dollars' worth of Upper Deck baseball cards.
Juan is the person I most need to consult, but he's over in Tampa covering a Devil Rays game. He's the one fellow I know who is intimate with the primal impulse; he could tell me what it's like to make that decision and then live with it. My plan doesn't include killing anybody but I believe I might do it for Emma; that and more. Once the realization sinks in, I feel oddly liberated and energized. Emma's alive, and I'll do whatever it takes to get her back. No other option exists, so why fret?
When I asked Carla Candilla why she owned a pistol, she said, "Get real, Jack—hot single chick, living alone. Hul-lo?"
"Does your mother know?"
"That's who gave it to me."
"No way," I said.
"Seriously. She's got one, too."
"Anne packs a rod? OurAnne?"
Carla said, "She never told you because she didn't want you to freak. No big deal."
The things I didn't know.
I arrive at the club at quarter past ten. Cleo Rio suspects I'm wearing a wire so, in a scene worthy of a Derek Grenoble potboiler, Jerry leads me to the men's room and roughly pats me down. Fortunately, I've left Lady Colt under the front seat of the Mustang.
In the coziness of the toilet stall I remark upon the stylishness of Jerry's black velvet eye patch. "That cologne, though, smells like fermented pig piss. Why does she make you wear it?"
"Shut the fuck up," he says, slugging me in the ribs. When my respiration stabilizes, we return to the table. Loreal has arrived, hair aglimmering, to complete the motley foursome. Cleo is sporting white leather pants and a matching vest with nothing but skin beneath it. Tonight her pageboy is magenta while her eyelids and lips are done in cobalt. The look clashes badly with her Tortola-caliber tan.
Drinks are ordered and small talk is commenced, mostly by Loreal. He has been creatively inspired by something "funky" he heard on a No Doubt CD, and is confident he can replicate the effect on Cleo's record. She nods impassively and lights another cigarette. No screwdrivers for the widow tonight; it's black coffee. Loreal and I are tending Budweisers, while one-eyed Jerry sticks with Diet Coke. For a goon he's quite the sober professional.
As soon as the Nordic Rastafarian DJ takes a break, I invite Loreal to shut up so I can talk business with Cleo. She seems amused by my rude treatment of her boyfriend—clearly she'll be dumping this joker as soon as the album is finished. I expect she's already gotten stingy with the blow jobs.
"Here's the situation, Mrs. Stomarti," I begin. "You want Jimmy's song. I want my friend back."
"It's not just Jimmy's song. We did it together."