"Oh, I can't possibly do that."

"Why not?"

"Because it's confidential. The Union-Registerhas strict rules against reporters divulging unpublished information."

"Yes, to outsiders," interrupts Race Maggad III. "But I'm not an outsider, Tagger. I sign the paychecks around here."

"No, you sign the paychecks of the people who sign the paychecks. And if you're not an outsider, why does everybody stop and gape whenever you stroll into the building? I know two-headed carnies who don't attract so much attention."

"Have it your way. I'll speak to your editor and we'll get you straightened out, mister, and pronto."

"A solid game plan. And in the meantime, sir"—I whip the notebook out of my pocket—"I need a quote."

Judging by young Race's expression, I might as well have pulled the pin on a live grenade. Reflexively he takes a step backward, knocking over a copper sculpture of an angelfish on Abkazion's credenza.

"A quote for what?" inquires the young tycoon.

"Old Man Polk's obit. It's only fitting," I say. "You're the one who bought his precious newspaper. You're the big cheese."

Maggad re-seats himself. After a pensive pause, he gives the signal that I should prepare to write.

"MacArthur Polk," he begins, "was like a second father to me. He was a teacher, a friend and an inspiration. Mac Polk was the heart and soul of the Union-Register,and we are dedicated to keeping his spirit alive every day, on every page of this outstanding newspaper."

A deep, self-satisfied sigh, then: "You get all that, Tagger?"

"Every word." A tidy sentiment from such a vapid yuppie puke, I've got to admit.

"Do me a favor," he says. "Run it by Mr. Polk, would you?"

Again I start to giggle. I can't help it; the guy cracks me up.

"What's the matter now?" he demands.

"You want Mr. Polk to know in advance what you're going to say about him after he's dead."

"That's correct."

I cannot make young Race comprehend why this is so funny, because he doesn't know that I know why he's sucking up to the old man. So, let's play it out ...

"Mr. Maggad, you needn't worry. I'm sure he'd be very moved by your pre-posthumous tribute."

"Show him the damn quote anyway."

"While he's alert enough to appreciate it."

"Exactly." Race Maggad III checks his wristwatch, which clearly cost more than my car. Now he's up again, striding briskly out of Abkazion's office. I'm hard on his heels. "Tell Amy," he grumbles over his shoulder, "I want a copy of Mac Polk's obituary faxed to me the day you finish it."

"It's Emma,and you'll have to kill me first." Young Race and I draw a flurry of glances as we stride past the city desk—it's all he can do to keep from breaking into a trot. When we reach the elevators, he literally punches the Down button. I wait beside him with a companionable air—I'm heading for the cafeteria. I could sure go for a candy bar.

"You don't worry me," snarls the chairman and chief executive officer of Maggad-Feist Publishing Group. "You're a gnat on the radar screen."

"On the windshield, you mean," I say helpfully. "On a radar screen I would be a 'blip.' "

"Fuck you."

It's been mildly interesting, getting to know the dapper young publishing scion. Miserably he pokes again at the elevator button. When the door finally opens, he bolts inside. Quick as a bunny, I join him.

"You know what my career goal is, Master Race?"

"Get away from me."

"My goal is to work at this newspaper long enough to write yourobituary. Wouldn't that be something?"

17

From the Rolling Stoneinterview with Jimmy Stoma, dated September 20, 1991:

RS: Are you happy with the way Stomatoseturned out?

JS: Oh, yeah. The more I listen to it, the creamier it gets.

RS: Some of the cuts sound a lot like the Slut Puppies. "All Humped Out," for example, blows the doors down—

JS: Sure, because I had Jay on grand piano and Tito on bass. Even though it's a solo album I'm not gonna turn my back on the band. We still make great fucking music together and I'd be a jackass not to take advantage of that chemistry on my own projects. I just don't want to tour as a group anymore. No way.

RS: Do you have a favorite cut on the new album?

JS: No, I dig 'em all.

RS: Oh, come on. "Derelict Sea" is a cool number, and very different from anything you did with the Slut Puppies.

JS (laughing): Okay, you busted me. That one is definitely at the top of the list.

RS: What inspired you to try the acoustic?

JS: Hey, Ilove acoustic. Always did. And I love to sing without screamin' at the top of my frigging lungs, but when you're up onstage with not one buttwo bass guitars, you've gotta howl like a witch.

RS: Do you plan on writing more songs like that?

JS: For sure. My next project is a whole folk-rock kind of thing–not all acoustic but thematic, you know, where the pieces weave together into a story. Maybe it'll even be a double album, only this time I'm gonna produce it myself.

RS: All right, what's your leastfavorite cut on Stomatose?

JS (shaking his head): Nuh-uh. I ain't fallin'for that.

RS: Don't wimp out on us now. Even Lennon didn't like every song he wrote.

JS: The only track that sort of got away from me was "Momma's Marinated Monkfish." A bit too much partying, I'm afraid. The original idea was this real sophisticated, Phil Spector kind of mix. You know, overdub the piss out of the guitars and the keyboards. But somehow it ended up as some ungodly hypermetal ... headache.

RS: Twelve and a half fun-filled minutes. JS: Yeah, and I don't even remember laying down the vocals, I was so bent.

I'm summoned by Juan to the Sports department, where he hunches like a safecracker over his PC.

"I got that external hard drive hooked up," he says, "but I can't read what's on it. I don't have the software." He taps a finger on the screen. "The best I can come up with is a directory, but take a look."

It's line after line of coded abbreviations, beginning with:

V7oyst10.all

B17oyst10.copy

BV22oyst7

LEADoyst.all

G1deal22

G2deal22.all

ALT.Vtitle22 ...

"Computer lingo?" I ask.

"Nope. Abbreviated file names that were keypunched in by whoever was running the program."

"What kind of files?"

"I don't know, but they're massive," Juan says. "The whole thing is, like, 400-plus megabytes. That's got to be more than text, Jack, to eat up so much memory. I'm guessing there's audio or video on here."

"Where can we get the software?"

Juan looks up ruefully from the screen. "Man, I can't even identifythe software."

"Oh swell."

"But I know who can."

"Juan, I can't afford a hacker." It will be a miracle if I pay off the Bahamas trip by Christmas.

"He's not a hacker, he's just a whiz kid. And this isn't hacking. Hacking is when you go online—"

"Point is, I can't pay your man anything right now. I'm broke and Emma's got no expense money for the Death page. Her whole budget is basically me."

Juan rocks back and laughs. "The guy I use is twelve years old. Usually I just give him a couple of passes to a ball game."

"Twelve years old."

"Yep. And his room looks like the NASA command center."

"When I was twelve, I could barely change the tire on my bicycle."

"I'll drop the hard drive off with him later," Juan says, "before his bedtime."

"Thanks. And I promise never to disturb you again on a date night."

"No problema."Juan glances around to make sure we can't be overheard. "Was Emma freaked by Miriam being there?"