Now she's leaning over the coffin, her face inches from that of her dead brother. I am gulping deep breaths, endeavoring not to keel over.
"Amazing," she's saying, "the way they put him back together. You can't hardly tell, can you? Jack?"
"No, you can't."
"Well, maybe they do autopsies different in the islands."
"Maybe so," I say.
"Hmmmm." Janet, peering intently.
In about three minutes I've sucked all the oxygen out of the room. Time to go. I prefer not to asphyxiate on a dead man's perfume.
"Let's get this over with," I say.
"What?"
"You know."
Janet steps away from the casket. "Okay. Do it."
My hands shake as I fumble with the buttons, starting at the neck. Inanely, I try to open Jimmy Stoma's silk shirt without wrinkling it—like it matters for the crematorium.
Finally the shirt is undone. The singer's chest looks tan, the fine hair bleached golden by long days in the tropics. Undimmed by death is the most prominent of Jimmy's tattoos, a florid sternum-to-navel depiction of a nude blonde rapturously encoiled by a phallus-headed anaconda.
But that's not what grabs my eye.
"Strange," I mutter.
The singer's sister touches my sleeve.
"Jack," she whispers, "where are the autopsy stitches?"
An excellent question.
5
I wouldn't be working at the Union-Registerif it weren't for a pig-eyed, greasy-necked oaf named Orrin Van Gelder.
He was an elected commissioner of Gadsden County, Florida, where his specialty was diverting multimillion-dollar government contracts to favored cronies in exchange for cash kickbacks.
Fortunately for me, Van Gelder was an exceptionally dull-witted crook. At the time of his most carefree and imprudent bid-rigging, I was covering Gadsden County for a small local newspaper. I'd like to say it was my own intrepid investigating that ensnared the corrupt commissioner—that's what my editor proclaimed in the letter nominating me for a big journalism award.
The truth, however, is that I nailed Orrin Van Gelder simply by picking up a ringing telephone. A voice at the other end said:
"Some prick politician is trying to shake me down for a hundred large."
The voice belonged to Walter Dubb, whose occupation was selling buses outfitted for the handicapped. Gadsden County was seeking to purchase fifteen such vehicles; a worthy expenditure, all had agreed. Four competing companies began preparing bids.
Shortly thereafter, Walter Dubb, who sold more handicapped-customized buses than anybody in the South, was approached by Mrs. Orrin Van Gelder for a private lunch invitation. In thirty years of selling transit fleets to municipal governments, Dubb had been shaken down by a multitude of public officials, but Orrin Van Gelder was the first to use his wife as a bagperson.
"Here's the deal, Walt," Pamela Van Gelder informed him over crabcakes at a local catfish joint. "Even if you're not the lowest bidder, Orrin will see to it the county buys your buses, and onlyyour buses. His fee is five percent."
"Fee?"
Mrs. Van Gelder smiled. "Call it what you like."
"I call it a corncobbing," said Walter Dubb.
The commissioner's wife didn't flinch. "My husband's a reasonable man. He'll settle for a flat hundred grand, plus one of those fancy Dodge minivans with the electric lift."
"Like hell."
"For Orrin's mother," Pamela Van Gelder explained.
"She's in a wheelchair?" Walter Dubb, experiencing a pang of sympathy.
"No, she's a whale. Can't hoist her fat ass up and down the steps."
The bus contract was worth $3 million and change, so Dubb had some thinking to do. Dubb didn't object to reasonable briberies but he was disgusted by Van Gelder's greedy gall. So, one Saturday morning, Walter called up the city desk to nark out the commissioner. A preoccupied editor cut him off mid-sentence and transferred him to my line. (The only reason I answered is because I thought it was my then-girlfriend calling to explain why she hadn't yet returned from Vancouver, where she was shooting a pantyhose commercial. She never did come home.)
After hearing Walter Dubb's story, I made a couple of calls. The following Wednesday night, Commissioner Gelder and his co-conspiring spouse sat down for dinner with Walter Dubb and a man named George Pannini, whom Dubb had introduced convincingly as the vice president of his bus-customizing division. In fact, Mr. Pannini was employed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and was wearing both a sidearm and a microphone.
I was sitting at another table with a photographer, who was discreetly shooting pictures over my left shoulder. Orrin Van Gelder, who had the appetite of a tapeworm, had ordered a T-bone steak, stone crabs, a dozen oysters, a tureen of potato soup and a whole fried onion the size of a softball. His gluttony would be fully documented in my story the next day, along with his crime. The decibel level in the restaurant made eavesdropping difficult, but the gaps in conversation would be filled in, colorfully, by a broadcast-quality FBI tape recording.
The bust went down in the men's room, where Agent Pannini had lured Van Gelder with the promise of a $25,000 down payment on the kickback. It was at a urinal, with one hand on the cash and the other hand on his pecker, that the commissioner was arrested for bribery.
It was a glorious scandal, and my byline stayed on the front page for a solid week, a personal record that stands to this day. Even better, the heavy news coverage flushed from the muck three other vendors who'd been hustled by the commissioner. Each of the aggrieved businessmen consented to an interview, including the fellow who'd sold $1.7 million worth of self-cleaning toilets to the county airport. Van Gelder had insisted that in addition to his customary cash kickback, he wanted a deluxe model self-cleaning commode installed in his private master bathroom. The fixture later malfunctioned while the commissioner himself was enthroned upon it, an errant geyser of bleach scalding both buttocks and his scrotum.
The story, needless to say, was golden. Orrin Van Gelder wound up copping a plea and doing nineteen months at Talladega. I wound up winning that journalism award and being wooed away to a bigger place and a bigger newspaper, where I did some pretty decent work until the shitstorm struck.
And here I am.
Janet drops me off at the donut shop.
I offer to make some phone calls and find out about her brother's so-called autopsy. She's not listening.
"Damn, I almost forgot," she says, and starts to drive away.
"Hey, where you going?"
She hits the brakes. "Back to the funeral place. I've got something that belongs with Jimmy. Something special he gave me."
"Can I ask what?"
She reaches behind the seat and pulls out a white paper shopping bag. She opens it to display a rare gem—a genuine long-playing 33 rpm album. The jacket is faded, and one corner appears to have been gnawed by a puppy. I'm smiling because I recognize the record. The Soft Parade.
"1969," I say.
"Jimmy loved the Doors. This one was his favorite—he gave it to me for my birthday." Janet studies the band's photograph on the cover and asks, "How old was Morrison when he died?"
You bet I know the answer. "Twenty-seven."
"Jimmy told me where it happened, but I forgot."
"In a bathtub."
Janet busts out with a laugh. "No, I meant where, like what city."
Now we're both laughing. "Paris," I say.
Janet gathers herself. "I remember now. My brother went to see the grave. Listen, I better get rolling before they light the bonfire, or whatever."
"You're putting the album in the coffin?"
"Yeah." Sheepishly she slips it back into the bag. "I mean, I've got to do something.Cleo won't ever know."
"Janet, don't you think you should tell somebody about what we saw. Maybe it's not too late to—"