“For what, Lieutenant?”
“For crime prevention. We still got a chance.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Because, check it out, whoever was after Hudnut this morning ain’t gonna be content with waxing the wrong party.”
“Meaning they’ll try again?”
“Count on it,” Very affirmed. “Uncle Chubby’s in danger—major league.”
“You’ll protect him, of course.”
“Men on him around the clock, for sure. But that’s not our best bet, talking prevention. Best is to catch our perp before he pulls any more of this shit.”
“Were you able to talk to Vice?”
“No time. But now I’ll make the time.” Very stuck a fresh piece of gum in his mouth and put on the mirrored mountaineering sunglasses that were around his neck. I could see my own reflection in them. I looked worried. “Stay with me, dude,” he said.
“I’m with you, Lieutenant. I’m with you.”
Which wasn’t totally true. Very took off from the studio a few minutes after that, leaving behind two uniforms to question people in Katrina’s office, and a matched pair of hulking, bullet-headed plainclothesmen around to keep an eye on the place. One was assigned to Lyle, the other to the outer office, where he was parked on the sofa with his nose buried in Daily Variety. As for me, I ran into a major tussle of my own. Or I should say Lulu ran into one. And it wasn’t pretty.
It seems that Rusty, the lovable canine star of Uncle Chubby, was on call for rehearsals that morning, and in the confusion immediately following Chad’s death no one bothered to tell his trainer, Skip, to go home. Or to tell me that Rusty was on the premises. So there I was strolling up the hall toward my private office, Lulu ambling peacefully along beside me, when suddenly a rottweiler possessing approximately the same musculature and temperament of a young Lawrence Taylor came rocketing down the hall toward us, a feral growl coming from his throat and saliva dripping from his gleaming fangs. He left his feet a full ten paces short of us and simply flew the rest of the way, landing directly atop Lulu with most of her in his mouth. It all happened so fast that Lulu didn’t have a chance. Not that she would have had a chance even if she’d been given an hour’s warning and a fully loaded TEC-9. All she could do was let out a strangled yelp before she disappeared in a fierce blur of snarling dog flesh, the two of them rolling around and around on the rug, Rusty tossing her about like she was a throw pillow with ears. It was pretty horrifying. I know I was certainly horrified, and you can imagine how Lulu felt. Skip came sprinting down the hall at once to pull the vicious beast off of her before Uncle Chubby suffered its second fatality of the morning. As it was Lulu had one torn ear, a bloody mouth, two chipped teeth, and great big bites of hair and flesh missing from her back and from under her left eye, which was already swollen half shut. She was also covered with saliva and whimpering from shock and terror.
“Geez, I’m so sorry!” cried Skip, who was barely able to restrain Rusty by his collar. The dog smelled blood and wanted to finish the job. “I had no idea there was another dog around.”
“She doesn’t like to think she is one.” I tried to pick Lulu up and hold her, but she wouldn’t let me. She was too ashamed of herself for getting stomped so badly.
All of this commotion brought Leo, the office general. Annabelle, the pet specialist, scurried along one step behind her.
“Okay, wait,” the tiny writer exclaimed. “I’m, like, they didn’t hit it off. Am I right?”
“It was over in one round,” I replied.
Skip quickly hustled his sadistic bully of a star out of there. A veterinarian arrived in minutes to patch up Lulu in the makeup room. He reported no serious damage, just superficial bumps, bites, and bruises. Still, he had to give her a S-H-O-T, and by the time he was done with her she looked a little like a tattered stuffed animal. Her left eye was swollen completely shut, her ear wrapped in a bandage. She definitely looked even more mournful than usual. He left me a bottle of antibiotics to give her.
Leo stayed behind with the patient and me. “She can stick around for the rest of the day, Hoagy, but that’s it. Rusty needs to be here. She doesn’t.”
“I understand,” I said heavily. “And it’s no problem. I’ve flown solo before. It’s been a while, but I’m sure I still know how.”
Leo softened. “Is there somebody she can stay with?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I’m sorry, Hoagy,” she said gruffly. She seemed almost human at that moment.
“Not nearly as sorry as I am.”
Lyle called everyone together for a family council meeting at noon around the big table in the rehearsal room. The whole family was on hand, with the exception of The Munchkins, who’d been sent home with Amber. And Lyle and Katrina, who were late. No free catered lunch today. Just fresh pots of coffee and tea, but if you think anyone went near them, you’re crazy. No one dared go near Chad’s empty seat at the table either. It was somber and tense in the rehearsal room while we all waited for the royal couple to show. Word was that Lyle had heard from God about the network’s plans for the future. Word was the news wasn’t good.
“We’re g-getting pulled,” sputtered Bobby, blinking furiously. “I b-bet that’s what this is about.”
“God can’t take us off the air a second time,” argued Marty. “It’ll make him look too wishy-washy.”
“But why leave us on?” countered Tommy, tugging at his tuft of white forelock. “They wanted Rob in the show, or else. Call me crazy, but with Chad dead we got no Rob.”
Marty mulled it over. “Maybe until we can recast. Maybe that’s the plan.”
“And how long will that take?” I asked.
“Months maybe,” Tommy replied. “Hardest thing in the business is finding a forty-year-old leading man who can play comedy and who isn’t already in his own show.”
“There’s only a handful of them out there,” Marty agreed. “The network-approved list is real short. All of the fall shows are in production already, so that means most of them are tied up. And if by chance someone is available he has to accept third billing and be willing to move to New York.”
“Face it, partner,” Tommy concluded glumly. “We’re doomed until some of the new fall shows get cancelled.”
Marty nodded. “Doomed.”
Annabelle came hurrying in the door, slightly out of breath. She settled with us. “I’m, like, I’ve been working the phone to the coast, only everyone’s stonewalling me. They all said the same thing—we don’t know. I’m, like, no way!”
“D-Doomed,” echoed Bobby.
“Where is that fat fuck?” demanded Tommy, glowering at the empty doorway.
“Hear we’re losing our official Team Chubby mascot, too,” Marty said to me. “Bummer.”
“That it is,” I agreed. Right now she was resting uncomfortably in my office, under the desk.
“Can we get her something to cheer her up?” asked Tommy. “A squirting dog biscuit? Maybe a video to watch? She got a favorite movie?”
“I’m afraid not.” Actually, she does have one—The Incredible Mr. Limpet, that 1964 classic in which Don Knotts turns into a fish. But it’s too embarrassing to mention. “I’ll tell her you were concerned. I’m sure she’ll be touched.”
“Won’t be the same around here without old Lulu,” said Marty.
“I’m, like, what are you going to do with her?” asked Annabelle.
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
Tommy shifted in his chair, bones creaking. “Don’t know about you, partner, but I haven’t taken a leak all morning.”
“I may never take another leak for as long as I live,” confessed Marty. “They’re gonna have to hook me up to one of those plastic bags.”
“Imagine how Lyle m-must feel.”
“Sorry, Bobster,” snapped Tommy. “My imagination isn’t that sick.”
Katrina came in the door first, looking tense and drawn. Marjor
ie followed, her face a careful, noncommittal blank. Then came Lyle, gloved and masked. His police guard remained in the doorway with his arms crossed, a big hall monitor in a cheap suit.
All eyes were on Lyle as he sat. “I’ve spoken with God,” he began. His voice was hollow and shaky. “And I’m gonna be totally up front with you, because we’re all family in this room. God wants us to shut down production for a few weeks, effective immediately.” There was an instant rumble of protest, curses, and mutters all around. Lyle held up a gloved hand for silence, and he got it. “What he said was he’d like us to take stock. Give ourselves a chance to find another Rob. Give the police a chance to do their thing. And then, when everything’s back to normal, we premiere midseason.” Another rumble of protest. Again Lyle held up a hand for silence. “I went to the mat with him. I said no way, I’m not sending my people home. We are all artists here. Our work is how we deal with our grief. Chad … Chad was one of ours. We have to do something for him. We have to do a show—as planned, on schedule, on the air, dedicated to Chad fucking Roe. The best show we’ve ever done. That’s what we gotta do,” Lyle declared, his eyes filling with tears, “because that’s how artists say good-bye to each other. And you can’t, goddamn it, take that away from us! No one has that right!”
A rousing ovation erupted, everyone cheering except for Marjorie, who stared straight ahead, her cheeks mottling slightly.
“I won us a temporary restraining order,” Lyle revealed. “God has agreed to fly in so he can assess the situation in person before he commits one way or the other. He’s on his way here right now. It is my hope, my belief, that we’ll be able to change his mind—assuming he has one.” That drew laughter. “Until then, we’re on hold. Feel free to go home once you’ve been questioned by the cops. Or hang out here if ya want. Whatever ya feel most comfortable doing. This is a day for us to deal with our own personal feelings of loss and grief.” He paused, making eye contact with people around the table. “If you want to know how I’m going to be dealing with mine, I’ll be huddling with the writers over the script. Because I intend to tape on Saturday, as scheduled. That’s my plan—no matter what God says. I’ll pay for this episode out of my own pocket if I got to, but one way or the other we are taping this week. We owe that to Chad.” He heaved a huge sigh, ran his fingers through his red curls. “Before I let ya go, there’s one more thing I want to get out in the open …”
“Holy shit, Batman, he’s gonna whip out his wienie again,” whispered Tommy. ,
Annabelle kicked him. He kicked her back.
“It’s no secret that there’s some weird, bad shit going on around this place. Somebody …” Lyle glanced over his shoulder at his police guard. “Somebody wants to destroy me—poor Chad, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s also no secret that this somebody is one of the people in this very room.” He looked slowly around the table, his eyes lingering with cold suspicion on a number of those people. On Leo. On Fiona. On Annabelle and Bobby and The Boys. Suspects, one and all. Everyone’s eyes followed his, wondering about them, wondering … “Well, whoever you are, I have some bad news for you: I will not be pushed out! I will not be scared off! I will not run! I will not hide! This is my show and my family and I’m not going anywhere!” For this Lyle got a thundering ovation. Phil, his stage manager, even turned it into a standing O, which Lyle lapped up in grateful silence, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I was …” He trailed off, blubbering. “I was thinking of an old saying this morning: ‘Tough times don’t last, but tough, people do.’ I think that describes all of us who are here today. We’re tough people. We’re gonna get through this thing—together. Nobody can tear us apart. Which reminds me—Chad’s death is gonna be page-one news. Reporters will try to stir it up. Get dirt, gossip, whatever they can out of ya. Some of ’em will even offer ya money. It’s what they do. Here’s how we handle it—we don’t talk. Not to anyone. Any and all comments about Chad’s death are to come out of Marjorie’s office, by way of me. She is the official spokesperson for this show. Her and no one else. No one, I repeat no one, is to have any contact with the press. I find out that you have and you’re off the show, understood? Questions? … No? …. Okay, you’re excused. Writers, please remain.”
Everyone began to file out, Fiona pausing to gurgle a few private words of comfort in Lyle’s ear. “We’re behind you” was all I could make out.
Annabelle shook her big, lacquered hair. “I’m, like, this is blah-blah-blah, am I right?”
“Blah-blah-blah?” I said.
“Insane.”
“You expected normal?” scoffed Tommy.
“What’s insane?” asked Marty.
“Us writing a show,” she replied. “We don’t have a Rob. We’re off the air. …”
“Vintage L-Lyle,” Bobby declared, bristling with intensity. “As l-long we’re writing a show, then there is a show. The p-power of positive self-delusion. The man ought to write a book about it.”
“He is,” I reminded him.
Marjorie rose and glided over to the coffeepot, the first to set foot near it. The lady was not lacking for nerve. I joined her.
“And how is the official spokesperson holding up?” I asked, pouring coffee for her.
“Okay, I suppose.” She looked paler than normal, and there were dark smudges under her large, liquid green eyes.
“Still, you must be seriously disappointed.”
“About what?”
“God coming to town.”
“Why should that bother me?” she asked, raising her cup to her lips.
“You’re not actually going to drink that, are you?”
She looked down at it warily.
“This show is your turf,” I pointed out. “God’s invading it. Not what I’d call a ringing vote of confidence.”
She set the cup aside. Not so nervy after all. “It’s Godfrey’s decision to make, not mine. I don’t feel the least bit upset that he’s coming. All I feel is …” She hesitated, then plunged on. “I feel fed up. I’ve had it with the TV business. What I want to do is run home to Wisconsin, have three or four kids, and spend my time baking cookies and taking them to soccer practice.”
“What kind of cookies?”
A faint smile crossed her lips. “Sounds silly, I guess.”
“Utterly. Have yourself a husband all picked out?” I asked. And it was the wrong thing to ask.
Her eyes locked onto mine. There was challenge in them. There was invitation. And there was something else—a jolt of attraction. Strong one. She felt it. I know I did. “I’m working on that,” she answered me huskily. Then she strode back to her seat.
Me, I poured myself a cup of coffee, black, and took a big slurp. It didn’t kill me. No such luck.
Lyle clapped his huge, meaty hands for attention. “Okay, here’s the deal, gang,” he announced, as he and Katrina moved down to the writers’ end of the big table. “We take the initiative. We prove to God that we’re prepared to do a show without Rob. That we have a show without Rob.”
“But we haven’t,” Marty pointed out.
“We do, too,” argued Lyle. “Same story, new twist—the schmuck stands Deirdre up. Doesn’t show for their date.”
Tommy shifted in his chair. “Who fixes the dishwasher?”
“Nobody,” replied Lyle.
“But Chubby’s g-got parts strewn all over the kitchen floor,” Bobby protested.
“So he bullshits her,” Lyle pitched. “Tells her the repairman had to order a part or something. Typical Chubby lie. He’s making it up as he goes along, hoping it’ll somehow work out.”
“That plays,” Tommy admitted grudgingly. “Only we don’t have a second act without Rob.”
“We do, too,” insisted Lyle. “Chubby takes her to the pool hall himself. Because he wants to cheer her up and because—”
“He’s hoping to win the repair money from her,” Marty said.
Lyle nodded. “So he can call the guy tomorrow and get
it fixed, okay?”
“Wait, what do we do with The Munchkins if they’re both out?” asked Annabelle.
“We fuck the kids,” Lyle snapped irritably.
“Tonight, a very special episode of The Uncle Chubby Show,” intoned Tommy gravely.
“Shut up, Tommy,” snarled Katrina.
“We c-could park them with Mrs. Dennison,” Bobby suggested: “The neighbor with the g-giant—”
“Okay, fine,” accepted Marty. “But what do we do at the pool hall?”
Lyle said, “A whole bunch of real nice brother-sister shit about how much they mean to each other. Until the milkman shows up, and she finds out what really happened to the forty bucks. She gets pissed, but she forgives him. We top it off with our bedtime story and we fade out. Perfect, right?” he exclaimed, daring someone, anyone to contradict him. “Perfect!”
No one said a word. All eyes were on Marjorie, who sat there thinking it over, her long, slender fingers forming a steeple under her chin. “I don’t think it’s strong enough, Lyle,” she concluded.
Lyle gave her The Scowl. “Who died and made you queen?”
“This is our return episode,” she continued, undeterred. “We need a show that people will be talking about the next morning at work. Something truly special.”
“I suppose you’d be happier if we had robots in it!” he fumed, sneering at her.
Marty: “Seems kind of thin to me, too, Lyle.”
Tommy: “Me, too.”
“I’m, like, yeah.”
“It’s n-not about anything.”
“I suggest,” stated Marjorie, “that we wait until God gets here before we—”
“Well we’re not gonna wait for God!” Lyle waved his arms and roared. “We’re gonna go with this show. Now! Because I say so! It’s my fucking show, and I say we’re going with it! We have to show God that we’re carrying on, business as usual. If we don’t he’ll be in our faces morning, noon, and night, all season long. If he wants us to recast Rob down the road, that’s cool. We can do that. But in the meantime, we carry on!” Again he clapped his hands together. “Okay, now everybody beat it. Get to work. Except for you, Hoagy,” he said, turning his gaze on me. “I need to talk to you in private.”
The Man Who Cancelled Himself Page 26
