As soon as we're alone, MacArthur Polk begins fiddling with the throat valve, which enables him to speak by drawing air across the vocal cords.

"Little gizmo goes for fifty-two bucks on the Internet," the old man rasps. "Guess how much the hospital charges—three hundred a pop! Fucking bandits."

The voice lacks for volume but not vitriol. I step closer to listen.

"Sit down, you," Polk snaps. "Where's your damn notebook?"

Obediently I withdraw it from my pocket.

"Open it," he says. "Now put down that I was a fighter. Put down that I was all heart and gristle. I never gave up, no matter what those worthless quacks said." He jabs the air. "Put it down now!In your notebook, Mr. Obituary Writer!"

As I'm scribbling, the old man has second thoughts. "Hold on now. Scratch 'worthless quacks.' My luck, one a those pricks'll slap my estate with a libel suit. See what it's come to? They'd sue a dead man with a hole in his throat, I swear to Christ."

MacArthur Polk is shriveled and fuzzy-headed, with a florid beaked nose, stringy neck and papery, pellucid skin. He looks like one of those newborn condors that zookeepers are always showing off on the Discovery Channel.

After another drag of oxygen, he croaks: "Mr. Race Maggad didn't want you on this story. Why is that, you suppose?"

"I gather he's not a fan."

The old milky eyes sparkle with overmedicated mischief. "I heard you called him some nasty names at a shareholders' meeting. I heard you shook things up, Mr. Tagger."

"Why are we talking about this?"

"Because—" Old Man Polk emits a tubercular wheeze. "Because the reason Maggad didn't want you on this story is the precise reason I insisted on it. What'd you call him exactly? I'm just curious."

"An impostor," I say.

When Polk laughs, his dentures clack. "Him and his father both. What else?"

"I might have mentioned his trust fund. The fact he never worked an honest day in his life. How he knows more about shoeing polo ponies than putting out a decent newspaper."

The old man rattles a wet sigh. "God, I wish I'd been there. I believe I was in the hospital that day."

"Dying," I say. "That's what Mr. Maggad informed the shareholders."

"Hell, I wasn't 'dying' that time, or any of the others. I was just resting. Screwing with their heads."

"You dying now?"

Polk nods abjectly. "Unfortunately, this one's for real, Mr. Tagger. I wouldn't call you here to waste your time."

I almost believe him, he looks so ghastly. For some reason I think of his wife, age thirty-six, and wonder what in creation the two of them talk about. The old man volunteers that she's holding up like a champ. Considering her future net worth, I don't doubt it for a moment.

"Mr. Race Maggad himself came to the hospital to visit me. Why is that, you suppose?" Polk asks, hacking feebly. "To see how I was getting along? Read me a bedtime story? Or maybe to apologize for ruining my family's newspaper."

Polk will get no argument from me. I hear myself asking: "So why'd you sell out to Maggad-Feist? Them, of all people."

The old man turns away with a snort. "More on that later."

"A lot of us in the newsroom felt ... betrayed."

Polk's head snaps around. His eyes are hot. "Is that so. Betrayed?"

"It was a good little paper, Mr. Polk, and we were proud of it. Those people are raping its soul."

"You're not the most sensitive fellow, are you? Did I mention I was dying?"

Suddenly he sounds forlorn. Me, I feel like a shitheel.

"I didn't think it was possible to feel any worse," Polk gasps, "until you showed up. Hell, I'd hang myself with this goddamn oxygen tube if I could reach the curtain rod."

"I'm sorry. I honestly am."

"Aw, what the hell—you've got a point. But more on that later. Now, Mr. Obituary Man, "the old man says, with renewed spunk, "put down how I turned the Union-Registerinto a first-class outfit. And don't forget to say 'award-winning.' Write that down! I got a list somewhere of all the prizes we won ... "

So it goes for an hour. MacArthur Polk's endurance is impressive, as is his enthusiasm for self-aggrandizement. Fortunately he won't be around to read the story, as I have no intention of bogging it down with mawkish deathbed ramblings. Three or four wistful quotes ought to do the job.

Still, he is not an unlikable or tedious interview. He's feisty and coarse and colorfully blunt-spoken, as the dying are entitled to be. For me it's hardly a wasted afternoon, spent in the company of one who has led a full life. Eighty-eight years is something to shoot for.

"I always believed a paper should be the conscience of its community," he is saying for the third time. "News isn't just the filler between advertisements. It's the spine of the business. You write that down?"

"Every word," I assure him.

"Think you got plenty for your article?"

"More than enough."

"Good," Polk growls. "Now all I gotta do is croak and you're good to go."

"Don't hurry on account of me."

"Close that damn notebook, Mr. Tagger. We've got some important matters to discuss, you and I. Off the record."

I can't imagine what.

"Put it away!" the old man tries to bark, though the only sound from his lips is a flatulent sibilance. He paws at the tracheostomy valve and finally grabs for the call button. The same unflappable nurse comes in and calmly clears the valve so that MacArthur Polk can continue speaking.

"Thank you, darling." He squeezes both her hands. She bends down and kisses him sweetly on his blue-veined scalp.

"I love you," says the old man.

"Love you, too," says the nurse.

Now I get it.

"Mr. Tagger, say hello to my wife," Polk says. "Ellen, this is the obituary man from the paper."

"Nice to meet you," says Ellen Polk, shaking my hand. "Did he throw the bedpan again? Mac, are you misbehaving?"

"Sit down, darling," he tells her.

They both see it in my expression. Mrs. Polk says to me: "I'm not what you expected, am I?"

Bingo. I was expecting a shark in designer heels; a predatory blonde with store-bought boobs and probate lawyers in the closet. Ellen Polk is no gold digger; she's a hardworking health care provider.

"We met in the cardiac wing," says Old Man Polk.

"He was a regular," Ellen adds.

"She let me grab her tush," the old man warbles proudly.

"In your dreams, Mac."

"Tell the truth, darling. You wanted me."

"That's right," she says. "I've got a thing for guys on ventilators. That sucking noise really turns me on."

Polk crows. Ellen rises to kiss him goodbye.

"No, stay," he tells her. "This concerns you, too."

Then, to me, the old man says: "Mr. Race Maggad III came to visit me here, Mr. Tagger. Why is that, you suppose?"

I play along. "He thinks of you as a father figure?"

"No, he detests me."

"Now, Mac—" says Ellen.

"Oh, it's true." When the old man gulps, the valve at his throat gives off a muted peep. "Maggad hates me, Mr. Tagger, but he's kissing ass because I've got something he desperately wants, preferably before I die."

"What would that be?" I ask.

MacArthur Polk looks at his wife, who looks at me. They're both smiling. I suppose I should be smiling, too.

The old man says, "You're gonna enjoy this, Mr. Tagger."

Meeting the lovely Mrs. MacArthur Polk has got me thinking about another young wife, Mrs. James Stomarti, who might not have been so devoted to her husband. After departing Charity Hospital I impulsively decide to go see if Jimmy's widow really left for California, as she told me she would at the funeral.

What little I know about Cleo Rio comes from a back issue of Spin,which I tracked down through a friend at a guitar store. The article, which appeared shortly after the "Me" video was released, said the former Cynthia Jane Zigler was born and raised in Hammond, Indiana. At age fifteen she dropped out of school and, joined by two boyfriends, ran off to Stockholm. There she won third place in a talent contest, doing ABBA tunes in a topless rock band. The story said she moved back to the States and occasionally sang backup for Sheryl Crow and Stevie Nicks before being signed by a minor label. Buoyed by the instant success of "Me," Cleo Rio summarily fired her agent, manager, record producer and voice coach. The usual "creative differences" were cited. "It's time I broke some new ground," she told the magazine, at the crusty old age of twenty-three. Her former business manager, who claimed Cleo once tried to run him over with a UPS truck, was quoted as saying, "She's a greedy, ruthless, world-class cunt, but I wish her only the best."