The Man Who Cancelled Himself (45 page)

In many ways, Forty-second Street is not what it once was. There is much less of it than there used to be, thanks to a vast, stalled urban redevelopment project that has left a lot of the porn theaters and hooker hotels boarded up. The hot-sheets trade has moved to places like Queens Boulevard and Jersey City, where rents are cheaper. A lot of the movie houses have simply succumbed, casualties of the home video revolution. Frankly, the whole place has about as much life now as downtown Hartford on a Saturday night. Yet in many ways, Forty-second Street hasn’t changed one bit. It’s still the best place in the city to buy an out-of-town newspaper, a hash pipe, a Spiro Agnew Halloween mask, a specimen of plastic vomit, or a deck of playing cards featuring photographs of men and women having sex with a variety of farm animals. And there are still some peep shows and topless bars and X-rated movies to be found there. The Deuce, for instance, was showing
When Harry Ate Sally.
Glamorous, full-color marquee photos were plastered everywhere. Plenty of seating room. Step right up, gentlemen … Okay, so, it’s not Sutton Place. It’s dirty. But no dirtier than many neighborhoods, and cleaner than some. Mostly, it just seemed kind of tired and harmless to me as I walked along. Of course, it was two in the afternoon, and I wasn’t looking to buy anything or anyone. I didn’t even know what I was doing there. I didn’t see anything, or anyone I knew—other than that same old bag lady who sits on the sidewalk out in front of Herman’s, feverishly scribbling incoherent gibberish on a long yellow legal pad with a pen. She has long silver hair, very dirty, and she’s been writing away for as many years as I can remember. As I stood there looking at her the same thing occurred to me that always occurred to me: I was no different than she was. Just blessed with a bit more clarity. On a sporadic basis. I bent over and gave her ten dollars. Then I went back to the studio.

Fiona’s dressing room was sealed now. Her body had been taken away. A fresh plainclothesman was parked outside of The Boys’ office. Inside, Lyle was huddled with Muck and Meyer, The Kids, and Katrina. They were quite up, a party atmosphere. There was laughter all around. Pizza, too, although Lyle wasn’t having any under Katrina’s watchful eye.

“Hey, there ya are, Hoagster!” Lyle called to me brightly, all twinkling blue eyes and jack-o’-lantern grin. Yet another complete mood swing. I was used to them now. They were the norm. “We’re putting together a tribute show for Fiona.”

“Nice idea.”

“Thanks, I thought of it myself,” he boasted.

Marty coughed. Tommy let out a short, rude laugh. Lyle frowned at them, astonished and hurt. Clearly, he had convinced himself that the tribute
was
his own idea, not Marty’s. This was also the norm.

“Gang’s all with me on it,” he went on, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “We’re putting together a list of her funniest bits. The hardest part’s narrowing it down.”

Marty read from his list. “So far we’ve got the flu show, the sleepwalking show, the mouse-in-the-house show, the big-toe-stuck-in-the-bathtub-faucet show …”

“I’m gonna introduce each clip personally,” Lyle asserted. “Just me talking directly to the camera, reminiscing about Fiona and how much she meant to me. To all of us. We’re gonna tape it this afternoon. No audience. Just our people.”

“I’m, like, wouldn’t it be sweet if The Munchkins introduced one of the bits?” suggested Annabelle.

“Nice touch,” Lyle admitted grudgingly.

“How about the show w-when Rusty ate the cordless phone and it k-kept beeping?” sputtered Bobby.

“Perfect!” exclaimed Lyle. “Only let’s not invite Rusty. I hate that flea-infested mutt.”

“Gee, he says such nice things about you, Lyle,” cracked Tommy.

“Where are The Munchkins at this very minute?” asked Lyle.

“On their way home to Long Island,” Annabelle replied. “But Amber has a phone in the Range Rover.”

“Have Leo call ’em and drag ’em straight back here,” Lyle ordered Katrina.

“Yes, Lyle,” she said obediently.

“And get the crew in. I wanna start filming my intros right away. While my emotions are still raw.” Lyle turned back to me. “Wanna sit in on this?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got some work to do on the book. Have you spoken to God yet about Fiona’s death?”

“His plane’s still in the air. Guarantee ya he’ll come right back on the very next flight. He loved Fiona.”

“Gee, you’d think God could just order them to turn the plane right around in midair,” observed Tommy drily.

“It’s a commercial flight,” said Katrina, curling her lip at him.

Tommy: “You’d think God would have his own plane.”

Marty: “You’d think God wouldn’t
need
a plane.”

“Better.” Tommy nodded.

“Would you two guys shut up?” Katrina cried.

“Y’know what?” said Lyle. “I don’t care if the fucking network even uses this tribute. I need to do it. And if they don’t wanna pay for it, that’s cool, too. We’ll throw ourselves a giant party and we’ll play it for everybody,” he declared, with mounting defiance. “We’re doing it for ourselves anyway. It’s for
us,
not for the public, not for God. Fuck God! Ya hear me? Fuck God!”

He wasn’t struck by lightning at that exact moment, but there was a huge clap of thunder outside the studio. Shook the whole building. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.

I went to my office and took off my jacket and shut the door. Just me and the lobsters. I sat at my desk, chin on my fists, my mind working overtime. Wondering, wondering. Did I have the key. What
was
the key? What did I know that had almost cost me my life, and had certainly cost Fiona Shrike hers? I sat there, turning all of it over … the Deuce Theater, the bombing, the chili, Chad, Fiona … It had to be there. That nugget of information that would somehow make all of it clear. It had to be there. But where was it? I didn’t know. I couldn’t find it. I just couldn’t find it. A pry bar. That’s what Very said he needed. A pry bar to wedge this thing open. But what kind of pry bar? And who to use it on? I sat there, wondering, wondering.

Until, bleary eyed, I got up and went to the john. Not Lyle’s, mind you. I used the men’s room outside the main office on the second-floor landing. It was disgusting in there. Wadded paper towels and cigarette butts scattered about, sinks filthy, rancid puddles on the floor before the urinals. And it smelled nothing like lavender, trust me. I splashed some cold water on my face and dried it with my linen handkerchief. There were no clean paper towels left. I ran a comb through what was left of my hair. None of this woke me up. Or stopped me from wondering.

I paused to look out the landing windows a moment before I went back inside the office. It had turned dark and nasty out. Lightning crackled. Thunder rumbled. Rain began to spatter lightly against the sooty windows, smearing the grimy glass so that I could barely make out the trash cans and duct-work down below in the air shaft. Then the lightning lit up the sky directly overhead, and this time I saw something. Something that explained a lot. Everything, in fact. Because suddenly it was terribly clear to me. All of it. So clear I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me before. But it was also sealed tight. No cracks. I needed a crack. As I stood there, watching the spatters of wet on the glass turn to sheets of warm, dirty rain, I realized that I had that crack. It was there. Had been all along. What I had to do now was drive a wedge into it—pry it open, nice and easy.

Only I was going to have to work fast.

When the tap on my door came, I took a deep breath and said, “Come in,” and she did.

She was rushed. “What is it you wanted, Hoagy?” she asked, clutching a clipboard.

“Getting busy out on the floor?”

“Real busy. Crew’s all here. Sound, lighting. We’re going to start rolling in a few minutes. What’s so important?”

“Close the door, Katrina.”

She did. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail now, and her glasses nestled on top of her head. “Okay, but Lyle’s going to freak if I’m gone for long.”

“This won’t take long.” I stood up and took her clipboard from her and put it on the desk. I took her hot hands in mine. “I wasn’t being totally straight with you before, Katrina.”

“About what, Hoagy?” Anxiousness crept into her cotton candy voice.

“About Lyle and Naomi. I told you I didn’t want to get involved because it’s not part of my job description. And that’s not the real reason.”

She edged closer to me, squeezing my hands tightly. “What is?”

“I can’t stand how he hurts you.”

“What do you care if he hurts me?” she whispered, moistening her lips with her tongue.

“I care,” I replied, “because I care about you. A lot. There it is—I’ve said it. It’s out in the open, okay?”

She let out a squeal and jumped right into my arms, practically knocking me over. She was a big, healthy girl. “Okay!” she cried, squeezing me tightly, her zoomers squashed up against my chest. “Oh, God, Hoagy, I like you so much,” she said rapidly and breathlessly. “Ever since that first day at the beach. I knew it right away. I
felt
it.” Her mouth was on mine now, hers a blast furnace. “You felt it, too, didn’t you?”

“I felt it, too.”

“You’re out there, just like me.”

“I’m out there, all right.”

She thrust her hips against mine, her pelvis grinding away. “Oh, God. You’re so sensitive. Not like him. He’s so self-centered and cruel. He hit me. He hurt me. You, you’re a real feelings specialist.”

“I am a feelings specialist. I don’t know how real I am.” This was me trying to rein her in. But it was no use. She was faster than a speeding bullet. More powerful than a locomotive …

She took my hands and guided them up under her
bustier
to her corn-fed assets. “Oh, yesss …” Her nipples did not honk when I squeezed them. But they did perk right up. And she did start to moan. Rather loudly, I might add. “Yesss …” Her eyes were shut, her head heavy on her neck. “We can have something special, Hoagy. I can make you feel so
goood.”

“I don’t think anyone can do that. But it’s sweet of you to say so.”

She gasped with delight.
“Sweet.
Nobody’s ever called me that before.”

“Nobody’s ever known you before,” I said, cringing inwardly. Because this made it official—bad, insincere dialogue had now crept into my life. I used to be able to contain it to my art. “But I have to know something first, Katrina. Something you alone can tell me.”

“Anything, darling,” she vowed. “Anything.”

“Will you be totally candid with me?”

“Of course I will.” She frowned at me. “Why, what’s this all about?”

“It’s about the two blockbusters and the three-alarm chili. It’s about Chad and Fiona.”

She gave me my hands back and tugged her
bustier
back down with huffy propriety. “I had nothing to do with any of that.”

“I’d like to believe you, Katrina. I really would. Trust is so important.”

She softened. “Trust is everything between two people,” she agreed. “Without trust you’re nowhere. Only, I didn’t do anything, Hoagy. I swear.”

“But you do know something.”

She gazed at me, bewildered. “I do?”

“I think so.”

“What is it, Hoagy? Ask me anything. Go ahead and ask me.”

I went ahead and asked her. I had to kiss her once or twice to get it out of her, and say a few more things to her I won’t bother to repeat here, or you’ll think even less of me. But I got what I needed. I felt shitty about it, but I got it. And that’s all that matters, isn’t it?

Well, isn’t it?

Then she had to get back before Lyle missed her and started freaking out. And I had to make two phone calls, one of them to Very. I told him to get over there right away. And then, my pry bar in hand, I joined Lyle and the
Uncle Chubby
gang out on the floor of the studio.

T
HE CONTROL BOOTH WAS
hopping. Lyle’s grizzled old assistant director, Sam, was parked at the console frantically barking orders into his headset. Same with the technical coordinator, sound man, and lighting man, who were seated alongside him, performing last-minute checks and repositioning their troops and hardware out on the floor. Leo sat behind them in the second row with a stopwatch, a fistful of pencils, and a logbook, ready to mark down shots. Naomi sat on one side of her, ready to assist as needed. Katrina sat on the other side, ready to be an executive as needed. Katrina glowed at me as I came in. Leo glowered. In the back row, Marjorie, who was strictly there to observe, glanced at me, then glanced away, her expression stony.

Lyle wasn’t in there, but he was still a dominant presence. His round, pink face filled all four monitor screens on the wall before us. Four different cameras capturing him from four different angles as he sat on the living room set in Chubby’s familiar easy chair, chatting with his stage manager, Phil, while he waited for the word that everyone was ready. He was all made up and in costume. Wore the Uncle Chubby sweater over a soiled-looking sweatshirt and baggy khakis.

The writers and everyone else were out in the bleachers, watching. Lyle’s plainclothesman was out there, too.

I sat in the back next to Marjorie. “Have you spoken to Godfrey?”

She looked at me a long time, searchingly, before she nodded, making a steeple of her long, slender fingers. “He was deeply upset. He has a big affiliates’ meeting in San Diego this evening, but he intends to fly back here directly afterward, on the red-eye.”

“Any idea what he intends to do?”

She smiled faintly. “I’m out of the loop, remember?”

“There are worse places to be.”

“Are there?”

“Trust me—there are.” I turned and watched Lyle up on the monitors, aware that she was staring at me, her green eyes shimmering in the booth lights. When I looked back at her, she hurriedly looked away.

Sam flicked the P.A. switch. “Okay, Lyle. Whenever you’re ready.”

Lyle cleared his throat and settled himself in the chair. His jaw became slacker, his expression a bit more dim-witted and sheepish. Shoulders softened. Chin melted down into his neck. He was
becoming
Uncle Chubby. A different person. The transformation was startling. It always is with actors.