“That’s right.”
“She comin’ here?”
“I haven’t read it yet.”
Ever since I’d gotten back from Florida and told Geneva about Cathy, she’d been bugging me about when Cathy was going to move north. Sometimes I thought—or maybe hoped—Geneva was jealous. The truth was that Cathy had no intention of moving away from Florida, and I had no intention of moving down there.
“Ain’t you gonna read it?”
“Later.”
“Hmmph.”
“You’re so nosy I’m surprised you didn’t open it.” I put the letter in my shirt pocket.
“I tried steamin’ it,” she said without looking at me, “but that don’t always work.” I didn’t know whether to believe her or not.
3
Steve Stilwell and Bruce Taylor were cops, partners for many years, friends even longer than that. Stilwell was about my height but weighed a good deal less. He had a carefully trimmed beard and mustache and gentle eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. As was his norm, he was wearing a plain T-shirt and sports jacket with the sleeves shoved up over his elbows. Bruce Taylor, on the other hand, was close to six and a half feet tall and although he had recently lost a lot of the weight that had nestled around his middle, he was far from svelte. He was wearing a pocket T-shirt that had undoubtedly come from a big and tall men’s shop, and lightweight slacks.
“You guys are early,” I said, leaning on the bar. “What’s up?”
They both looked unhappy, but that wasn’t unusual. One or the other of them was always complaining about something—only this time it seemed to be something serious.
“We got suspended,” Stilwell said.
“Unjustly,” Taylor added.
“What for?”
They both sat at the bar and Stilwell said, “IAD is investigating the disappearance of some drugs and cash from a bust of ours that went down weeks ago.”
“They finally got around to pullin’ our tins this morning,” Taylor said, “pending the outcome of the investigation.”
“That sucks.” I didn’t believe either of them would risk their jobs for some cash and drugs. Being detectives was a drug to these guys, and they wouldn’t put that on the line for any other kind of high.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Well,” Stilwell said, “right now we’re gonna have a couple of beers and some sandwiches and enjoy our time off.”
“You’re going to take this lying down?”
Taylor pinned me with his dark eyes. “He didn’t say that.”
Geneva came out of the kitchen and said, “Hi, boys.”
“Hi, Geneva,” Stilwell said.
“Got a new beer in. Wanna try it?” she asked.
“What is it?”
“Icehouse.”
“One of those ice beers?” Taylor said.
“That’s right.”
“Bring us two, and a couple of your Geneva specials.”
“Comin’ up.”
Geneva had instituted a special hero sandwich, and while no one except her really knew what was in it, that didn’t stop people from ordering it. If I wasn’t careful, she was going to make me a rich man.
I left the suspended partners to their beer and sandwiches and went through the kitchen into the office behind it. On my desk were the ledgers, the part of the business I hate. Going into partnership with Walker Blue would certainly rid me of having to deal with that little chore.
Still, Geneva had a point. I couldn’t just walk out on her and Marty and Ed. Even if I didn’t want to run Packy’s anymore, I’d have to find somebody who did.
I wondered if Walker would object to his partner owning a bar.
“Boss?”
Geneva stuck her head in the door.
“Yeah, Gen?”
“Guy out here to see you.”
“About what? A bill? I told that liquor guy I’d pay him by—”
“Ain’t no liquor guy,” Gen said, interrupting. “I think this guy wants to hire you in your, uh, other work.”
I frowned. I wasn’t sure I wanted to take on any cases until all the papers were signed with Walker. I was sure, though, that I didn’t want to go over the ledgers right now.
“I’ll be right out. Stick him in the back booth.”
I had started using the back booth as an office, a practice I’d no longer have to maintain once Walker and I moved into our new suite.
I went back through the kitchen and came out behind the bar. My visitor sat in the booth with his back against the wall, facing the bar, so I could see his face. He looked vaguely familiar, but at the moment I couldn’t place him.
“That guy look familiar to you?” I asked Geneva.
“Not to me,” she said. “Looks like just another white guy to me.”
Stilwell and Taylor had both turned to take a look, and Stilwell said, “I know who that is.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Stan Waldrop.”
“Who?” Taylor and I said at the same time.
“Come on, Stan Waldrop. Don’t either of you guys have cable TV? You got to get cable in here, Jack.”
“Never mind what I have to get in here,” I said. “Who’s Stan Waldrop?”
“He’s a comedian,” Stilwell said, “stand-up comic. I’ve seen him on Carolyn’s Comedy Club, and the Improv, and I think HBO.”
“The guy’s that good?”
“He’s funny.”
“Does he make a lot of money?” Taylor asked.
“You know what your problem is?” Stilwell asked his partner. “You’re greedy. That’s why we’re in the mess we’re in, because you’re greedy and everybody knows it.”
“You’re blamin’ this on me?” Taylor asked, and that’s when I walked away. The two of them bickered like a married couple most of the time, and I didn’t need to hear it right now.
I walked around the bar and strolled to the back booth. The man saw me coming and stood up. He was about five eight, stocky, with his hair worn shaggy, not bad looking. Judging from the look on his face, he was far from happy, and not in the mood to crack any jokes.
“Mr. Jacoby?”
“That’s right.”
He extended his hand and I shook it. He had a good, strong grip, but he was no Joe Piscopo.
“I’m Stan Waldrop.”
“So I’ve been told. Why don’t you sit back down, Mr. Waldrop. Can I get you something? A beer?”
“A beer would be good,” he said, sliding back into the booth.
I turned and caught Geneva’s eye and she nodded. It took her half a minute to come over with two Icehouse beers. Of all the ice beers on the market so far, it is by far the smoothest. It’s brewed in Milwaukee by something called Plank Brewery. The bottle claims that they were established in 1855, but I hadn’t heard of them until recently.
“Ice beer,” he said, studying the glass. “What will the Eskimos think of next?”
I assumed that was an attempt at a joke. He was no Robin Williams.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Waldrop?”
“Do you know me?” For a minute I thought I was in the middle of an American Express commercial.
“I’m told you’re a famous comedian.”
“Well, hardly famous. I work, though, more and more these days. Things are picking up, my career’s on a roll, and I might be famous in a couple of years. At least, that’s what I thought until . . .”
“Until what, Mr. Waldrop?”
He hesitated, then said, “Until somebody stole my jokes. Mr. Jacoby, you’ve got to help me get my career back.”
4
“You’re going to have to explain that to me, Mr. Waldrop.”
“Stan,” he said, “just call me Stan.”
“All right, Stan, I’m listening.”
He took a healthy swig of beer before he started talking.
“First you got to know something about me. I’m from New York, and I’ve been telling jokes all my life. I
was the class clown in high school, you know?”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“Tilden High School, in Brooklyn.”
I’d tried to get into Tilden when I was a kid. My grades held me back. Maybe Waldrop was the class clown, but he was no dummy.
I was smart enough to know that. There was a joker in every class, but few of them went on to be professional comics. In fact, they paid so little attention that few of them went on to become professional anythings.
“I wasn’t a real good student, you know?” he said, as if to confirm my thoughts.”
“You got into Tilden.”
He waved that away.
“I was an okay student in junior high, but once I got to high school I went south. I didn’t have a good enough memory to retain everything they were teaching. When I got out of high school I started working as a comic. I’d take any kind of job, parties, weddings—yeah, I did weddings—bar mitzvahs, too.”
“I’ve never seen a comic at a wedding.”
“Well, I did it. I worked odd jobs while I tried to perfect my craft. I didn’t do real well in the beginning. Do you know why?”
“No, why?”
“Same reason I stunk in school. I’ve got no memory. I kept forgetting the jokes.”
“That sounds like it would be a definite problem for a comic.”
“It was, but then I got smart and I started writing them down. I mean, every time I came up with a new joke it went into a book.”
“A joke book?”
“You could call it that. A joke book, a diary, whatever A few years ago I got myself a computer and now I’ve got my jokes in there.”
“I see.”
“That is, I did have them in there.”
“Did? What happened—did you, uh, what is it, delete them?” I wasn’t exactly computer literate, but sometimes you just pick up the lingo.
“I didn’t,” he said, “but somebody sure as hell did. I went into my joke file yesterday, only it wasn’t there.”
“How could that happen?”
“I don’t know. Either somebody got into my apartment and erased it, or somebody did it by phone.”
“That can be done?”
“Sure. I’ve got a modem and somebody could have called in, accessed the file, copied it, and then erased it.”
That much lingo lost me, but I caught the gist of what he meant.
“Why would somebody do that?”
“To steal my act!”
“Is that generally done?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of Henny Youngman? He stole everybody’s jokes.”
“I thought that was a joke.”
“Well, in my case I ain’t laughing. Somebody’s got my jokes, Mr. Jacoby, and I’d like to hire you to find them for me.”
I didn’t know if he meant the jokes or the thief, but I didn’t ask. It had to be one or the other
“Stan, what makes you think somebody has them? What if they just erased them?”
“No,” Waldrop said, “I think somebody is trying to steal my jokes and ruin me. Look, I got a lousy memory, but I’m a good joke writer.”
I stared at him.
“Who parted the Arctic Ocean?” he asked.
“What?”
“Who parted the Arctic Ocean?”
I caught it the second time. It was a joke.
“Who?”
“Eski-Moses.”
I smiled.
“I remember that one because it’s so good.”
“It’s funny.”
“I know it’s funny, and so is my other stuff. Please, Mr. Jacoby, without my jokes I’m dead.”
“Can’t you write some more?”
“I can, but it would take time, lots of time, and I’ve got a chance to do Comic Relief next month, on HBO. Billy called me.”
“Billy?”
“Billy Crystal. He and Robin Williams and Whoopi host Comic Relief.”
Whoopi could only be Whoopi Goldberg. I didn’t spend a lot of time watching TV but I knew that much. On occasion I saw a movie. Some years back I saw one called Jumpin’ Jack Flash, and she was in it. It wasn’t bad.
“I don’t know if I can write a whole new act by then. I need my jokes or I’m gonna miss out on this big break.”
I didn’t know if I wanted any part of this. I needed a way to say no.
“Who sent you to me, Stan?”
“A friend of yours.”
“Who?”
He hesitated, then said, “She asked me not to say.”
“Why not?”
“She said she wanted you to take my case on merit, not because she sent me.”
Whoever my friend was, she was right. If she was a good enough friend I would have felt compelled to take him on as a favor to her.
Whoever she was.
“Whataya say, Mr. Jacoby?”
“Have you heard of the new drink, the Tonya Bobbitt?”
“Club soda with a slice,” he said with a grin. “Don’t quit your day job.”
5
We discussed my fee. Waldrop said he wasn’t rich, but that my fee wouldn’t be a problem. I wanted to tell him that he caught me at just the right time. My fees were about to go up.
After I’d collected all of Waldrop’s personal data—address, telephone number, hours to contact him—I asked him to give me some names and addresses of colleagues he might suspect. In addition, I got the name and address of his agent.
“Do you want to see me work?” he asked suddenly.
“Uh, sure, why not?”
“I’m appearing at a place in the Village tomorrow night. I’ll leave your name at the door It’s seven P.M.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Bring a friend. I do some stuff with the audience, and we’ll have some fun.” He scribbled the address of the club on a napkin.
“I’ll see if I can find somebody.”
He left and I went back behind the bar.
“Is he funny in person?” Stilwell asked.
“A riot.”
“We gotta go,” Taylor said. “We’re meetin’ somebody.”
I got the feeling that they weren’t taking their suspension lightly at all, and that they were just killing time here.
“Watch your step, guys. If you need any help, give me a call.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Taylor said.
“Hey,” Stilwell said, “if you need any help, give us a call. We could use something to do.”
“Sure.”
As they left, Geneva turned to me. “What did the funny white dude want?”
“That’s confidential, Geneva,” I said. “You know that.”
“I’ll give you something confidential . . .”
I laughed and told her what Waldrop wanted me to do.
“You mean he’s got to write everything down? What does he do, stand up on stage with a big cue card?”
“Do you want to see what he does? He invited me to his show tomorrow night.”
“Oh, no,” Geneva said, “I got better things to do with my time than watch some sad-looking white dude try to be funny on stage.”
“Suit yourself, but you’re probably going to be missing a great time.”
“I’ll live.”
Something occurred to me then.
“Gen?”
“Yo.”
“Don’t we have a regular who’s in show business?”
She leaned back against the cash register and thought a moment. It was a nice pose.
“I know who you mean,” she said. “Guy who’s always braggin’ that he works in TV? Faggy-looking guy with poofed-up hair?”
“That’s him. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Ask Marty when he comes in, maybe he knows.” She pushed away from the register. “I don’t keep track of the faggy-lookin’ guys who come in here—which means I don’t keep track of most of our customers.”
I was trying to think of a comeback when the phone rang.
“You wanna get that?” Geneva asked.
“You’re the manager.”
“You the owner.”
She got me there.
“Jack?”
It was Heck Delgado, a lawyer friend of mine I sometimes did some work for. He had his own investigators, but every once in a while he found some work to toss my way. In fact, he had even worked with Walker Blue once or twice. Missy, who used to be Eddie Waters’s secretary, went to work for Heck after Eddie was killed. Since then I’d always wondered if the two of them hadn’t started some other kind of relationship.
“Hello, Heck. What’s going on?”
“Miles, could you come to my office later this afternoon?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“A job you might be interested in,” Heck said. “I’ll give you the details when you get here. Around three this afternoon, okay?”
“Sure, Heck, I’ll be there.”
As I hung up Marty showed up for work, late as usual.
“Sorry, Boss—”
“Forget it. You got here before the lunch rush, that’s what counts. Hey, Marty, wait a minute.”
Marty’s a student at NYU and usually drops his books in the back when he arrives. Now he put them on top of the bar and turned to face me.
“Yeah, Boss?”
“There’s a guy who comes in here sometimes who’s pretty loud about working in TV.”
“Frank Silvero.”
“That’s his name?”
“That’s it.”
“Is he on the level?”
“I think so. Either that or he talks a good game.”
“What kind of work does he do?”
“I don’t know for sure, but he claims he works on some sitcoms.”
“If he comes in here today or tomorrow, do me a favor, will you? See if you can get me his phone number.”
“You looking to break into TV?”
“I’m working on a case, and I think he might be able to help me. I just want to ask him some questions.”
“He’ll probably be interested in talking to you, all right,” Marty said. “He thinks a P.I. who owns a bar might be a good idea for TV.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, he thinks he could make a sitcom out of it.”
“A sitcom?”
Marty shrugged and went around behind the bar. He goosed Geneva as he passed her; she took a futile swipe at him.
Stand-up Page 2
