ClownFellas (24 page)

Buggy knew he shouldn't have put all his hopes into a single idea for a show, but he couldn't help it. It was the only idea he could come up with that had even a slight chance of success. He had no choice but to make it happen. But after three days, there was no progress. Bobby Goldstein was alive and still living in New York City, but he wasn't returning Buggy's phone calls. By the fourth day, Buggy got a sneaking suspicion that the old comedian was purposely avoiding his calls.

“That son of a bitch,” Buggy yelled, slamming his phone down on the receiver. “How many freaking messages do I have to leave until he calls me back?”

By the next morning, Buggy was done with trying to contact him by phone.

“Come on, Mittens. We're going to pay Mr. Funnyman a visit whether he wants to see us or not.”

“Erfff…,” Mittens said.

Buggy wheeled his bulldog down to his car and drove across town. He planned to offer Mr. Goldstein a large sum of money to do the show. There was no way he would refuse. All he needed to do was meet with him in person and he was sure he'd be able to book Goldstein. Then he could move on to promotion and selling tickets.

Before he made it out of Little Bigtop, Buggy saw a street clown on the corner, slinging jokes to tourists.

“Are you kidding me?” Buggy yelled when he saw the young clown, slamming on the brakes.

He stepped out of the car, leaving it running with the driver's door open in the middle of the intersection.

“What the heck do you think you're doing?” Buggy charged to the corner, pointing at him with his fat greasy finger.

The street clown didn't make eye contact with Buggy as he tried to finish the joke he was telling to the two young tourists holding a wad of cash. It was a young couple who smiled in anticipation of the punch line.

“Hey punk, I'm talking to you,” Buggy said as he arrived to the clown, getting between him and his audience. “What are doing on my street corner?”

The young couple backed away. They could see the angry clown clenching his fists at the young comedian and didn't want to get involved.

“I'm just selling jokes,” the street clown said. “You want to buy a joke?”

“No I don't want to buy your shitty jokes.”

The young clown smirked. “Are you a cop or something?”

“No, I'm not a cop.”

“Then get lost,” the kid said, turning back to the couple.

But Buggy wouldn't let it go. He grabbed the guy by his coat.

“What I want to know is why you're selling jokes on my turf, you little prick. You think you can do that in my territory?”

The clown just giggled at Buggy's angry display. He was obviously high on laughy-gas.

“Your territory?”

“Yeah, my territory. You know what happens to punks like you who sling jokes in my territory?”

A line of cars backed up behind Buggy's vacant vehicle honked their horns, yelling at the clown to move out of the way. When the young couple noticed the crowd that was gathering, they turned and rushed off.

“You just lost me those customers, asshole,” the street clown said.

“They're not your customers. They're
my
customers.”

Then the street clown head-butted Buggy right in his round nose. Blood painted the sidewalk as the young clown backed away.

“They're not your customers anymore, asshole,” the kid said before he ran away, leaving Buggy holding his broken nose.

As blood covered his hand and chest, Buggy grumbled and moaned. “You damn prick. You're dead. Your whole family's dead. Do you have any idea who I am?”

But the young clown was already gone. Buggy staggered back into his car, flipped off the people honking at him, and sped off. He couldn't believe the kid would disrespect him like that. A capo in the Bozo Family? That shouldn't happen. It had been a while since he'd had to muscle out a street clown like that. Normally, he had younger guys to take care of that for him, but too many of them were currently behind bars. And those who weren't behind bars were complete fuckups. He never thought he'd see the day when a lowly street punk got the best of him. In the old days, he just would have shot the kid. He wondered what the heck made him so soft.

“Erff…,” Mittens said.

Buggy looked over at the bulldog and stroked him behind the ear with the non-bloody part of his hand.

“It's okay, Mittens. We'll show 'em. We'll show all of 'em.”

The bulldog just burped at him in response, releasing an odor that smelled of Buggy's new slippers. Then Mittens rolled over and went back to sleep.

“Can I help you?” Bobby Goldstein asked when he saw the clown standing outside his apartment doorway with two pieces of bloody toilet paper sticking out of his nostrils.

“You Bobby Goldstein?” Buggy asked.

“Yeah…,” the comedian said, leaving his mouth dangling open as he saw the bulldog hooked up to a life support machine behind Buggy.

“My name's Buttons. Why the hell haven't you been returning my phone calls? I've been calling all week.”

Then Buggy pushed his way through the door and entered the old guy's living room. “We've got to talk.”

Goldstein was probably in his late sixties or early seventies, wearing yellow pajamas with a toothbrush dangling out of his front pocket. It was obvious that he'd just recently woken up and couldn't tell whether he was fully conscious or still dreaming as the clown and the terminally ill bulldog invaded his living room and made themselves at home.

“Do you have any roast beef?” Buggy asked, stepping over to the refrigerator. “Mittens only likes roast beef.”

“I got some pastrami in there,” Goldstein said, still in a daze.

“That'll do,” Buggy said.

As he watched the clown raid his refrigerator and feed the bulldog slices of pastrami, Goldstein shook his head to regain his senses.

“Excuse me…,” the comedian said. “Who are you again? What do you want?”

Buggy brought Mittens to the living room couch and rested the mangy dog on a couch cushion.

“Like I said in all the messages I left you, I need you to do a favor for me.”

But the comedian was only half listening. He was too focused on the foul-smelling bulldog that was slobbering all over his furniture.

“Excuse me, but that's a new couch,” Goldstein said. “And pets aren't actually allowed here.”

“It's okay,” Buggy said. “He's an emotional support animal.”

Goldstein looked down at Mittens as the dog chewed on a throw pillow like a fluffy bone. When he saw that, the comedian's face went from perplexed to annoyed.

“So what do you want?”

Buggy let out a loud sigh. “I want to hire you for a show, Mr. Goldstein.”

“A show?” Goldstein asked. “Are you talking about a stand-up show?”

“Exactly,” Buggy said. “You were the best stand-up comic in your day. I want you to come out of retirement.”

Goldstein was shocked. “Me? Do comedy?” Then he shook his head. “No. No way. Comedy's illegal.”

“That's just a technicality, Mr. Goldstein. Just because a government makes something illegal doesn't mean it goes away. People
need
comedy. It's an important part of the human psyche.”

“Yeah, but I'm too old to do jail time,” Goldstein said. “You can forget it.”

“You'll get paid,” Buggy said.

“I don't care. It's not worth it.”

Buggy sighed and pulled out a briefcase from beneath Mitten's life support machine. He opened it to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

“Are you sure it's not worth it?” Buggy asked. “I think we can make a lot of money together.”

Goldstein paused for a second when he saw all the cash. But then he shook his head again. “Sorry. It's not worth the risk.”

“It's just one night,” Buggy said. “That's hardly a risk. I've got guys who've done shows several times a week for ten years who've never been caught.”

Goldstein wouldn't budge. “But I really don't need the money. I'm retired. I'm happy.”

Buggy stood up and looked the comedian in the eyes. “You don't understand, Mr. Goldstein. I'm not going to take no for an answer. If the money doesn't persuade you, then I'm going to have to find another method that will.”

“And what's that?”

“You have family, don't you?” Buggy asked, picking up a picture of the comedian's grandchildren off an end table. “It would be a pity if anything were to happen to them.”

“Good luck with that,” Goldstein said. “One of them committed suicide when he was a teenager and the other has been missing for eight years. Have fun tracking her down. I've dumped hundreds of thousands of dollars into private investigators with no results.”

“I'm sure there's other ways we can get you to agree, Mr. Goldstein. It would be a shame if your apartment were to catch fire while you were sleeping. Or if you took a spill down the stairwell while trying to escape. I assure you, a year or so in prison is nothing compared with being confined to a wheelchair for the rest of your life.”

Goldstein shrugged. “Threaten me all you want, but I'm not going to agree.”

Buggy tried to give the guy the most menacing look he could give him, but the comedian just wasn't threatened by the old clown. He wondered if it was the pieces of toilet paper sticking out of his nostrils or that his ferocious bulldog was connected to a life support machine and having trouble staying awake.

Buggy only had one weapon left. He had to appeal to the guy's ego. And if Buggy knew anything after working in the funny business for so many years he knew that comedians were completely driven by ego.

“Come on, Mr. Goldstein. Haven't you ever had the desire to perform one last time? People would kill to see you again. You were the king of comedy. You still
are
the king of comedy.”

Goldstein paused for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I don't know. It's been years…”

Buggy smiled. He already had the comedian second-guessing himself.

“You're a legend, Goldstein. You owe it to the world to perform again. People loved you. They never stopped loving you.”

Goldstein looked at the clown. Buggy could tell he wanted more than anything to be back on the stage. But the flicker lasted only a second before it disappeared from his eyes.

“Those days are over.” Goldstein walked to his front door and opened it for the clown, signifying for him to leave. “I'm sorry I can't be of help. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got things to do.”

Buggy picked up his bulldog off the couch and wheeled him out of the living room. Mittens still held a couch cushion in his jowls as they exited the comedian's apartment.

“Before I go I have one more question to ask you,” Buggy said.

Goldstein was at the end of his patience, but he decided to hear the clown out.

“How do you live with yourself?” Buggy asked.

Goldstein was thrown off by that question. “What do you mean?”

“You're Bobby Goldstein. You're the comedian who told the joke that got comedy outlawed. How do you live with yourself knowing that you're responsible for that?”

“It wasn't
my
fault comedy was outlawed. Some nut-job tried to assassinate the president and things spiraled out of control. That's like saying J. D. Salinger was responsible for John Lennon's murder.”

“Then why didn't you say that back then? You gave a public apology for telling that joke. You took the blame for what happened to the First Lady. You were in a position to stand up for comedy. You were in a position to fight. But what did you do? You conceded like a coward.”

“Hey, they
forced
me to make that public apology. What was I supposed to do? The president was shot. The First Lady was murdered. I would have looked like an asshole if I refused.”

Buggy rolled his yellow eyes. “Keep telling yourself that. The fact of the matter is that the government took away our First Amendment right to free speech and you were the man who could have been a voice of opposition. You could've been a hero. But you rolled over and let them take our rights away from us.”

Goldstein didn't say anything. Buggy's words were obviously thoughts the comedian had experienced himself a million times in the past.

“I'm not saying doing this show will make up for that,” Buggy said. “Nothing will make up for that. But do you really want to die knowing that you did absolutely nothing to fight against oppression? It's not too late to show them that Bobby Goldstein still has some fight left in him.”

With that, Buggy walked away and let the comedian stew in his thoughts. He really didn't believe in the words he said to Goldstein. Buggy was glad the Comedy Prohibition Act was passed. It made him a heck of a lot of money over the years. But laying the guilt on an ego-driven comedian like Goldstein was just the trick he needed to get him to perform. All he needed was to give him a couple of days and Goldstein would come begging to do the show. He probably wouldn't even care to get paid for it.

Two days passed, but there was no word from Bobby Goldstein. He didn't come begging to do the show.

“That son of a bitch,” Buggy yelled, flipping over his dining table and smashing his collection of bulldog-themed coffee mugs. “I'm going to kill him. I'm going to rip off his scrawny legs and beat him to death with them.”

Buggy looked like a mess. He wore a mustard-stained wife-beater shirt beneath a pair of purple suspenders. His hair was dreadlocked with sweat. He hadn't bathed in days. When he saw what he'd done to his coffee mug collection, he smashed it further with his size twenty shoes.

“Erff…,” Mittens said, upset over the crashing sounds that brought him out of his fourth afternoon nap.

Buggy turned to the two clowns sitting on the couch across from him. They were the only two men he had left who weren't behind bars at the moment—Winky Gagliano and Snuffy Sparkles. And they were the least capable of all his men. Snuffy ran the smallest, dingiest, least-attended comedy club in Bozo territory and Winky was the man responsible for keeping street comedians from slinging jokes in their territory—which he was lousy at. Both of them had crews of three men each, who were even bigger fuckups than they were.

Buggy turned to Winky—an ex-boxer with a crooked green nose and a winking tic. “I want you to go see Bobby Goldstein. He's doing this show whether he likes it or not. Use force if you have to. Show him we mean business.”

“You got it, skipper,” Winky said, punching his knuckles together.

“But don't rough him up too much. He's got a show to do.”

“Whatever you say.”

As Winky took the address and left the apartment, Buggy wondered if he was doing the right thing sending that clown after the comedian. Winky was trigger-happy and short-tempered. He liked roughing people up and he liked whacking them even more. Although he was only a lightweight during his boxing days and was mostly just used as a clown-shaped punching bag for training real boxers, he had an unrelenting passion for violence. It was possible that Goldstein would find himself with a bullet in his head if he resisted too much.

Buggy shouted, “And whatever you do, don't kill him.”

But Winky was already gone.

Then it was just Buggy and Snuffy Sparkles. Snuffy was a sniveling weasel of a clown. Nobody liked the guy. How the joker ever got made, Buggy had no idea. They called him Snuffy because he sniffled all the time. He was allergic to pretty much all pollen, all animal dander, and all sorts of food products. It seemed almost impossible for a person to be allergic to so much. Buggy figured most of it had to be psychological.

“Can you open a window or something?” Snuffy asked, holding a red-and-blue-checkered handkerchief over his droopy nose. “The dog hair is killing me.”

Buggy sneered at the runt. “No, I'm not fucking opening a window. It's raining out there. Mittens doesn't like the draft.”

“Erfff…,” Mittens said in agreement, licking his nose.

“But I seriously can't handle it, Buggy,” Snuffy said. “I have a serious condition. I could be hospitalized.”

“Deal with it,” Buggy said.

Snuffy sneezed glitter across the coffee table and into Mittens's face. The bulldog didn't seem to notice.

“You're going to be responsible for promoting this thing,” Buggy said. “I know promotion isn't your strong suit. If it was, you'd be able to get more than three people into your lousy club each night. But I don't have anyone else. You're going to have to promote this event and you're going to fill the venue. Don't screw it up.” The capo gave the clown an address book. “Take this. It's a list of my regular clients. Those are the most important people to promote this event to. If we get them interested, word will spread. After that, get your crew to spread the word on the street. You've got the most important job. If you fuck it up you're dead. You hear me?”

Snuffy nodded and sneezed more glitter into the air.

Buggy really wished he had somebody else to do Snuffy's job.
Anybody
else.