***
What my next call lacked in the heartwarming phoning-home department, it made up for in the stroke of good fortune division. So much so, I held a brief notion to go online to purchase an Irish National Lottery ticket.
"Von dek Horn, you inimitable bastard! Unique you are!" The familiar and friendly voice sounded as though it originated from the inside of a can of freshly sealed peanuts.
"Hello, Joe," I parroted an identical height of cheer and goodwill. "Thank you for answering directly and on the first ring, too." Typically, as nice a guy as Joe Kose was, at times his insular position made him exceedingly difficult to contact. To reach him so promptly suggested a certain degree of divine intervention transmitting through the airwaves. "I'm terribly sorry to intrude upon your day."
"Baron, if I've said this once I've said it maybe four times in my life, you're never a pest! Not to me, not to my company!" He broke into a string of uninterrupted laughter, which left me smiling and feeling upbeat again under the hot morning sun. "Say, when're you going to shelve all that local stage drama crapola, anyway? I'm telling you, Baron, the minute you crack a smile on your gorgeous mug, a new comedian will be born for the screen. You'll be bigger than big, y'hear?"
Mistakenly, I digressed, as I often do with such Hollywood types. "Well, actually, I have taken on another role I believe will be the perfect challenge for my --"
"Hogwash, balderdash and bird droppings, son! If you're not drawing a laugh, you're not breathing correctly. When are you gonna listen to me? I'm giving you not only the best career advice you'll receive, but the opportunity to put it in practice. Come on, boy, do me a favor! You're making Uncle Joe look bad!"
The 'uncle' reference was Joe's droll way of portraying himself as seasoned and wise. In truth, he was perhaps fifteen years my junior and had earned his directorial chops at the youthful age of twenty, when he scored both a Golden Globe and Oscar for his debut film The Single Svengali, a new-age vampire satire. The spoof had spawned a booming franchise, christening Joe Kose the boy-king of blockbuster comedies. He was, according to recent insider reports, currently scripting the fourth installment of the series, entitled The Quadruple Svengali.
"Perhaps we could exchange courtesies then, Joe. If you would help me out of my bind, I'll be happy to screen test for you at some point in the future, yes?"
Joe had an obsession with my great uncle, Wark von dek Horn. Uncle Wark worked as an entertainer in the early twentieth century, starting out as an ax-juggler on the vaudeville stage before refining his act into one of the first successful standup comedy routines to tour the country. It was said his skit portraying then-President William Howard Taft as a health-conscience short-order cook revolutionized political satire: "Keep it on the backburner, goddammit!" became an accepted national idiom as a result of Uncle Wark's groundbreaking work.
After a lengthy and popular engagement at the old Belasco Theatre in Los Angeles, Uncle Wark was drawn into the realm of the burgeoning movie industry. There he influenced the work of Chaplin, Lloyd, Keaton and -- not so much -- Arbuckle, spearheading the transition from silent films to talkies with such classics as Your Pen, My Nostril and Noodles at Noon. His final film, Eve's Rib is Missing, Too, was released on December 6, 1941. A day later, Uncle Wark announced his immediate retirement from the industry, stating there was no longer anything funny about the world. He lived out the remainder of his days in seclusion and obscurity at his Bel Air estate, leaving there only to summer at Tumultuous Manor. Joe's fixation with Uncle Wark -- whom he considered an unrivaled genius -- was the force behind his continual contact with me. In the creative prism of film which only he could envision, Joe Kose was determined to resurrect Uncle Wark through me. Sinfully, I was about to exploit this relationship as necessary.
"You've got a deal, Baron! Pump your phone up and down and consider this our handshake. Now, what is it I need to do to get you on the big screen?"
I cleared my throat and struck a calm pace in presenting my dilemma. "I'm stranded in Acapulco right now and could use a lift to L.A., actually. Also, I was hoping you might be able to put me up for a night or two when there. Finally, would it be possible to borrow your best security man for a bit of research?"
"Yeah, yeah. Hang on a tick, Bee."
The line went cold and my heart sank into a molten vat of believing my planned itinerary too aggressive to pull off. I was certain Bridgework would have every entrance at the Acapulco airport under surveillance. The chances of being discovered before having the opportunity to purchase a ticket out of town added to the present set of complications. Private transportation via Joe was my only hope.
I could manage to slip through security to board the Kose jet, reach Los Angeles before the Gangrene and set a snare for Bridgework. Once the unpredictable financier was secured, I would contact Sondheim for a handoff meeting, then quite possibly -- against all odds -- end this adventure in SoCal and yet enjoy the remainder of summer at Tumultuous Manor.
Come back on the line, Joe!
I watched from a distance as Jack hugged the mother of his children before walking over to the dilapidated outbuilding serving as his garage. He stood before the open doorway and motioned it was time to leave the peaceful compound, square up with him and enter the fray of living on my own once again.
"Beestinger, Uncle Joe again. You still there?"
"Indeed," I replied, my circulatory system hummed like a smooth flowing freeway at rush hour, "indeed, I am."
"The gods must be smiling on us, then. We just lifted off from Montego Bay --"
"You can't be serious! I was there just a few days ago myself."
"Yeah, yeah. I spent the past four days in Port Antonio playing poker with Johnny, Charlie and Tampa," he said, employing the refined deftness of one well-practiced in the art of simultaneous name and place dropping. Another string of laughter unfurled. "Tampa took the big jackpot. He won a starring role in one of my next productions. Maybe opposite you, Baron, my man!"
"It's something to contemplate. Now, about my predicament --"
"I spoke with the pilot. We're altering our flight plan and will land in Acapulco in three hours. We've got forty minutes on the ground, friend, to refuel and be on our way. In that time, find your way to the jet. It's got the Kose Production logo on it, parked in the VIP section. Got it? We'll get you onboard from there. No second takes, hear?"
"My gratitude, Joe. Rest assured, I'll make the gate." I would recognize his jet, too, as the only Lear with the Kose leer applied to its nose. From behind me came the rumble of uninhibited exhaust burping in the wind. "My ride's up, Joe. I owe you one."
"That's what I want to hear. A Simpatico of the Circus redux will clear the bill with me, okay? Front row stuff, right? Ciao, Bee-man."
I winced at the mention of the old movie series and of all the hundreds of roles Uncle Wark took on, his least favorite character. Simpatico was a crime-solving clown traveling the countryside with a circus troupe, The Two-Ring Ding-A-Ling Ching-Ka-Ching Big Top. Child-friendly, benevolent and asexual, Simpatico's popularity soared among family theatergoers in the mid-1930s as he successfully curtailed community lawbreaking while transforming the surrounding vicinal into serene utopian neighborhoods so much in demand at the time. To his credit, Uncle Wark insisted on realistic storylines that found Simpatico breaking up a major marijuana smuggling syndicate [Cuff That Puff, 1931], uncovering child employment infractions at a rural orphanage [Induced Labor, 1933] and mortgage foreclosure high jinks in the Dust Bowl [Juggle My Balls, Mr. Banker, 1934].
How easily I could bring Simpatico to life after rendering Barrymore and Rathbone at the edge of the footlights!
Jack wheeled a vintage Indian Chief motorcycle, painted flaming red, with its canoe-shaped sidecar to within feet of me on the beach. "Skeet. Your bill is ready."
"Somehow," I said, picking up my battered rucksack from the seat before fitting one leg into the cramped cockpit and pulling my porkpie down tight, "I have a feeling yours wi
ll be easier to pay than that due Joe Kose."
"Joe Kose?" Jack cocked his head quizzically, spitting a shot of tobacco juice into the sand while gunning the engine. "That guy should make a good movie someday, yes?"
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 27
