"Do you know who they were?"

"Naw," Tito says, "but here's what: They knew me.Called me by name. 'We gonna kill you, Tito,' they kept saying in Spanish—these were Mexicans. Local wets, by the accent. And I believe they did mean to kill me, too, and make it look like a robbery."

"What do you think they were after?"

Tito grunts as he reaches for the call button. "I need another shot. Maybe three. You in a hurry?"

Briskly I step outside as a beetle-browed nurse prepares to re-medicate the wounded musician, cleanse his wounds and change his dressing. A stroll around the floor yields no glimpses of other bedridden celebs, though a detour to the vending machines leads to a casual chat with an orderly who claims once to have swiped a bedpan from beneath Robert Mitchum. "I sold it for seventy-five bucks to a memorabilia shop on Sunset," he says matter-of-factly.

No such market exists, I suspect, for Tito Negraponte's used personal effects. The databases I'd scanned yielded only meager biographical material. He was born in Guadalajara and as a teenager made his way first to San Diego and then to Los Angeles, where he bounced between rock and Latin jazz in a series of obscure groups. In a 1985 interview, Jimmy Stoma said he recruited Tito after seeing him play drums with a bilingual punk band called Canker. Jimmy tore through drummers like barbiturates, but he liked Tito's furtive smoky presence onstage so he kept him on as a second bass man. "You can never have too much bass," Jimmy explained to the San Francisco Chronicle.

Although Tito was the eldest of the original Slut Puppies by ten years, the press clippings indicated he had no trouble keeping pace, socially or pharmaceutically, with the other band members. Three drug arrests and an equal number of paternity suits put his name in the entertainment columns, as did his gloating arrival at the Grammys with the freakishly bosomy wife of the same record-company executive who'd originally rejected "Mouthful of Muscle," the Slut Puppies' breakthrough single. After Jimmy disbanded the band in the late eighties, Tito formed his own group called Montezuma, which opened exactly once for Carlos Santana. A CD featuring a peppy Spanish version of "Hey Joe" was never released.

The most recent mention of Tito Negraponte in print occurred a few years back, when the Boston Phoenixasked several heavy-metal guitarists for capsule reviews of the classic rock satire, This Is Spinal Tap.Tito said that while he enjoyed the movie, its verisimilitude would have been enhanced "if the bass player had got more pussy."

The article said Tito was keeping busy doing studio work for solo artists. I don't know what he's been up to lately, but this interview should earn him more ink than he's seen in a decade—providing I can steer him through ten minutes of semi-linear thought. Upon returning to the hospital room, I see that the nurse has turned him over to face the window. I drag a chair into his fuzzy vision and sit myself down. Tito is drifting like a feather in the thermals, but I can't sit here and wait for him to float back to earth. This might be my only chance; a relative or girlfriend could show up any moment to chase me off.

Firmly I put a hand on his shoulder. "Remember I told you about the computer hard drive we found on Jimmy's boat?"

His eyelids flutter. "The master."

"Right. That's what everybody's after, isn't it?"

Tito coughs out a laugh. "Not everybody, man. Not MCA or Virgin or Arista. Just the vicious bitch Jimmy was married to," he says. "She thought I had a copy but I don't. I told her but she didn't believe me."

"That was Saturday night at the club."

"Yeah. I hooked up with some Brazilian chick at the funeral, so I hung around Miami for a few days. Then my manager called and said Cleo was tryin' to reach me about a gig, and would I meet her up in Silver Beach." Again Tito's eyelids droop to half-staff. Licking at his gray lips, he adds, "She ain't the quickest fox in the forest, that girl. I didn't play a lick on those Bahamas sessions, man, not one note. I didn't know what the hell she was talkin' about ... "

As Tito slides into dreamland, I'm scribbling down his quotes, trying not to lose a single phrase. The fact he was able to say "quickest fox in the forest" is impressive, considering his current dosage levels. The same beetle-browed nurse returns with a plump, fresh IV bag. She frowns at the notebook. I smile innocently, but my remaining time here can now be measured in minutes. As soon as she leaves, I nudge Tito awake. "What does Cleo want with the master? Did she say?"

He snorts groggily. "Stupid twat. She shot the wrong bass player. You believe that?"

"Then who was playing with Jimmy in the Bahamas?"

"That'd be Danny." Meaning Danny Gitt, the former leadbass guitarist for the Slut Puppies.

"Where is he now?" I ask.

"On a big jet plane, don't you worry. Jimmy's wife'll never find him."

"Why didn't you tell this to the cops?"

"That's very funny. Christ, I'm thirsty again."

Dutifully I fetch the plastic pitcher and pour more water for Tito. He levers himself to one elbow and takes a long noisy guzzle. "The cops, they think those two Mexicans came to my place lookin' for dope. If I told 'em they was hired by a pop singer tryin' to rip off her dead husband, well ... " Tito keels back on the pillows. "They'd never believe it."

I ask him when was the last time he saw Jimmy Stoma. He says four or five months ago.

"Did he talk to you about the solo project?"

"I think he felt weird 'cause he hired Danny instead of me. So all we talked about was fish."

Wincing, Tito repositions himself on the bed. "You wouldn't think it could hurt so much, gettin' popped in the butt cheeks. Fucked me up bad."

He's fading again and I still haven't pried the answer out of him—depressing evidence that my interviewing skills have waned. In the old days somebody loaded on this much hospital-grade narcotics would have been a pushover. By now I'd have had him confessing to the JFK assassination.

"Tito, wake up. Why does Cleo want Jimmy's master recording? I can't figure it out."

"She doesn't want the whole thing," he says irritably. "There's one cut she's hot for, and the rest she couldn't give two shits about."

I assume he's talking about "Cindy's Oyster," but when I try the title on Tito he says it doesn't ring a bell. However, Tito's bell is made of Jell-O at the moment.

"Naw, that ain't the song," he insists. "This is one she wants for her own record. She said Jimmy promised to give it to her, but that ain't what Danny told me. He said it was gonna be on Jimmy's own album. His comeback single, he said."

"Come on, Tito. Try to remember the name of the cut."

"Back off, guy ... "

"The long-haired kid at the club with Cleo," I say, "you remember him?"

But Tito is distracted by a stab of pain that causes him to twist around and glower at the door. "Where'd Nurse Wretched go? I believe she shot me up with sugar water."

"Loreal," I press onward, "that's what he calls himself."

"Aw, he's just some junior jerkoff with a Pro Tools setup. His job is to lay Cleo's vocals over Jimmy's guitar, once they lift it off the master. That's my read."

I can't help but notice that Tito has begun to bleat intermittently, like a baby goat. "Think hard," I encourage him. "This is important."

"Know what? This gettin'-shot shit is strictly for the youngbloods. I'm fifty motherfuckin' years old."

"Count your blessings. Steve McQueen checked out at fifty." I am powerless to edit myself.

"That was cigarettes," Tito snaps. "I quit the cigarettes." He curses under his breath. "What's the name of the wife's album again? She told me but I forgot."

"It's going to be called Shipwrecked Heart."