Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries)

by Fiffer, Sharon

  “What the hell?” asked Don.

  Jane thought her father might be reacting to his concoction being referred to less than respectfully, but Don hadn’t heard the remark.

  “Why can he eat cashews?” asked Don.

  “Tree nuts,” said Nellie.

  Jane and Don both looked at Nellie, who had watched the scene unfold from a few feet away, her arms folded and her eyes still trained on Lucky Miller.

  “What?” asked Don.

  “Cashews are tree nuts and peanuts aren’t nuts at all,” said Jane.

  Don shook his head in admiration for his wife. Jane, too, was admiring and, she had to admit to herself, shocked. How did Nellie know half the stuff she did? She hadn’t graduated from high school, she had gone out to work as soon as she was able, and Jane had never seen her mother read a book. What was her secret?

  The camera rolled as Lucky, patted down and powdered, raised Don’s Lucky Duck to his lips. Jane winced as the comedian licked the salt off the rim with a wink and a kind of leer at one of the lighting techs. Was there anything more disgusting than an overage lech?

  Nellie remained where she was, staring at Lucky, as the crew packed up their gear to move on to the next bar where Lucky would taste a drink invented in his honor. Lucky finally looked up from the notes thrust under his nose by an eager writer—not Malcolm, Jane noted—and saw Nellie staring at him.

  “Still thinking about Boing Boing, Nellie?” asked Lucky. “Convince yourself I really did bully some guy you knew?”

  “Nope,” said Nellie. “I know for a fact you didn’t.”

  Lucky took a few steps closer to Nellie, slipping one arm back into his leather jacket. “So why you giving me the fish-eye? Something’s on your mind.”

  People were ordering drinks fast and furious since the Lucky crew was getting ready to leave and one more free drink would have to be poured and served pretty quick to make it onto the TV show tab. Don was bouncing back and forth behind the bar, but Nellie stayed where she was, eyeball to eyeball with Lucky. Only Jane paid attention to their conversation.

  “We didn’t even start calling him Boing Boing until he … until after seventh grade,” said Nellie. “And we were doing it behind his back.” Nellie waited to add that piece of information until Lucky was almost finished putting on his jacket.

  “What’d you call him before that?” said Lucky. He was no longer paying close attention to Nellie, just continuing the conversation halfheartedly, as his assistants gathered up bags and briefcases and props for their next stop. Although just two steps away from her, Lucky turned his back to Nellie, not expecting her to answer and began waving toward the customers at the bar who were raising their glasses. Jane noted that Lucky looked hale and hearty for a man who had recently been struggling for breath on the floor of the EZ Way Inn.

  “We just called him his name. Dickie,” said Nellie. “Dickie Boynton.”

  Lucky was a pro and he didn’t stop waving or smiling while the camera was running, but Jane saw his shoulders go back and his head move slightly to one side when he heard Nellie say the name. No peanuts in sight but at the mention of Dickie Boynton, Lucky Miller appeared to be a man who had trouble trying to catch his breath,

  “I’m sure I’ll see you all again,” said Lucky. “Won’t be able to resist stopping back at the EZ Way Inn for a nightcap. Thanks for the Lucky Duck, Don.” Lucky turned and faced Nellie. “Sure there weren’t any peanuts in that drink, Nellie?”

  “Not this time,” said Nellie.

  And just like that, with the slam of the screen door in the kitchen leading out to the parking lot, all the glitz and glamour of baseball caps and sunglasses and free drinks for all were out the door and on their way to the next saloon where the owners and bartenders were vying to become the inventor of the Lucky Miller–sanctioned Lucky Duck cocktail.

  And now, Jane thought, time to get to the bottom of all of this Lucky Miller stuff.

  Nellie placed her jars and bottles of secret ingredients along with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s on a vintage high-rimmed metal beer tray that Jane recognized as a bar collectible she had given to Don last Father’s Day. She threw a clean dish towel over what she called the “fixings” and placed it on a low shelf in the back room off the kitchen.

  “I told you, Janie, it was a bit. I was making up a fight with Lucky, just like that skinny producer told me to do.”

  “Yeah, but that Boing Boing stuff? Seemed real to me,” said Jane.

  “I’m a hell of an actress,” said Nellie.

  Jane decided to work this story from another angle. Nellie wasn’t going to spill the beans until she was good and ready, so Jane would have to play a “just the facts, Ma’am” game as well as her mother did. And was that possible? Not in a million years. No one defined “need to know basis” as well as Nellie. Even when Jane used to ask her what the family was having for dinner, Nellie would give her a look.

  “Who wants to know?”

  So Jane decided to take her questions into the barroom while her mother cleaned up in the kitchen.

  “Dad, what exactly is going on with all the banners downtown and what just happened here?” Jane made herself comfortable on one of the padded bar stools and out of habit Don placed a cardboard coaster down in front of her. Jane knew her dad didn’t carry Grey Goose vodka, so she nodded toward the tap and Don drew a textbook glass of beer—frosted mug, perfect amount of foam and icy cold. The snack rack was back, so Jane grabbed a pack of beer nuts and tore it open, offering the bag first to her dad, then to Francis on her right. Both shook their heads.

  “I thought your mom told you all about this. Pretty exciting for everyone. Lucky Miller grew up here … at least until sixth or seventh grade. His family lived over near Saint Stan’s. He hit it big as a comedian and now they’re doing a comedy special, like one of those dinners where everybody insults the guy who’s being honored, and he’s filming it here in Kankakee.”

  Don crossed to the other side of the bar to draw a beer for Bobby, one of the lingering few who didn’t disappear for dinner when the free drinks ended. Francis nudged Jane and nodded.

  “Pretty exciting, Janie.”

  “How can they be shooting everything here?” asked Jane. “Where is there a studio or a soundstage or a—”

  “They’re fixing up the old stone factory over there on Water Street. Making it just like a New York loft,” said Francis.

  “Francis,” yelled Nellie from the kitchen, “what’s a loft?”

  “Mmmm-mm-mm,” (Kankakeean for I don’t know) muttered Francis, reverting to his native tongue.

  “What I thought,” said Nellie, still working in the kitchen.

  “Yup,” added Don. “That factory’s been empty for thirty years and now it’s getting some life again. I heard they got the rental for nothing, just a promise of cleanup and bring the electrical up to code.”

  Jane sipped her beer. Now that beer had become the new wine, everybody rattled off special brands and brews and labels and batches, and discussed hops and barley and malt the way they used to talk about nose and fruitiness and cru and clarity. Last time Jane had met some of her old advertising colleagues in Chicago, they had pressed upon her red ales and Michigan breweries and seemed to really know the difference between lagers and IPAs. Everyone now seemed to know the difference between hoppy and very hoppy. Jane wished she could just treat all the new beer afficionados to a perfectly drawn ice cold American lager from Don’s immaculately clean tap system.

  “Perfect, Dad,” Jane said, holding up her glass and toasting her father. “I’m still not sure I get all the fuss about Lucky Miller, though. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Aha! Finally! An honest citizen of Kankakee!” The writer who Lucky had called Malcolm slid over from the dark corner near the cigarette machine. Jane figured all of the out-of-towners left when Lucky and his followers sashayed out the back door, but apparently, Malcolm had chosen to remain behind and, hidden behind the bulk of Bobby on the bar
stool to his right, he had been drinking and listening. Now, it seemed, he was ready to talk.

  “I bat cleanup for Lucky and the crew,” said Malcolm, dipping his head in an introductory bow. “Correct American baseball reference, right? I make sure that the bills get signed, or in this case, paid, and the talk stays positive after he’s come in to mark his territory, so to speak.”

  Malcolm held up his glass and waggled it for a refill. Don reached under the bar for the whiskey and poured another shot while Malcolm took a quick peek at his phone, which was vibrating steadily. He shrugged off whatever message was buzzing in and turned his full attention on Jane.

  “Tell me everything you don’t know about Lucky Miller, you gorgeous woman.”

  Jane smiled, not at the gorgeous line, although those lines are almost always nice to hear, but rather at Malcolm’s obvious delight that someone in Kankakee wasn’t fawning over Lucky.

  “I’m not a big television watcher,” said Jane, “but I keep my hand in. I used to work in advertising; I supervised the production of several commercial campaigns for a big agency and we looked at talent all the time. I knew TV lineups and names from casts, even if I didn’t exactly follow sit-com plot lines. And before my professional life, there was college life and I was a theater major. Even if we didn’t watch television, everyone knew someone who knew someone in the business and was hoping to get a leg up in New York or L.A. I know a ton of names of B- and C-list actors and comedians, even if I might not know everything about their work. I have a great memory for names. And, finally, I grew up in Kankakee where we try as hard as the next guy to claim celebrity connections.…”

  “Fred MacMurray was born here,” said Francis.

  “Do you kids know who Fred MacMurray is?” asked Don.

  Jane smiled at her dad, thinking that Malcolm might not realize that anyone near his daughter’s age was a kid to Don.

  She and Malcolm answered at the same time, respectively.

  “Double Indemnity!”

  “The Shaggy Dog!”

  “Son of Flubber,” they then shouted together.

  “Yeah, Fred MacMurray was born in Kankakee, but his folks were just passing through,” yelled Nellie from the kitchen.

  Jane turned back to Malcolm. “So you can see, I know my celebrity trivia, past and present, but I have never heard of Lucky Miller.”

  “He’s a Las Vegas act,” said Bobby from across the bar.

  “You’ve never been west of the VA hospital in Quincy,” shouted Nellie. “What do you know about Las Vegas?”

  “I saw him on the Love Boat once,” said Don.

  “Bingo!” said Malcolm. “A true Lucky fun fact!”

  “I remember because there was an article in the paper about him being from Kankakee and having a guest-star part on the show.”

  “I shall educate you,” said Malcolm. “I will tell you the Lucky Miller story in a nutshell. Lucky, born Herman Mullet, in Lima, Ohio, was the son of a salesman who moved around a great deal. The family never remained in any town more than two years and Herman, also known as Hermie, spent his sixth and seventh grade years in Kankakee, where he made few friends and, as far as I’ve been able to determine, left absolutely no lasting impression on anyone.”

  “I could have sworn he lived here for—” began Don.

  “Aha! Of course you could have!” said Malcolm. “That’s the whole idea.”

  Malcolm stopped for air and when he had taken a breath, threw back another shot, replaced his glass on the bar, and signaled for another pour.

  “Herman ended up in Los Angeles and went from bit part to bit part, occasionally doing stand-up in strip joints or opening for singers. The singers who went on to bigger and better things immediately got better opening acts. Then Lucky’s big break came along. He got cast as a has-been comic on the Love Boat. Lucky fed the publicist on the show a lot of guff about his once-promising career, the guy wrote it up, and Lucky started believing he really had been somebody and decided to stage a comeback.”

  “From where?” asked Francis.

  “Exactly,” said Malcolm. “He needed a biography that was just truthful enough to pass while he rebuilt his image as a small-town boy with big dreams who could have had it all, but for a few wrong turns and bad breaks. His bio mentioned lots of big names in lists with his, but never actually said he’d worked with them. It stopped just short of saying he wrote for Milton Berle and Red Skelton when he was barely out of his nappies. It implied, though, that he had studied at the feet of the masters and could have been a contender.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Jane. “Makes more sense that Lucky would surround himself with young writers who believed the bio and wrote for the character he created.”

  “True,” said Malcolm, nodding.

  Jane felt the lightbulb switch on over her head “You wrote it. You created the bio. You’re—”

  “Dr. Frankenstein, at your service.”

  “I am so lost,” said Francis. “Lucky did horror movies, too?”

  “May I buy you a drink, sir?” Malcolm asked, patting Francis on the shoulder. “It is Lucky Miller fans such as yourself that make my job so rewarding.”

  5

  Nellie emerged from the kitchen immediately after Malcolm’s cab arrived to take him back to the Lucky Miller Motel—actually the B-Back-Inn south of town, renamed in honor of Lucky Miller week.

  “You believe that guy?” asked Nellie.

  Jane shrugged. What was not to believe? She had watched him drink four shots of whiskey and who knows how many he had downed before that? Why would he claim to write the official fake bio of Lucky Miller? Not exactly like claiming screenwriting credit for Chinatown.

  “Don’t you?” Jane countered.

  “Few holes in the story, that’s all,” said Nellie with a shrug. “Besides, the guy’s a lush. And—” Nellie dragged out the syllable for effect—“he had an English accent.”

  “Yeah, Nellie’s right. He did talk a little funny,” said Francis.

  Nellie nodded and looked Jane in the eye.

  “There’s something else that doesn’t add up,” said Nellie.

  Don had finished giving Carl the instructions for the night, taken most of the cash out of the register, and told the bartender he could lock up early if there were no customers at eleven. Carl nodded, not a word waster, and dragged a bar stool behind the bar so he could perch comfortably and face the television between drawing beers and pouring shots.

  Jane had offered to treat her parents to dinner out to celebrate the selling of her house, even though she wasn’t sure how much she felt like celebrating.

  “Okay, Mom, I’ll bite. What doesn’t add up?” said Jane, grabbing her purse and keys. “Wait, I know.… Where’s the money coming from? If he wasn’t ever a success, how can he finance a comeback … or who’s interested in financing a comeback for a has-been who’s really a never-was?”

  “Now you’re talking like a detective,” said Nellie, flicking off the light in the kitchen. “No sandwiches, Carl. Don’t make any food for anybody. I don’t want to have to clean up the kitchen in the morning,”

  Carl nodded without taking his eyes off the television set. He had worked for Don and Nellie as their night bartender for over thirty years. He had heard the same instructions thousands of times. He had quit at least fifty times. Don had fired him at least twenty times. Nellie had fired him over one hundred times. No matter who fired who or who quit, Carl always showed up shuffling through the back door around six every evening.

  Jane pulled up in front of Mack’s Café and suggested they get a hamburger and a milk shake. She had wanted another milk shake from Mack’s as soon as she finished the first one.

  “What the hell, Janie? Mack hasn’t been open in twenty years,” said Don, pointing to the darkened interior of the storefront.

  “It was open this afternoon … something for the Lucky Miller show. The sign said OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. It was filled with writers working an
d they had a waitress in there doing a fifties shtick. The milk shake was great. And it was Mack’s grandson running the place.”

  “Got to cost a lot of cash to reopen a place like that and get it all back up to pretty and polished,” said Nellie. “Follow the money, Janie.”

  Nellie had her face pressed against the car window, staring into Mack’s Café window. Without turning to look at either Don or Jane, Nellie added, her breath fogging up the window glass, “Besides, you see how Hermie caved in on himself when I said Dickie Boynton’s name? Something fishy going on with that guy and all the money he’s tossing around town. Or,” she added, “pretending to toss around.”

  Jane nodded, then realized she was agreeing with some kind of conspiracy theory of Nellie’s that she didn’t even get. What was wrong with turning Kankakee into a soundstage for a week or so? Even if Lucky was overspending his producer’s money, it was still going into pockets in Kankakee, and a lot of those pockets could use filling. Jane also suspected that L.A. or Vegas money, even the amount earned by a B-list comedian like Lucky Miller, went a long way in Kankakee, Illinois, in terms of rent and housing and production costs.

  Jane and her dad got her mother to agree to dinner at the Steak and Brew. Nellie thought it was too nice a place for a Wednesday. Besides, when they ate at a tablecloth restaurant, Don always ordered a martini and Nellie didn’t approve. But Jane decided that selling one’s house in this economy for asking price plus was worth the judgmental stares of Nellie. Jane ordered a martini, too.

  “What’s he got? A radar chip in you?” said Nellie, counting the pieces of celery in the relish tray and comparing it to the one on the next table over.

  Jane raised her hands in surrender.

  Gesturing with a nod of her head, Nellie muttered, “Lowry.”

  Tim walked directly over to their table and pulled up a chair without being asked.

  “Steak and Brew on a Wednesday, eh? Pretty fancy.”

  “I told you we shouldn’t come here,” said Nellie, putting the menu in front of her face.