Basket Case

"Now you know who I am," he said, pulling her face close to his. She gazed into his gray eyes with a mixture of dread and excitement. "I'll leave, if you wish," he said.

She shook her head. "It's cold outside," she whispered.

He smiled. "It's Prague, isn't it? It's always cold in Prague." Then he kissed her.

Sweet Christ Almighty, what is there to do but kill him? No jury in the world would convict me. I've bookmarked that page as Exhibit A, and the novel accompanies me now to A

Yet the moment A

A

"Pardon?"

"Jane's. You can look up any ship in the world in Jane's. A sixth grader could do it."

A

"Fine. But his writing is unforgivably wretched. Surely you're aware." This is not my finest hour. A

"In the first place," she says, "all my favorite novelists are dead, so they're not available to marry. In the second place, Derek is a good guy. He's fun, he's affectionate, he doesn't take life so damn seriously ... "

"You've just described a beagle, not a husband," I say. "And, for the record, it's deathI take seriously. Not life."

"Knock it off, Jack. Please."

"Tell me you didn't meet him at a book signing. Tell me you met him at a Starbucks or a Ya

"He did a reading at our store," A

"Aloud? He's got balls, I'll say that."

"Enough!"

"You know his real name is not Derek Grenoble? It's—"

"Of course I know."

"And you're telling me you've actually slogged through ... this?" I hold up The Falconer's Mistress.

A

"He isn't forty-four. Did he tell you he was?"

"No," she says, "but I told Carla to tell you that."

"Cute. How old is he then?"

"I don't know and I don't care."

"Well, I know. I looked him up."

"Then keep it to yourself," A

"Wise of him," I say.

A

"Right. He's off to Ireland."

"I'm really sorry. I feel lousy about it."

So far, none of this is as devastating as I'd anticipated. Naturally I want to pull A

Yet I take an unma

"May I please make a case for myself? I've gotten so much better, A

"That was thoughtless of me," she concedes.

"Point is, I've had a pretty strong twelve months, all things considered. And I'm ending on a very positive note, working on a big story—a seriously heavy story that could spring me off obits and turn my career in a whole new direction. Up, hopefully."

A

"Your mother called me, Jack. She's concerned."

"Beautiful."

"Don't be angry," says A

"I guess she's only got two things left in the world to worry about—me, and Dave's colon."

"How isDave's colon?"

"Seriously, don't you think I seem better?"

"Yes, honey, for now. But it'll start all over again, like always. The obsessing, the dreams, the midnight monologues ... "

She's kind enough not to mention the actuarial charts I once taped to the medicine cabinet.

"I hope I'm wrong," she says, "but I'm afraid it'll kick in like gang-busters on Saturday when you turn forty-seven. This year was Elvis and Ke

My spine turns into an icicle.

"Someone like who?"

A

"Come on. Who died at forty-seven that I would possibly fixate on?"

Angrily she drops my hand like it was a hot coal. "Here we go again. That goddamn job of yours ... "

"You're winging it," I tell her, definitely asking for trouble. "You're blowing smoke. You can't give me one name, can you? Not one."

She grabs the empty vodka glass and steams for the kitchen.

"A

"Jack Kerouac," she calls over her shoulder.

And I hear myself muttering, "Oh Christ."

19

I couldn't sleep last night so I drove back to Beckerville in a rainstorm at two in the morning. Janet's Miata was filling with water in the driveway and the house was exactly as Emma and I had left it. Incredible: The cops never showed up. I thought about calling 911 again, but decided to hold off.

Now I'm at my desk in the newsroom, looking at a picture of Jack Kerouac on the Internet. He's standing beside a desert highway, his shoulders rounded and hands shoved into his pockets. The biography accompanying the photograph divulges that English was his second language, and that he wrote On the Roadin three weeks. It's enough to sink me into a funk of disconsolate envy. Reading on, I see that A

So there.

From across the newsroom I hear a familiar, tubercular hacking: Griffin, the weekend cop reporter, sneaking a smoke. It's unusual to find him working so late.

"Three domestics," he explains in a tone of infinite boredom. "Knife, gun and claw hammer. Two 'graphs each. What the hell're you doing here?"

Griffin favors solitude. He has his own special way of working the phones. On impulse I ask: "Is there anybody worth a shit at the Beckerville substation?"

"Sure." With a pencil he laconically stirs a cup of black coffee. "Sure, I got a sergeant up there on night shifts. He'll talk to me." Translation: He's my source exclusively, so don't bug me for the name.