The Glory Bus

by Richard Laymon

  Norman jumped in. ‘Norman. Call me Norman.’

  ‘Welcome aboard, Norman.’ The guy who played the evil Doctor Pearman smiled. He looked like such a warm and friendly guy. Nothing like his screen persona.

  Norman smiled back and hello’d and hi’d his way round the group. Shook hands. The redheaded woman held his hand longer than the rest and fixed him with her green-eyed gaze as she greeted him.

  Darren said, ‘Norman. Give me a hand with these burgers, won’t you? They’re just about done.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Plates are there on the shelf under the table.’

  ‘Got them.’

  ‘If I pile the burgers onto the plate you can hand them to Gillian over there, although you’ll know her better as Nurse Lowe. She’s been slicing tomato and cheese for the buns.’

  ‘Great.’ Norman was in awe.

  Here I am, mingling with the famous beneath open skies. It’s like a Hollywood party.

  Evil Doctor Pearman handed him a bottle of beer. Gee, he really is a nice guy.

  Not like his on-screen character who blocked IV tubes or deliberately withheld anesthetic during surgery, so that the patient woke up screaming with their guts spilling out of their stomachs.

  In real life this guy wouldn’t tread on an ant. Never mind sew up the lips of the kid in series three. Norman could even recall the dialogue word for word.

  ‘Now you can’t tell the police what you’ve just seen,’ the Doctor had intoned as he pushed the suture needle through the kid’s top lip. ‘What’s that you say, child? You want anesthetic? Let me tell you, young sir, there’ll be no pain relief on my watch.’

  Oh boy, oh boy. What an episode. What a series!

  ‘You happy with your cabin?’ Doctor Sanchez – oops, Darren – asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Norman enthused. ‘Really comfortable.’

  ‘And your friends?’

  ‘Oh, they couldn’t come. They’re catching up on some sleep.’

  ‘No, I mean do they like their accommodation?’

  ‘Oh, sure. Say, Darren?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What was the real reason for canceling the series?’

  ‘The real reason?’ Darren raised his dark eyebrows.

  ‘Man, that show could still be running. It was how a medic drama should be.’

  ‘It was a good show. But the real reason it was canceled was it got too expensive.’

  ‘But it had millions of viewers.’

  Darren shrugged. ‘If a show stops being profitable – even if it’s watched by everyone plus the President’s mother – they’ll pull the plug.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Here, the steak’s done if you like it rare. Grab a plate. The cutlery’s on the tray.’

  Norman gratefully received the sizzling steak onto his plate. It looked so inviting but he didn’t want to stop talking to Darren. ‘Surely they could have trimmed the budget and kept the series running.’

  ‘They did.’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘LA ICU.’

  ‘LA ICU?’ Norman shook his head, puzzled.

  ‘Exactly. No one remembers it. They sacked the cast of Intensive Care, then applied the format to a new show with new actors – low-cost actors – and set it in an intensive care unit in LA.’

  ‘Hence the name.’

  Doctor Pearman joined them. ‘And, dear boy, did you ever hear of such a diabolical title for a show? LA ICU? I ask you. Who knew what it even meant?’

  ‘So here we are ten years later. Hey, Norman, sit to the table there so you can eat your steak. We’ll join you.’

  Norman sat at a picnic table with Darren and Doctor Pearman sitting opposite.

  So I know it’s not really Doctor Pearman. But then, I don’t know his real name.

  Don’t like to ask.

  Hell, it’s cool to think of him as Doctor Pearman. The baby-butcher of Ward Thirteen. Heh-heh-heh . . .

  Norman grinned. ‘Sorry. I can’t stop smiling.’

  Doctor Pearman smiled back. ‘No problem, my boy. We like happy people round here, don’t we, Darren?’

  ‘Sure do.’

  Norman cut into this steak. Luscious red blood flowed from its near-raw center. ‘It’s just that I remember the episode from the last season when the college student was admitted onto the ward.’

  ‘How I hated college students.’ The white-haired man grinned. ‘At least, my character did.’

  ‘Then you insisted on performing an emergency circumcision on the guy.’ Norman sliced another piece of bloody beef from the fillet. ‘And as you picked up your scalpel, ready to slice off the foreskin, the student cries out: “Anesthetic! Give me anesthetic!” and you say, cool as ice—’ Norman paused, giving the actor an opportunity to speak his catchphrase line.

  ‘“Let me tell you, young sir, there’ll be no pain relief on my watch.” Ah . . . Circumcision, where is thy sting? As the immortal bard might have penned.’ Doctor Pearman smiled. ‘Of course, every episode required me to utter the notorious phrase at least once: “There’ll be no pain relief on my watch.”’

  ‘It’s a great line.’

  ‘I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve declaimed it since that final season.’

  Norman swallowed a mouthful of the delicious steak. Refreshing himself with a chug of beer he asked, ‘But why did you guys quit acting, and . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence, merely gestured in the direction of the motel office with his beer bottle.

  ‘Buy a motel?’ Darren shrugged.

  ‘You were still famous.’

  ‘Yeah, but ask even famous actors how secure their career really is.’

  Doctor Pearman nodded his agreement. ‘Parts come and go. Shows open and close. But motels are here to stay. A poet might wax lyrical on their constancy in the American way of life.’

  ‘So we pooled what was left of our paychecks and the Motel Ha-Ha was ours.’

  Norman swallowed a piece of steak. ‘Motel Ha-Ha. It’s an unusual name.’

  Darren answered, ‘Some people come here thinking there’s a Native American connection.’

  Doctor Pearman gave a theatrical wave of his hand. ‘But the truth is a little more prosaic, my dear boy.’

  ‘When I floated the idea with the cast that we pool our resources and invest in the motel business their response was . . .’ Darren nodded a cue to Doctor Pearman.

  ‘Ha-ha.’

  ‘They all scoffed. At first. But I ran the numbers for them.’

  ‘And here we are this beautiful evening.’ Doctor Pearman sipped his wine. ‘Prosperous businessmen and women. In the appropriately named Motel Ha-Ha, a reminder of our initial doubts.’

  ‘And . . .’ Darren worked his way through his hamburger. ‘It’s working out so well we’re planning on expanding, buying a couple of motels nearer to town.’

  ‘And expanding the units we have here,’ Doctor Pearman added.

  Norman thought back to his arrival at Motel Ha-Ha. ‘But it doesn’t seem that busy. There weren’t many cars parked at the cabins. In fact, I can’t remember seeing—’

  ‘No, dear boy, there weren’t. That’s because passing trade isn’t our main business. Conventions are the thing.’

  ‘Conventions?’

  ‘Yes.’ Doctor Pearman warmed to his theme. ‘We take mass bookings for the entire motel. Last week we had a hundred Baptists on a Scripture-interpretation course.’

  ‘Next week we have a bunch of horror writers coming from all over the world. That’ll be one whole week, fully catered, and pre-paid bar. Those horror writers drink like fishes. Just their beer bill’s gonna pay for the upkeep of this place for six months.’

  ‘Motel business is a great business to be in, my boy.’ Doctor Pearman stroked back his silver hair. ‘Many people prefer our homely environment to those of the big hotels.’ He gave a theatrical shudder. ‘Soulless things, my dear boy. Soulless.’

  Darren looked at Norman thought
fully for a moment.

  ‘You know . . . I shouldn’t be saying this, Norman. But you seem to me to be a decent and honest young man.’

  ‘I am, sir,’ Norman said brightly. Then he thought: If you disregard killing a pair of cops.

  Darren appeared to be wrestling with some dilemma. ‘So I wondered if—’

  ‘Darren, Darren.’ Doctor Pearman shook his head. ‘This young man wouldn’t be interested in what we have to offer.’

  Norman’s curiosity was tickled. ‘Interested in what?’

  ‘Well, Norman. You see we’re looking for . . . Actively looking for, but . . .’ He quickly shook his head. ‘No, my partner’s right. It’s not for you.’

  ‘It might be,’ Norman said eagerly. Not having an inkling what the two former actors were talking about but passionately craving to be part of whatever it was they were discussing.

  ‘Investors, Norman.’

  ‘Investors?’

  Doctor Pearman nodded wisely. ‘We’re inviting people we can trust to invest in our motels.’

  ‘But we have to be careful,’ Darren added. ‘Our investors must be discreet. They mustn’t talk about the business.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The return is so great that we fear a gold rush.’

  ‘You see, Norman, we’re breaking new ground by catering for conventions at motels. If our competitors were to learn what kind of profits – huge, huge profits – we’re reaping they’d rush to copy us.’

  Norman breathed out, seeing dollar signs float in front of his eyes. ‘I understand.’

  ‘So, you appreciate, dear boy, we have to be selective. We only chose individuals who we know are discreet.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So . . .’ Darren rested his cold beer bottle down on the table. ‘Are you interested?’

  ‘Very, but – uh, how much?’

  ‘As much as you care to invest, dear boy. Speaking for Darren, I think we know a man of integrity and vision when we see one.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Norman gushed.

  ‘We’ve pegged the minimum investment at five.’

  ‘Five hundred dollars?’ Norman ran calculations through his mind. ‘I might be able to manage that, if you give me a few days.’

  ‘Norman.’ Doctor Pearman looked pained. The same flinch he’d perfected in his days in the medic drama when his professional integrity was questioned. ‘Norman. Norman. Dear boy, we are talking in thousands here.’

  ‘Five thousand dollars?’

  ‘A trifling sum, when all’s said and done, but it is symbolic of your faith in our business acumen.’

  ‘Oh, sure, sure.’ Norman nodded, trying to appear wise. ‘Five thousand dollars.’

  ‘Does that sound reasonable?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Completely reasonable.’

  Maybe I can raise the five thou on MasterCard? Or maybe I can rob a bank? After all, after killing a couple of cops armed robbery is no great shakes.

  Doctor Pearman raised his glass. ‘Then may I propose a toast to our new business partner. And I have never seen such a wise head on such young shoulders. If I—’

  ‘You rogues! You damn rogues!’

  Startled by the sound of a female voice in an outbreak of sheer fury, Norman turned to see a young woman in a white nurse’s uniform come striding through the entrance to the enclosed lawn.

  Norman goggled. The woman was curvaceous in the nurse’s outfit. Her dark hair was cut short. Somehow angular, too. The effect, combined with her flashing eyes, was formidable.

  She advanced on the table where Norman was sitting with the two men.

  ‘So,’ she said, looking at Norman, ‘who’s this pathetic bastard?’ She gave a contemptuous toss of her head. ‘The next poor lamb to the slaughter?’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The moment the woman began advancing across the grass everyone stopped talking.

  Stared.

  Bubble burst.

  Party pooped.

  Norman had been starstruck in the company of these still-glamorous actors and actresses. Now—

  BINGO!

  What was I doing, agreeing to invest money in a motel?

  The guy who played Doctor Pearman gave a charming smile. ‘Dee-Dee.’

  ‘Don’t Dee-Dee me.’

  Jesus. This nurse – was she a real nurse? – was formidable.

  Norman thought: I’m in love.

  His stare swept over the nurse’s figure in the tight-fitting uniform. How old was she? Twenty-three? Twenty-five?

  Her short-cut hair was immaculate.

  Dark.

  Glossy.

  Uh, not like Boots. Not bleached. Not spiky.

  This was beautiful hair.

  The nurse strode up, her gaze scanning the food and drink on the tables.

  ‘Dee-Dee, honey,’ Doctor Pearman purred. ‘Sit down; have a glass of wine.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, you promised you wouldn’t do this,’ the woman called Dee-Dee groaned.

  Darren tried a disarming smile.

  It looked on the thin side.

  ‘We’re only entertaining one of our guests,’ Darren said.

  ‘Of course,’ Doctor Pearman agreed. ‘We thought a little barbecue. A pleasant interlude.’

  ‘Interlude, my eye,’ Dee-Dee stormed. When she spoke it was directed at everyone on the lawn. ‘You’ve all decided to put on one of your shows again, so you can fleece the first no-brained sap that comes your way.’

  ‘Hey,’ Norman said, stung by her insult.

  She turned to Doctor Pearman again. ‘Dad. We can’t save all this by defrauding our guests.’

  Norman stared at the woman in the nurse’s uniform.

  She stared back.

  ‘You oughta go,’ she told him.

  ‘You were in the show?’ Norman asked, puzzled. ‘I don’t remember –’

  ‘No, I wasn’t in Intensive Care.’ The woman sounded as if she’d explained this so many times that it bored her to repeat it again. ‘I’m too young for that pile of crap. Besides, I’m no actor. I’m the only one here with medical qualifications. I’m a nurse at St. Jude’s Hospital downtown. A real nurse.’

  She looked real enough.

  Look good through and through.

  Norman noticed that the zipper on the uniform that was all glacial whiteness in the light of the setting sun ran from her throat all the way down to the pit of her stomach.

  Now that’s a zipper worth unzipping, he thought as he watched the angry rise and fall of her breasts.

  ‘Sir,’ she said in a softer voice. ‘You won’t report this to the police, will you?’

  ‘Uh, no, of course not, but—’

  ‘But you’re wondering what’s going on?’

  Norman nodded.

  Dee-Dee walked round the assembled cast of ex-actors and former actresses. They had that glassy-eyed expression of people who know that they’re in the wrong. As she walked she explained.

  ‘They’ve probably told you . . . uhm?’

  ‘Norman.’

  ‘They’ll have explained, Norman, how after the show was canceled because they’d all demanded huge hikes in salary they bought the motel?’

  Norman made with the nod again, concealing his previous ignorance of the real reason for the cancellation of Intensive Care.

  ‘They didn’t explain that they were so inept, and so lacking in business acumen, that they bought a motel that wasn’t on a major highway?’

  ‘No, they said it was thriving.’

  ‘Thriving, huh? We’re lucky to have a dozen paying guests a week. Isn’t that right, Dad?’

  Doctor Pearman nodded.

  ‘Isn’t that so, Darren?’

  Uncomfortable, Darren nodded too.

  ‘So this bunch of retired thespians live in the motel, taking it in turns to play the roles of chalet cleaners, motel clerks, groundskeepers.’

  Doctor Pearman looked pained. ‘This young man doesn’t want to hear all this . . . this fact. Facts a
re the weighted boots of reality. Facts, my dear, make the world miserably trudge when it should be dancing.’

  ‘Dad, you can’t charm people out of their money. That’s a painful fact of reality that you’ve got to learn.’ Dee-Dee shook her head sadly.

  Norman got up to speed. ‘You mean there are no conventions? No horror writers turning up next week?’

  ‘Alas, no, dear boy.’

  ‘And we couldn’t even give the place away,’ Dee-Dee told Norman. ‘So it’s my nurse’s paycheck that feeds these scoundrels. It meets the loan payments, too – just – and this is how the damned ingrates repay me.’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a nice glass of chilled white wine?’ Darren asked.

  ‘Maybe I should, seeing as I’ve paid for all this.’ She glared at Darren. ‘What happened to the list I gave you for the groceries?’

  ‘Well, eh, we—’

  ‘I don’t recall putting wine and T-bone steaks on the list.’

  ‘No. Dee-Dee, we’re sorry, we thought—’

  ‘Thought? That’s it, you never do think. Dad, you could go to jail for trying to pull a stunt like this.’

  Norman watched Doctor Pearman swallow. This was getting too much for him.

  ‘I don’t think they really meant any harm by it,’ Norman told her.

  ‘That’s just it.’ She sounded weary. ‘They are harmless. They’re ineffectual, too. They cook up grand schemes over martinis, and they’re all just daydreams. I gave Darren a hundred dollars to buy the groceries on my list. A list budgeted so tightly because we don’t have any money in the bank. And look, they’ve spent it all on beer, wine, fancy steaks. Shit . . . I don’t think I can carry on anymore.’

  ‘Darling, darling,’ Doctor Pearman cooed. ‘We can work something out.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ she said. ‘None of you can.’

  Norman winced at the expressions on the faces around him.

  Sorrow. Guilt. Remorse.

  Dee-Dee continued, ‘When it comes to remembering your lines and pretending to be someone else you’re great. When you try and live in the real world you’re . . .’ She shrugged. ‘Oh, what’s the point?’

  There was a pause while no one spoke. No one moved.

  Insects hovered on the air as day turned into night. Somewhere a sensor activated floodlights that lit the lawn a garish green. A hamburger that had been forgotten on the barbecue gave a pop. It started to burn with a greasy yellow flame.