Stand-up

by Robert J. Randisi

  It was three-fifty-five when I stepped off the elevator on the eleventh floor and walked to the door marked jonathan healy associates. The office building was on Seventh Avenue in the fifties, just a couple of blocks west of the CBS building.

  The woman walking to the chair behind the desk could have been an actress. I don’t know if she had the ability, but she certainly had the looks. She was wearing a solid blue, silk, double-breasted jacket and matching skirt with a white lace top visible beneath it. The high heels she wore were the same shade of blue as the suit. Her stockings were flesh-toned nylons. Her hair was that shade that’s too dark to be blond, but too light to be anything else. Her eyes were a startling blue, and she bore an amazing resemblance to that actress who had played on the final season of Charlie’s Angels and had then gone on to play Sheena of the Jungle in a movie—Tanya Roberts.

  “Can I help you?”

  She had a deep voice, the one I’d heard on the phone earlier in the day.

  “Yes, I’m here to see Mr. Healy.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “He’s expecting me,” I said. “My name is Jacoby.”

  “One moment.” She used the intercom. “Mr. Jacoby is here, Mr. Healy.”

  “Send him in.” The voice was tinny over the intercom, but I recognized it anyway.

  “Go right in.”

  I hesitated.

  “Has anyone ever told you you look like—”

  “All the time.” She rolled her eyes. “I wish she’d never made that jungle movie.”

  I nodded and went right in.

  Healy turned out to be a tall, dark-haired man in his late fifties. He was seated behind his desk, wearing a white shirt and a green tie, which had been loosened. There was a jacket on the back of his char that was—I swear—purple. Judging from the stale smell in the office, and the overflowing ashtray, he was a heavy smoker. Even so, he did not have a cigarette lit at the moment.

  “Jacoby?”

  “That’s right.”

  He didn’t rise, but he did offer his hand for a very brief, unenthusiastic handshake.

  “Sit, sit. You literally have . . .” he checked his watch “. . . twelve minutes.”

  “I’ll do the best I can. Stan Waldrop came to me yesterday morning and hired me to find out who stole his jokes.”

  “How did they do that?”

  “Apparently, right out of his computer.”

  As I said that he looked at his computer for a moment, and then back at me. “What do you want from me?”

  “Well, for one thing, you can tell me about Stan Waldrop.”

  “He’s a comic with a mediocre talent.”

  “Then why do you represent him?”

  “Because he works,” Healy said. “When he stops bringing in money, I’ll stop representing him.”

  “Do you see him hitting it big in the future?”

  “No, but then who heard of Jerry Seinfeld a few years ago?”

  “So you keep him on, just in case.”

  “As I said, Mr. Jacoby,” he answered, looking at his watch, “he works.”

  “Does he usually worry about people stealing his jokes?”

  “Actually,” Healy said, “I don’t see much of Stan. I have begun letting Miss Legend handle some of my . . . less important clients.”

  “Miss Legend?”

  “The young woman sitting outside?”

  “Oh,” I said, “Miss Legend.” How fitting. “What’s Miss Legend’s first name?”

  “Andrea.”

  “May I speak to her about this?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I can probably finish up here a few minutes early,” I said, standing up.

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Oh, one thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you represented Stan?”

  “About four years.”

  “Okay, Mr. Healy, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Mmm,” he said, and looked at his watch.

  16

  “Miss Legend.”

  She looked up from her desk, which was fairly clean. There was a laptop computer on it, though, and that’s what she was looking at as I came out of Healy’s office.

  “Yes?”

  “I understand from Mr. Healy that you handle Stan Waldrop’s bookings.”

  “I do.”

  “Does that mean you spend much time talking with him?”

  She sat back in her chair, which did nice things for her chest—which didn’t need much help. I admit to loving to look at beautiful women, and I admit to having sexist thoughts when I do. I don’t apologize for it. Like Elvis said in Jailhouse Rock, “it’s the beast in me.”

  “We speak on the phone. I’ve had lunch with him a couple of times.”

  If it had been lunchtime, I would have asked her to have lunch with me.

  I explained to her why I’d been hired by Waldrop, and then asked the same question I’d asked her boss, about Stan having his jokes stolen.

  “He’s mentioned it once or twice.”

  “Mentioned it how, exactly?”

  “Just that he thought somebody might be trying to steal his act.”

  “Was he . . . insistent about it?”

  She smiled.

  “I think what you want to know is if he was paranoid about it.”

  Smart woman.

  “That’s it exactly.”

  “No, he wasn’t. In fact, I don’t think he worried about it any more than most entertainers.”

  “Miss Legend—may I call you Andrea?”

  She hesitated, probably wondering if she’d ever see me again.

  “I don’t see why not, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Jacoby.”

  Put me in my place. Nicely done.

  “Andrea, how do you grade Stan as a comic?”

  “He’s . . . funny.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Mr. Jacoby—”

  “Miles.”

  She hesitated, probably wondering again.

  “Miles . . . that is just about the highest praise you can give a comic.”

  “I see,” I said. “Then you think he deserves the highest praise?”

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that he’s funny.”

  And that seemed to be all I was going to get out of Andrea Legend.

  “One more thing, if you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “When I asked Stan who his agent was, he gave me Mr. Healy’s name, not yours. Why is that?”

  “The agency belongs to Mr. Healy, and it is the agency that represents the client.”

  “So technically speaking, you’re not Stan’s agent, Mr. Healy is.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I see. Well, Miss Legend—Andrea—thanks for your help.”

  “May I ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think somebody stole his jokes?”

  “Well, there’s a big blank space in his computer where they used to be.”

  “I hope you can help him then.”

  “I hope so too. Thanks.”

  I would have loved to call her Andy, but didn’t dare. I wondered, as the elevator door closed, if anyone had that right.

  17

  It was five-fifteen when I got off the elevator on Heck’s floor. When I walked in I didn’t expect to find Missy there, but she was seated behind her desk.

  “Hi.”

  “Hello, Miles.”

  “Working late?”

  “I’m just waiting for Heck,” she said, and then added hastily, “we’re going to have dinner.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Go right in. He’s waiting for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I went into Heck’s office, where he was seated behind his desk in shirtsleeves, writing something.

  “Momento,” he said, and I wondered if he was so deep in concentration that he hadn’t realized he’d spoken Spa
nish tome.

  I sat down and waited for him to finish what he was doing.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, finally looking up. “I was just making some notes.”

  “That’s okay. How was your day?”

  “My morning was very interesting, the rest of the day about the same as any other.”

  “Your interview?”

  He nodded.

  “What’s Pesce have to say for himself?”

  “He’s charged with killing a bookie named Michael Bonetti. Know him?”

  “I know of him.”

  “Is there a Bonetti Family that I should know about?”

  “He’s got a family, but not the way you mean.”

  He nodded his satisfaction with my answer

  “Bonetti was beaten to death.”

  “Is Pesce the type?”

  “He’s not a bruiser, but I guess he could have done it.”

  “Did he?”

  “He says no.”

  “Who does he say did it?”

  Heck hesitated, and I knew the answer before he said it. “Ray Carbone.”

  “No.”

  “He says he hired Carbone as a bodyguard, and it was in that capacity that Carbone killed Bonetti.”

  “What do the cops say about that?”

  Heck shook his head. “Bonetti has not told this to the police.”

  “Why not?”

  “He says Carbone saved his life, and he won’t rat him out.”

  “He’s going to be a stand-up guy on this and take the rap?”

  “Not exactly. He wants us to find Carbone and get him to come in on his own. If it looks like we’re going to go to trial without Carbone, then he’ll talk.”

  “That won’t get him off the hook.”

  “Maybe not, but it will have the cops looking for Ray as more than just a material witness.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I don’t have to believe him to defend him, Miles.”

  “Help me out here, Heck. Do you believe him?”

  “I’m not sure. He seems sincere, but I’ve dealt with clients before who have seemed sincere and then confessed—also seeming sincere.”

  “But you’re going to defend him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Tyler?”

  “What about him?”

  “Will he be co-counsel?”

  “No.”

  “Tyler was on Ray’s answering machine tape, two messages, probably left before he came to see you.”

  Heck frowned. “So he tried to contact Ray before contacting us. That wasn’t what Pesce wanted.”

  “Maybe Tyler figured that if he could turn up Ray, Pesce would let him handle the defense.”

  “Maybe,” Heck said, still frowning. “I’ll talk to him about it. What else did you find out?”

  “Nobody in Ray’s building has seen him for a few days. He’s the super, so if he was there somebody would have seen him. I still haven’t talked to everyone, so I’ll be going back. I also talked to Joy, his girlfriend, and she hasn’t seen him since Monday night. When was the murder?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “How did the cops get onto Pesce?”

  “He looked good for it, and when they questioned him he had bruised hands.”

  “What’s he say about that?”

  “He says he got in a fight with someone else.”

  “That what he told you?”

  “Yes. He said he got in a fight with two of Bonetti’s men, which is why he called Ray for protection.”

  “I’ve got to tell you, Heck, I don’t see it. Ray’s a hard guy, but he knows when to stop hitting somebody. He wouldn’t just beat somebody to death.”

  “Then find him for me.”

  “And if he says he didn’t do it?”

  “I’ll have just as much reason to believe him as Pesce.”

  “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Pesce’s your client.”

  18

  Linda Matella had beauty-contest looks. There was no other way to put it. She was tall, about five ten, and blond—she was lots of blond! She was probably too full-bodied to have been a real beauty-contest winner. But along with the face, and hair, and body, and long, incredible legs, Linda had a brain. She had the makings of a good cop, maybe a good detective, but the last time I had seen her she was about to give it up. She said they just weren’t giving her a chance because of her looks, and she was fed up with fielding all the remarks and innuendos.

  “I’m tired of working as a dispatcher,” she’d said, “and they won’t transfer me to a precinct.”

  As I rode up the elevator of her building—which was on West End Avenue and Eighty-third Street—I was hoping things had changed for her. It would be a shame to see her waste the five years she had on the job.

  Before going to pick Linda up I’d made the call I wanted to make to Saxon, in L.A. His assistant, a lady named Jo Zeidler, told me to hold on and then put me through.

  I hadn’t called him before, so we went through the amenities first.

  “Eddie was a good man,” he said finally. “I’m honored to be in his book. What can I do for you, Mr. Jacoby?”

  “Miles.”

  “Okay, Miles. How can I help?”

  “You’re an actor as well as a P.I., right?”

  “Some people might argue that point, but yes, essentially you’re right.”

  “I’ve got a case here involving somebody in show business. He’s a stand-up comic.”

  “That’s a funny coincidence. I just recently had a case involving a comedian.”

  “What kind of people am I dealing with, Saxon? As a whole, I mean.”

  “As a whole the comedian—or stand-up comic—might be the saddest person I know . . .”

  He went on to explain that, like any performer, they were either not getting enough credit, or they were getting too much credit, and they didn’t know how to do either gracefully.

  “They’ve been dealing in laughs so long, though, that they’re constantly reaching for one, even in the most serious situations.”

  “How much, uh, stealing goes on among them? I mean, stealing of jokes, uh, material.”

  “You’ve probably heard the old Henny Youngman stories?”

  “Yes, I have. I, uh, thought they were old stories until I talked to my client.”

  “Henny Youngman had a brilliant delivery. He and the other older comics, like Berle and Benny, were always teasing about stolen jokes. These days comics’ routines are so individual I would think less of it went on. After all, who could deliver lines the way Robin Williams does? He’s a brilliant improv man.”

  “Improv.”

  “He improvises from moment to moment the way Jonathan Winters used to do. I’m sure he never writes anything down. Even if he did, it would change ten times before it finally came out of his mouth.”

  “But it does go on, right?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I’m more at home talking about actors and actresses, Miles. Maybe I should give you the phone number of a friend of mine.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A comic named Tommy Sledge. Maybe you’ve seen him on cable. He does his act dressed as a classic P.I.”

  “I have seen him.” Just once, I remembered, while I was in a bar that had cable. They had HBO on, and this guy came out with the trench coat, fedora, cigarette, and a rapid-fire delivery of funny lines. He started on stage and then worked the audience brilliantly, getting them involved in the act, all the time staying in the persona of a hardboiled P.I. I remembered thinking that he was the perfect cliché. Me, I don’t even own a trench coat.

  “Maybe Tommy can help you out.”

  He gave me Sledge’s number, and I wrote it in my notebook.

  “Give him a call,” Saxon said. “Hopefully, he’s in town and not on tour. He’s a busy guy.”

  “I’ll give him a try. Thanks, Saxon. I owe you.”

 
“I’ll collect.”

  I tried Tommy Sledge immediately, but got no answer. I decided to try him again tomorrow. It was time to pick up Linda and catch Stan Waldrop’s act.

  Linda gave me a long hug. She felt good and looked good, and I told her so. She was wearing a white lace bodysuit under a chocolate-colored blazer, with off-white trousers. She was the second woman I had seen that day wearing a lace top of some kind. I’m dense, but I’d guess they were in style.

  “Jesus, you smell great too,” I said, releasing her reluctantly.

  “New perfume.” She stepped back into the apartment to let me enter

  “What’s it called?”

  “‘Red’.”

  I didn’t say, “Couldn’t you find one called ‘Blond’?” She got enough of that kind of thing at work.

  “Are you ready to go? I’ve got a cab downstairs.”

  “I just need a minute.”

  She took ten, but it was worth the wait. In heels she was just a little taller than I was, but that didn’t bother me. I just stood next to her in the elevator and felt good.

  “Where are we going again?”

  “I have an address in the Village, on Bleecker, but he didn’t give me the name of the place.”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. His name’s Stan Waldrop, he’s a stand-up comic.”

  “I never heard of him.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  “I want your honest opinion of him.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Not really. I just want to know if you think he’s funny.”

  In the cab she asked, “Is this business or pleasure?”

  “He’s a new client.”

  “What’s his problem?”

  It took the rest of the ride for me to explain it to her. When we reached our destination, I saw that the place was new, but the location was old. I knew of at least four other clubs or restaurants that had tried to make a go of it here in the last year and a half and had failed. This time it was called “The Comic Look.” Obviously, it was a straight comedy club.

  We went inside, and I stopped at the box office to give my name.