16

There's nothing wrong with me, not even a mild concussion. That's the word from my doctor, Susan, who is six years younger than I am and works the rookie shift, Saturdays, for a downtown medical group. Susan isn't impressed by my swollen nose, the knots on my jaw or the knuckle-shaped welt on my ribs. However, the tale of how I came by these scrapes and bruises intrigues her, especially the business about the frozen lizard. I feel pressure to be entertaining, knowing she believes my monthly physical examinations are a waste of time. I always insist on the works, of course, including a full spectrum of blood-gas analysis and the ever-popular prostate excursion, upon which Dr. Susan is preparing to embark.

"No offense, Jack," she's saying, "but I'm damn tired of looking up your ass every four weeks. It's totally unnecessary, as the nice folks at your HMO have pointed out."

"Humor me, okay? And don't I always pay cash?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," Susan says again. "You're a completely healthy specimen—physically, at least."

"You married yet?"

"No, but if I was," says Susan, from behind, "I'd keep a three-carat diamond ring on this finger"—the dreaded snap of latex!—"just for you, buddy."

The death of John Dillinger Burns rates two paragraphs on page three of the Union-Register'sMetro section. Police are investigating the circumstances ... Alcohol and drugs are believed to be involved ... Burns, 40, formerly had been the keyboard player for a popular rock band, Jimmy and the Slut Puppies. Ironically, the group's lead singer, Jimmy Stoma, recently died in a diving accident in the Bahamas ...

And that's that. Onward to the Sports page, where Juan has a story about a college basketball star who became a gambling addict by the age of twenty—another superb piece, unsparing and poignant at the same time. What I'd give to have Juan's touch!

"Hey, handsome."

It's Carla Candilla. Her hair is now ... I want to say turquoise.

"Close enough," she allows. "Sorry I'm late. Is this Pellegrino for me? You're such a sweetheart."

We're meeting at her favorite cafe, Iggy Cheyenne's, which overlooks the beach and the old wooden fishing pier. Seagulls are a menace at lunchtime, but today they're wheeling clear of our table. For this I credit Carla's vivid dye job.

She wants to hear all about the break-in at my apartment, enthralled at the thought of me fighting back and drawing blood. I purposely don't mention the handy role of the late Colonel Tom, whom Carla believes to be alive and running free with other lizards.

A bleary-eyed waiter materializes. Carla and I order a calamari appetizer and two Greek salads. Afterwards she sets down her glass, glances around and says: "Well. You're not the only one who had a big Friday night—guess who I saw at Jizz."

"The singing widow!"

"Nope. Her boyfriend."

"You're sure?"

"My sources are primo," Carla says, "but I would've pegged him anyway, on account of the hair. What's up with that?"

"I told you it was amazing."

"From behind we all thought it was Mariah Carey. I swear he must do it in a fucking laundry press, that hair."

"What's his name? Who is he?"

I pull out my notebook and fumble for a pen. Carla grins. "Black Jack in action!"

"Did you get his name or not?"

"What do you think? Course I got his name. It's Loreal."

"First name first."

"He doesn't have one," she says.

"Of course he does."

"No, that's his whole name. Loreal."

"Like Sting or Bono—"

"Very good, Jack."

"Except this chowderhead named himself after a shampoo."

"Can you believe it?" Carla squeaks.

"So what does Messr. Loreal do for a living?"

"He's a record producer, is what I heard. Very hot." Carla's watching me scribble in my notebook. "I asked who he's produced and somebody said the Wallflowers but then somebody else said no, it was Beck. I never really got it straight, but everybody says he's hot."

"And they say he's bonking Jimmy's wife?"

"More like she's bonking him."

I drum my pen on the table.

"See, the difference is," Carla says, "like, Cleo's in total charge of the program. She calls, he comes running. The sex is at her convenience, not his. He's the boy toy, just like you said."

I prod Carla for more dope about Loreal and she says he's twenty-nine or thirty, has recently moved here from Los Angeles, drives a motorcycle and, based on firsthand observation, has a fondness for Ecstasy. He tells everyone within earshot that he's producing Cleo's new album.

"I want to meet this guy," I tell Carla.

She beams. "You gonna kick his ass? Jack, I'd pay good money to see you punch somebody."

"What's so funny?"

"I can't picture it, that's all. I just can't!" She pops a batter-fried squid into her mouth. "This dickbrain who busted into your apartment—was he bigger than you? God, what if he had a gun! You ever think a that, Jack?"

"Hook me up with Loreal. But please don't tell your mother you're helping me out."

Carla snaps her fingers. "That reminds me!" She hoists a voluminous crotcheted handbag onto her lap and takes out a thick shiny book. With a flourish she passes it across the table, annoying the waiter who is attempting to deliver our salads.

"What's this? "I ask.

Carla raises an eyebrow. "You heard of him, right?"

"Sure."

The novel is called The Falconer's Mistress.On the jacket is a drawing of (naturally) a falcon, wings flared. The bird is perched on the velvet-gloved fist of a woman wearing a sparkling ruby bracelet. Only her bare Corfu-tanned arm is shown. The author of the book, whose name is displayed in raised gold lettering, is Derek Grenoble. His secret-agent novels sell millions.

"Your mother is marrying this person?"

"First I wasn't gonna tell you," Carla says, "but then I figured you'd find out sooner or later. I never read anything the guy wrote but he seems nice enough. Seriously."

I turn the novel over and study the retouched face in the photograph. "He looks like Ann-Margret in an ascot."

"He's British," Carla volunteers. "Or maybe it's Australian."

"In the first place, that can't possibly be his real name. 'Derek Grenoble'? No way. Your mom knows better. Second, he can't possibly be forty-four."

Carla frowns. "You're taking this worse than I thought."

"I'm disappointed, that's all." Heartsick is more like it. And jealous and petulant and furious at myself for driving Anne away.

"Jack, she's really happy. I'd tell you if she wasn't."

"Swell. Lady Anne Grenoble—is that what she'll be calling herself from now on? When's the big wedding day?"

"Next Saturday."

"You're shitting me."

"Derek's leaving for Ireland to start another project."

"That's my birthday," I say emptily.

"Oh, man. I forgot," Carla says. "How old now?"

"A hundred and seven."

I open Derek's latest masterpiece to a random page in the middle. "Listen to this: 'Duquesne turned to the section chief and eyed him with revulsion, as if he were a worm in a bright red apple. Incompetence was one thing, reckless ego another. Kincaid was dead because he'd left her out there too long, much too long, with no way out. That Duquesne could never forgive. From a pocket he drew out Kincaid's empty Walther and placed it on the section chief's desk. Then he spun on his heel and stalked out of the building. By the time he reached the airport, he had decided precisely where to go and whom to kill.' For God's sakes, Carla, tell me he's kidding."

To my horror she puts down her fork and says, "Keep reading, Jack, go on. What happens next?"

No place matches a city newsroom for energy, or ennui. Between big breaking stories are droning, brain-numbing lulls that allow reporters to ponder too deeply their choice of occupation. Burnout is common because of the long hours and the crummy pay and the depressing nature of so much of what we write. As the saying goes, they never send us to the airport when the plane lands safely. Those who bail out of journalism usually beeline for law school, a graduate degree or well-paying gigs in corporate public relations. Personally, I'd rather have my nuts nailed to a poisonwood.