The Bones (35 page)

"That hurt."

Mercy slides back into the car without saying anything else, jams it into gear, and peels out. Frank stares after her, impressed
by the show of force.

"Babe!" Frank says, shocked.

"Hi, Frank," Lloyd says, seated in a chair and grinning. Frank has just walked into his room after having been excoriated
by Mercy, and Lloyd's presence interrupts his self-recriminations.

"What are you doing here?"

"I came to help you," Lloyd informs him. Frank doesn't respond for a moment as he weighs the depth of his quickly recalled
anger toward Lloyd. Yes, Lloyd had punted when Frank asked for his help, but, then, he was a familiar and sympathetic face
and those have been in short supply recently. He could throw Lloyd out but that would be little more than petty revenge for
something that had occurred in what at this point was another life. Meanwhile, Lloyd sits there awaiting a response. He's
self-conscious and silently beseeching Frank not to eject him.

"Who let you in?"

"The maid. I told her I was a writer on
The Fleishman Show
and the doors flew open. Who knew the Jewish thing played in Tulsa?"

"Where you staying?"

"Room twenty-eight."

"Here?"

"I checked in half an hour ago."

Frank looks at Lloyd seated in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, smiling as if in anticipation of a great adventure,
and suddenly feels a bone-deep weariness overtaking him. The cumulative effect of the events of the last few days begins to
press on him with the inexorable force of gravity. Frank sits on the bed. "Welcome to Tulsa," he says in a tone the Chamber
of Commerce would not appreciate, and lies down. Even if he wanted to throw Lloyd out, he doesn't have the energy.

"I went back to the LAX Gun Club," Lloyd tells him. When there is no response, he continues, "Learned how to handle a weapon.
Zip taught me."

Frank stares at the celling, watching a spider spin a web. "So how are you going to help?"

"No comedian is going to shoot anyone, Frank. Forget Cleveland, what happened there. Your mouth's a safety valve. Steam builds
up, it gets released."

"Your point being . . .?"

"You're innocent. I thought maybe I could help get you off."

"Now you want to lend a hand, Lloyd? Not when we were in L.A. but now?"

"I feel bad about what I did back there. I should have helped you out."

"Yeah, you should have."

"I was having my own problems, but never mind. I want to make it up to you."

"Babe, this conversation is exhausting me. I don't know what you think you can do, so do me a favor and leave. I need to get
some sleep."

Dismissed, Lloyd rises from the chair and walks to the door. Before he opens it, he turns to Frank, saying, "I want to write
a book about you."

Even in his battered state, Frank's self-promotional sensors are on alert. "What kind of book?" he murmurs from the depths
of his fatigue.

"I don't know exactly. I'm thinking it'll take shape as I start to write it. I just know it's a good story."

"Fuck off, Lloyd."

"Frank . . ."

"I said fuck off."

Lloyd hesitates a moment, deciding whether to press his case. Then, realizing Frank won't be going anywhere and they will
be able to resume this conversation later, Lloyd opens the door and walks out of the room, leaving Frank to drift off to a
hard, dreamless sleep.

Returning to Room 28, Lloyd turns on his laptop and begins to write—about New York in the early days, about Los Angeles, and
about the encounter that just took place in the motel room. Two hours later he has written fifteen pages and he's feeling
good.

Frank is awakened out of a deep sleep by the persistent ringing of the telephone. It's Otis calling to say Vida Suarez has
agreed to book him into Club Louie the following night, the American desire to make a buck trumping the potentially awkward
situation of hiring her husband's accused killer to perform in the nightclub she inherited at his death. Frank hangs up wondering
what the comedy etiquette is for appearing on stage while under indictment for murder. Robert calls a few minutes later wanting
to know why Frank had not retained Roscoe Barnwell as his counsel. After Frank tells him about Otis Cain, Robert says, "I've
gotten some interesting calls today. A couple of very big players are talking about acquiring your life rights for a movie."

A week ago, Frank might have cared.

Mercy pulls into the driveway of her small rented house and sees Clay Porter sitting on the front steps, the gold toes of
his cowboy boots glinting in the sun. He rises as she gets out of the car, saying, "Can I talk to you for a minute, girl?"

"What about?" Suspicious. She doesn't like Clay Porter.

"Tino had something he shouldn't have had. He was going to give it to me the night he was killed."

"And?"

"Did he do anything peculiar that day?"

"He was his charmin' self. Are we done?"

"What's with you and Frank Bones?"

"He's nothin' to me."

From a window she watches Clay drive away. The phone rings as he disappears from sight. She lets the machine pick it up.

It says,
I'm not in right now. Please leave a message at the beep.

"Mercy, it's your husband, baby. I just want you to know I'm watching you."

Not only did I marry an asshole,
she's thinking,
he talks like a cheesy stalker.

Mercy bought a gun when she and Creed started having problems, and she hid it in her closet. Now she goes to check if it's
loaded.

At eight o'clock the next evening the parking lot of Club Louie is packed. The sign in front of the club reads TONITE—FRANK
BONES—SOLD OUT. Groups of guys, groups of girls, and couples stream through the cars toward the club, where a long line of
people is filing in, notoriety a great selling tool. The air in the club is electric with dark anticipation, the kind seen
at a witch burning or a public duel, rituals where malign forces compel human eyes to focus on a morbid spectacle in which
the only end is death. To watch a man twirl on the edge of an abyss by the simple act of paying a cover charge and agreeing
to a two-drink minimum, to see him walk and talk and tell jokes, twisting, writhing while impaled on a large pin, is an opportunity
some people cannot resist.

Frank comes onstage a few minutes after nine and surveys the packed room for a few moments, letting the tension build. The
beginning of a smirk plays on his face. At this sign, there are titters in the audience. Now Frank smiles, releasing the valve,
and a few of the more relaxed audience members laugh.

I
want to thank the management for booking me when Charles Manson canceled.

The place erupts in laughter as the crowd releases their jumpy energy. Frank shakes his head, gives a short, disbelieving
laugh himself. Bobbie Jo is serving drinks to a table where Faron Pike and Clay Porter are seated, two cops not enjoying a
night on the town. Otis and Manny Escobar sit together at another table. Lloyd stands in the back, taking notes. Out of the
comer of his eyes, Frank sees the bartender leave her post and come into the room. No one's in the bar so Mercy figures she
can watch Frank.

I
really killed the other night. That's the point of this comedy thing .
. .
to kill. I slayed 'em. I knocked 'em dead. I destroyed 'em. I killed. That's the whole idea. To kill. I kill and you die.
On a good night that's what happens. Sometimes I only maim, but when I'm really good . . . I kill. Where's the comic nuance
if I pull a Glock out of my pants and blow some guy's dick off? Not that anyone's dick was blown off in the situation we're
all thinking about, but it's a funny body part and always good for a cheap laugh. But I won't pander. I can tell you're a
discerning bunch of sophisticates. I see we have some police out there tonight. These guys love me. Come on, stand up and
take a bow!

Faron and Clay are not amused at being brought into the act and remain stone-faced, riveted to their chairs.

Okay, they're being modest. Well, they have a lot to be modest about. How many people think I'm innocent? Let's have a show
of hands.

Half the hands in the place go up and an audience member shouts, "You didn't do it!"

Thanks, pal. Last week I couldn't get arrested. But now, not only can I get arrested, I can get charged with murder and a
guy can write a book about me. They'll make the book into a movie. Only in America
—
the response to someone charged with a capital crime
—
"We think you killed someone! Let's do a movie!" I can't get a fuckin' sitcom on the air but now they want to do a movie about
me.
Frank Bones, Wanted Comic.
At a theater near you. It'll be classy, too. I'll go on Barbara Walters and make her cry. I'll be in all the tabloids again
but I'll get much bigger play this time. I'll get billing above the two-headed boy from Mississippi who was abducted by aliens
and made to have sex with Monica Lewinsky while the ghost of JFK Jr. watched. I'll get a show on Nickelodeon because we're
all cartoon characters now. Tabloid freaks in America, man. I'll get a penile implant and go on
Jerry Springer.
I
'
II
go on
Oprah
and talk about recovered memory. I'll remember I was a black woman, and that black woman
—
me, ladies and gentlemen
—
will have lunch with Geraldo. No, I'll have Geraldo for lunch. I'll eat Geraldo. "Today on our show, killer cannibal comics."
I'll have a charity. Frank's Kids. They'll have a disease that makes them act like Jerry Lewis. They'll all be on my telethon
and I'll be famous for being famous. And you can all be on the show with me! Who wants to be on the show?

Two young female fans fawn over Frank in the bar later. The tube dresses they're both wearing encase their fleshy bodies like
sausages. Large hoop earrings hang below their big hair. Frank is signing the breast of one with a felt-tipped pen as her
friend looks on, giggling. He got offstage an hour ago, and after doing two quick interviews with stringers from
Variety
and the
Los Angeles Times,
he has been greeting admirers who have been vocal both in their appreciation of the show and in their faith in his innocence.
These two have hung around, hoping to participate in some of the Bones madness, swooping and diving, moths to the fame.

"Wanna party later?" repeats the one whose flesh has just been autographed. The ignoring of her two previous entreaties has
not dampened her ardor. She's had four mai tais and is in danger of throwing up on Frank's shoes, but this does not dissuade
her from trying to appear seductive.

"We were with Cheetah Thayer last month," the other says by way of inducement.

"Maybe tomorrow," Frank tells her, turning away, indicating the exchange has ended. After some inebriated grumbling, the girls
totter off, disappointed they won't have his pelt to hang on their wall.

At the end of the bar, Otis Cain looks up from the beer Lloyd has bought him and says, "You can't just write an unauthorized
book," friendly but firm.

Lloyd says, "It's the public domain, isn't it?"

"You need life rights. You're from Hollywood, Lloyd. You oughtta know that."

"It's about Frank and me."

"You gonna write about the trial?"

"Sure, that's a part of it."

"You're thinking maybe it's a movie?"

"Maybe, yeah."

"Then you gotta get my rights and I'm not selling tonight."

Lloyd looks into Otis's face for an indication that he's not really going to play this card, but none is forthcoming.

Frank is talking to Mercy at the opposite end of the bar. "You still mad at me?"

"You're damn right I am. You know that girl whose implant you just signed?
That
is a groupie."

"Cut me some slack, okay? This indictment is playing with my stress level."

"Try and do right by someone and they cast aspersions on your character."

"Aspersions?"

"Hey, I do the
TV Guide
crossword, okay?"

Now Vida approaches, brandishing a wad of cash. Otis, having seen the money, abandons Lloyd and drifts over as Vida says,
"You want to count it?" Frank takes the money and shoots the bills off his fingers onto the bar. All there.

"Thanks," he says, and Vida walks away from the man accused of killing her husband, smiling.

Otis says to Frank, "You know that guy over there wants to write a book about you?" as Mercy excuses herself and walks out
from behind the bar.

"Mind if I talk to you later?" Lloyd asks her. "I'm not trying to pick you up. It's for something I'm writing."

"Sure thing." Mercy moves across the room and down a short hall with a pay phone to a door marked FILLIES. Pushing open the
door, she's greeted by the sight of Bobbie Jo standing with her back to the sink, skirt hiked above her hips and her legs
wrapped around Creed. As soon as they see her, they disengage. Mercy notices her husband is holding a handkerchief in his
hand, then realizes it's Bobbie Jo's panties.

"Excuse me, Creed," Mercy says, dead calm. When you're done snakin' Bobbie Jo, I'd like to use the ladies' room."

Bobbie Jo slides off the sink and smoothes her skirt down. "He told me you were gettin' divorced."

Lloyd looks up from his beer to see Mercy striding across the bar toward the door. "Miss?" he says, holding his hand up, but
she doesn't even see him. Lloyd throws some money on the bar, slides off the stool, and follows her out.

In the nearly deserted parking lot of Club Louie, Otis is telling Frank, "Don't be talking to nobody unless I check 'em out
for you. That writer in there? He's looking for the main chance, Frank. All kinds of people looking for the main chance."

"And you're in it because of the inner goodness you have?"

"I didn't say Otis Cain ain't gonna get a taste, but that's 'cause we're a team. You scratch my ass and I keep yours outta
the fryin' pan."

Mercy yells, "Goddammit," and walks quickly toward the men. "You wanna make it up to me for insultin' my womanly virtue?"