Emma says, "Not on the Death page, they won't."
I smile. "That's right. Not there."
Emma's expression darkens. "Ungh-ugh, Jack. I'm not pushing this for Page One. No way!"
Jesus, what a hoot. The Times won't put Jimmy Stoma out front—he'll be lucky to end up as the lead obit. But Emma's in a sweat, rattled at the possibility of me breaking out of the dungeon. No doubt she perceives that as a career-threatening crisis, for part of her mission as a junior editor is to see that I remain crushed, without hope of redemption. The next best thing to canning me would be to make me quit in disgust, which of course I'll never do.
This is too much fun.
I say to Emma: "You might mention Stoma in the budget meeting, just in case."
"Twelve inches, Jack," she reiterates sternly.
"Because my guess is, there's at least one Slut Puppies fan on the masthead." I'm referring to Abkazion, the new managing editor, who s my age and works weekends.
"Fifteen inches, max," amends Emma.
I wave goodbye with my spiral notebook, and stride toward the elevator. "We'll talk when I get back from visiting Mrs. Stomarti."
"What kind of accident?" Emma calls after me. "How did he die? Jack?"
2
My all-time favorite obituary headline is:
Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam of Mauritius Dies at Age 85.
This did not appear in a Dr. Seuss book, but in the New York Times. Maybe three dozen readers in all Manhattan had ever heard of Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam, but that's what made the matter-of-fact tone of the headline so splendid—the dry implication that even non-Mauritians ought to have known who he was.
Obituary headlines often contain helpful (though sometimes unnecessary) identifiers—Joe DiMaggio, Former Baseball Star, Dead at 84—yet no clue was provided as to the occupation or achievements of the departed Ramgoolam patriarch. Perhaps the headline writer was hamstrung by a lack of space, due to the phenomenal length of the deceased's name, though I prefer to believe the succinctness was intentional.
Sir Seewoosagur is gone. Enough said.
I won't be writing the headline on Jimmy Stoma's obituary because, contrary to what readers think, reporters don't come up with the headlines for their stories. Copy editors do.
One time the copy editor on the Death page called in sick, and Emma herself was left with that duty. It was September 11, 1998, and here's what she put above one of my obituaries:
Keith Murtagh, Inventor of French Toast, Dies at 96 After Brief Illness
The man's name was Kenneth Murtaugh, he had invented a toaster oven, and he was sixty-nine when he crashed his Coupe de Ville into a palm tree along Perdido Boulevard. That he died was the only fact Emma managed to get right.
The one who got the angry letters from the dead man's family was me, because it was my name on the story beneath the fucked-up headline. Weeks later, Emma sent me a memo of apology, in which she again misspelled Murtaugh's name. God, if only it had been out of spite and not incompetence...
Driving across Pelican Causeway, I'm imagining the headline possibilities for Jimmy Stoma.
James Stomarti, Former Pop Star, Dies in Accident at 39
Or, slightly better:
Rock Musician Known as Jimmy Stoma Dies in the Bahamas
That's if the story remains on the obit page, where headlines are customarily subdued and colorless. All bets are off if the duty editor bumps Stoma to Metro or Page One, in which case I would give my right testicle to see a "Slut Puppy" reference in 40-point type, such as:
Rocker Jimmy Stoma, Ex-Slut Puppy, Perishes at Age 39 in Bahamas Accident
Now there's a headline to sell papers. You've got the irresistible ingredients of glamour (rock music), notoriety (the famously naughty Slut Puppies), youth (age thirty-nine), tragedy ("perish," an exquisite verb, implying a rich life cut short), all set against an exotic tropical backdrop...
Ugly but true: Death is what pays my bills.
At one time I was a serious reporter doing what passed for serious journalism. Now I write exclusively about the unliving—I go to bed each night thinking about the ones I've laid to rest in tomorrow's paper, and I wake up every morning wondering who will be next. My curiosity is strictly and professionally morbid. Shamelessly I plot to resurrect my newspaper career by yoking my byline to some famous stiff. My days are spent dodging dead Rabbi Levines in the hope that someone more widely known will pass away before the first-edition deadline.
Certainly this is no life to be esteemed. Yet I like to think I bring uncommon style and perspective to the obituary page, which is traditionally a training ground for interns and fresh-out-of-college rookies. Emma, of course, would prefer that her modest stable feature an obit writer who was younger and less experienced than herself; someone she could guide, counsel and occasionally intimidate.
But she's stuck with me, and I make her as jittery as a gerbil in a cobra pit. Emma keeps a stash of Valiums in her top drawer—the pills are disguised in a Bayer aspirin bottle, to avoid discovery by any of her ambitious rival editors. They would unhesitatingly use the information to cast doubt on Emma's fitness for newspaper management.
Poor girl. She has a decent soul, I'm certain, and an untested heart that doesn't deserve to be wrung like an old dishrag. Yet that's what is bound to happen if Emma stays in this miserable profession. I'm determined to save her; she is one of two pressing personal projects.
The first being, to save myself.
Before heading to Silver Beach, I make two quick stops. The first is a record store, where I purchase the only un-remaindered copy of Floating Hospice. Next, with Jimmy Stoma belting from the dashboard of my Mustang—"My baby is a basket case, a bipolar mama in leather and lace!"—I drive to a drugstore that employs a worldly young woman named Carla Candilla.
Carla is the daughter of my favorite ex-girlfriend. She works the drugstore's photo counter. She waves when she spots me standing in line—we are on closer terms than her mother and I.
Carla smiles. "Blackjack!" Her nickname for me, inspired by my occupation.
I lean across the counter for a fatherly hug. "Once again I'm in need of instruction," I say.
"Fire away, old-timer."
"Cleo Rio. There wasn't much in the morgue."
"She's new on the scene," Carla concedes. "Is this research, or personal?"
"That's right, darling, we're a hot item, me and Cleo. Tonight we're going to a rave and later we're getting a suite at Morgan's. Tell that to your mom. Please, Carla, I'll pay you."
When Carla laughs she looks just like Anne, her mother. And Anne laughing is one of my all-time happiest recollections.
Carla asks if Cleo Rio is dead.
"No, it's her husband," I say.
"Oh, that's right. She got married," Carla nods. "It was in Ocean Drive."
Carla keeps track of all local and visiting celebs. At seventeen she is a wily veteran of the club scene and a regular pilgrim to South Beach, where she keeps current on music, movies, dietary trends and fashion. Carla is a key source; my only reliable link to modern youth culture.
"So what has Cleo done to make herself semi-famous? What exactly is she?" I ask.
"More specific please. You mean her sexuality? Nationality? Personality?"
"Carla," I say, "in about twenty minutes I've gotta sit down with this woman and drag three decent quotes out of her. This will require first-class bullshitting."
"She's a singer."
"That helps. What kind of singer?"
"Angry," Carla says, "wounded but not hardened."
"Alanis clone?"
Carla shakes her head. "Cleo's definitely going for a more precious effect. You know the type—the suddenly fuckable former fashion model."
Carla is not trying to shock me. She's talked this way since she was twelve.
"Tell me some of her hits," I say.
"Hit singular, Jack."
"So everything you're giving me is based on one song?"
"Plus the video," Carla says.
"Certainly."
"Directed by Oliver Stone."
"Who else."
"Supposedly she flashes some pubes. That's how she got her name in Spin," Carla reports. "Personally, I don't think it was even Cleo on the video. I think they used a double."
"For pubic hair?"
"Show business, Jack. Hul-lo?" Carla, who has come under the suspicious gaze of the store manager, now pretends to arrange some color slides on the light table for my inspection.
"What was the name of Cleo Rio's one and only song?" I ask.
" 'Me.' " says Carla. "That's all. Just 'Me.' "
"And it charted?"
"Only because of the pube hype."
"Gotcha. Thanks, darling."
"Where's the big interview?"
"Her place."
"I expect a complete debriefing."
"Of course. Hey, you ever hear of Jimmy and the Slut Puppies?"
Carla arches an auburn eyebrow. "They new?" She's afraid she's missed something.
"Nope. Old as the hills."
"Sorry, Jack."
Before leaving the drugstore, I can't stop myself from asking: "So how's your mom?"
"Good," says Carla.
"Really?"
"Really good."
"Shit," I say.
Carla laughs fondly. The fact that I still miss Anne buoys her opinion of me.
"Tell her I said hi."
"You're quite the dreamer, Jack."
Jimmy Stoma's condo is on the nineteenth floor of an eyesore skyscraper at the southernmost tip of Silver Beach. Twenty minutes she keeps me waiting in the lobby, Jimmy's widow, but truthfully I'm surprised she agreed to see me at all. From the briefness of the death notice, it would seem that the family doesn't want much attention.
The door of 16-G is opened by a squat, bald, neckless man with two small platinum hoops in each earlobe. Straight from Bouncers-R-Us, this guy, down to the bomber jacket and the understated armpit bulge. Wordlessly he leads me through the hazily lit condo to the living room, where Mrs. Stomarti is standing before a wraparound bay window.
I have indeed seen her face before, on the cover of a couple tabloid-style celebrity magazines to which I subscribe for professional reasons. (I clip and file some of the juicier profile pieces in case the celebrity subject someday expires within our circulation area.)
"I'm Cleo," says Mrs. Stomarti. "Jimmy's wife."
She is maybe twenty-two years old; twenty-three, tops. Medium tall, thin but not skinny, and alarmingly tan. The hair is bleached snow white and cut in a mock pageboy. The lips are done cherry red and the cheekbones are heavily shadowed, like a pair of matching bruises. She's wearing a beige sleeveless shell and tight white slacks. Her toenails, also white, remind me of paint chips.
No wonder she quit calling herself Cynthia.
"I'm Jack Tagger," I say. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I only wish the circumstances were different." Implying I am aware of her blossoming fame, and would otherwise be delighted to interview her for the Arts & Music page.
We sit down; the widow on the end of a long cream-colored sofa, and me on a deacon's bench. Wasting no time, I tell Cleo Rio how much I liked her hit single, "Me."
She brightens. "You catch the video?"
"Who didn't!"
"What'd you think—too much?"
"Did Jimmy like it?"
"Loved it," Cleo says.
"I vote with Jimmy." I uncap a felt-tip pen and open the notebook on my lap.
"You're the first one to call," Mrs. Stomarti says.
"I was a fan."
A faint smile. "Next'll be the trades, I suppose."
"I'm sorry," I say. "I know you're trying to keep it low-key."
"That's what Jimmy wanted."
"I promise not to take much of your time."
The bald guy brings Cleo what looks like a screwdriver in a tall frosty glass. He doesn't so much as glance in my direction, which is fine with me.
"Want somethin'?" Cleo asks.
I should mention her eyes, which are rimmed pink from either crying or lack of sleep. She's wearing ice-blue contact lenses.
"A Coke? Beer?" asks Jimmy's wife.
"No, thanks."
To get the ball rolling, I start with the easy ones. How did you two first meet? A VH1 party. How long were you married? Not quite a year. Where was the ceremony? Sag Harbor. On a friend's boat. Oh? Who was that? I forget the name. Some sax player Jimmy knew. A session guy.
Here I pause longer than necessary to write down her answer. The interval is meant to give Mrs. Stomarti a moment to prepare. I still dread this part of the job, intruding so bluntly upon the grieving. Yet I've found that many people don't mind talking to a total stranger about their lost loved one. Maybe it's easier than commiserating with family members, who know all there is to know about the deceased, good and bad. A visit from an obituary writer, however, presents a golden opportunity to start from scratch and remake a person as you wish to have them remembered. An obituary is the ultimate last word.
I drop my voice from casual to somber. "Mrs. Stomarti, tell me about the Bahamas trip."
She sets her drink on a teak coffee table. "Jimmy loved it over there. We had a place down in Exuma."
Glancing down, I notice the toes on both her feet are curling and uncurling. Either it's some type of yoga routine, or Cleo Rio is nervous. I ask if they were on vacation when it happened.
She chuckles. "Jimmy was always on vacation when we went to the islands. He loved to dive—he was, like, obsessed. He used to say that being underwater was better than any dope he'd ever tried. 'The deeper I go, the higher I get,' is what he said."
Writing down every word, I'm thinking about how easily Mrs. Stomarti has settled into the past tense when speaking of Jimmy. Often a new widow will talk about her deceased husband as though he were still alive.
For example: He's always on vacation when we go to the islands. Or: He loves to dive. And so on.
But Cleo hasn't slipped once. No subconscious denial here; Jimmy Stoma's dead.
"Can you tell me what happened," I ask, "the day he died?"
She purses her lips and reaches for the drink. I wait. She slurps an ice cube out of the glass and says, "It was an accident."
I say nothing.
"He was diving on an airplane wreck. Fifty, sixty feet deep." Mrs. Stomarti is sucking the ice from cheek to cheek.
"Where?" I ask.
"Near Chub Cay. There's plane wrecks all over the islands," she adds, "from the bad old days."
"What kind of a plane?"
Cleo shrugs. "A DC-something. I don't remember," she says. "Anyway, I was up on the boat when it happened." Now she's crunching the ice in her teeth.
"You don't dive?"
"Not that day. I was working on my tan."
I nod and glance down meaningfully at my notebook. Scribble a couple words. Look up and nod again. The worst thing a reporter can do in a delicate interview is seem impatient. Cleo takes another slug of her drink. Then she rolls her shoulders and stiffens, like she's working out a kink in her spine.
"Jimmy went down same as always," she says, "but he didn't come up."
"Was he alone?" I ask.
"No, he never dove alone."
I'm thinking: Again with the past tense.
"Jay was down there, too," Jimmy's wife says, "only he was diving the tail section. Jimmy was up in the nose of the plane. See, it's in two pieces on the bottom."
"Jay Burns? From the Slut Puppies?"
She nods. "He and Jimmy were, like, best friends. He swum up off the wreck and starts climbing into the boat when all of a sudden he's like, 'Isn't Jimmy up yet?' And I'm like, 'No, he's still down.' See, I was reading a magazine. I wasn't watching the time."
Cleo lifts the empty glass and turns her head toward the kitchen doorway. In a flash, the neckless bouncer guy hustles forward with a fresh screwdriver. A bodyguard who knows how to mix a drink—every pop star sho
uld have at least one.
The widow takes a sip and continues:
"So Jay grabs a fresh tank and jumps back in the water and... no Jimmy. He wasn't anywhere on the wreck." Cleo rocks back on the sofa cushion. She's no longer looking at me; she's staring out the bay window that faces the Atlantic. Her eyes are locked on something far away and invisible to mine.