The Man Who Cancelled Himself (22 page)

Marjorie reappeared, pie box in hand and a sparkly smile on her young face. It was as if she’d inhaled something in there. She led me to the door, where Lulu waited.

“Do you like Harry Connick, Jr.?” she asked.

“I think he should be stuffed in a trash compactor. Preferably while in the act of singing.”

“Oh.” She reddened. “Then I guess you wouldn’t …”

“I wouldn’t what?”

“Nothing.” She lunged for the door and opened it. “Good night. See you at tomorrow’s run-through.”

“I wouldn’t what?”

She swallowed. “I happen to have these two tickets to see him at Carnegie Hall on Saturday night. And I thought that now that we’re working together, if you were a fan of his we could …”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Oh, heavens, no,” she gasped, horrified. “Like I said, I simply thought that if you liked him we could … but since you don’t … oh, never mind. Good night, okay?” She bit her lip, supremely stung.

I sighed inwardly. I’d left her hanging out to dry. A gentleman doesn’t do that. At least he’s not supposed to. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid Lyle occupies most of my nights these days. I’ll have to let you know, okay?”

“Okay,” she said coolly.

“If you get a better offer, take it.”

“I will, believe me.”

I smiled at her. “Good night, Marjorie.”

Grudgingly, she smiled back at me. “Good night, Stewart.”

“My mother calls me Stewart.”

“Does that mean you don’t want me to?”

“I’ll let you know about that, too.”

Lulu glowered at me the whole way down in the elevator.

My phone was ringing as I came in the door. Tommy Meyer. “You don’t want this shit, man. Don’t want it.” His voice was thick, his words slurred. He was drunk. “Don’t go near it. Stay away, y’hear?”

“Stay away from what, Tommy?”

I heard shrieks of laughter in the background. Raucous, dirty laughter. Women, two or three of them. A glass shattered.

“Where are you, Tommy?”

“My wife …”

“What about her?”

“She’s so ugly I wouldn’t fuck her with
your
dick.”

“Especially if you got a good, close look at it.”

“Stay away, Hoagy,” he warned. “Stay away.” I heard a muffled noise, then the phone went dead.

I undressed. The phone rang again a few minutes later.

“Did my partner just bother you?” Marty sounded alert and sober. Also worried.

“No.”

“He didn’t call you?”

“He called me. But he didn’t bother me.”

“Oh.” Marty was silent a moment. “Look, I apologize, Hoagy. Tommy goes through these periods where he sort of loses it. I’m trying to say he has a drinking problem. He knows it, and he’s working on it. But Lyle doesn’t know anything about this, and sensitive he’s not. What I mean is—”

“He won’t hear about it from me.”

“You’re okay, Hoagy,” he said, greatly relieved.

“I haven’t been okay since they decided to bring back bell-bottom trousers.”

“Good line. Can I steal it?”

“It’s yours. Do you always clean up after him?”

“Partners have to do a little bit of everything for each other,” Marty said heavily. Then he hung up.

I went to bed. I dreamt I was on
Wheel of Fortune.
In fact, I was nailed right to the wheel. Merilee, in a sequined maternity gown and bouffant hairdo, was spinning me around and around. Lyle was throwing knives at me. They were made of rubber, these knives, and they tickled. Every time he hit me I laughed. So did Lulu, who brayed like a donkey. I laughed again and again. It was so easy to laugh. I was laughing my ass off when the phone woke me.

“Get your skinny butt in here, Hoagster.” Lyle, in his command mode.

I peered at my clock on the nightstand. It was nine-thirty. “A wake-up call really isn’t necessary, Lyle.”

“Yeah, it is. Somebody just bombed the set.”

I
T WAS THE SET
for the Japanese restaurant to be exact, the one where Rob and Deirdre were going to eat on their revised first date. All gone now—the shoji screen walls, the tables, the bonzai planters nothing more than a heap of smashed, charred sticks awash in fire extinguisher foam. One wall of the kitchen had also burned. It too was bathed in foam. Firemen were clomping around. Also a detail from the bomb squad and a couple of uniforms. Lyle, in his mask and gloves and caftan, was bellowing at all of them, demanding to know who knew what and did what and why. Most of the cast and crew were over by the bleachers, drinking coffee in stunned silence. The Boys and Annabelle. Katrina. Leo. Chad and Fiona. Amber and The Munchkins. Lulu sniffed delicately at the edge of the debris, the cops eyeing her. One cop in particular.

Not that Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very looked like a cop. Very was a short, muscular, deeply tanned street kid in his twenties with soft brown eyes, wavy black hair, an earring, and a degree in Romance Languages from Columbia. He wore a tank top of purple nylon, canvas trail shorts, knee socks, and a pair of all-terrain hiking boots. On a cord around his neck was a pair of mountaineering shades with round, mirrored lenses and leather nose shields. He looked like he was all set to scale the Chrysler Building. He stood there watching Lulu for a moment, hands on his narrow hips, biceps rippling. Then he came over to me with his chin thrust defiantly in the air. It was Very who’d handled the trouble when I got mixed up with Cam Noyes. We’d parted company with a truce, but it wasn’t one that would stand up to trouble. This qualified as trouble.

“Yo, what’s happening, dude?” he asked, nodding his head rhythmically as if he heard his own hip-hop beat. The man had a serious intensity problem, as in he had too much of it.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. Anyone injured?”

He shook his head, his jaw working on a wad of gum. “Where you at with this?”

“The usual.”

He made a face. “That would be, what, pissing people off and withholding evidence and generally making things a whole lot shittier than they have to be?”

“That about covers it,” I replied.

He gave me the once-over. I’d switched to the oyster gray herringbone suit of featherweight silk that I’d had made for me at Strickland’s. With it I wore a lavender broadcloth shirt and powder blue mallard bow tie. “Still living large?”

“Jumbo, as always.”

“Where you been, Hollywood?”

“Abroad.”

“Cruise?”

“No, I rented a house in the south of—”

“Check, I’m asking you is the father Tom Cruise?” he said sharply.

“And you, Lieutenant?” I growled. “They have you on the bomb squad now?”

He glanced over at the wreckage. “Still on homicide. I was just street hiking by on Seventh when I heard the commotion. Stopped to see what was coming down. I gotta hike everywhere these days,” he complained miserably. “Can’t go near my bicycle for three more months. Can’t run. Can’t do my sit-ups. Can’t lift anything heavier than a pencil. It really sucks.”

“What happened? Were you wounded?”

“Naw, I got my hernia fixed. They cut me wide open, dude. Hurt like hell. Dig, I could tell you stories—”

“Now wouldn’t be a good time.”

“Whatever. Doc said I can walk as much as I want, so I do ten, twelve miles a day. But I’m still turning into pudding.”

“And here I was thinking you looked cuter than ever.”

Lyle noticed me there with Lieutenant Very. He came barging over, his eyes icy blue slits. “Still think I’m imagining things?” he demanded angrily.

“I never thought you were imagining things, Lyle. If I had I wouldn’t be here. When did it happen?”

“A few minutes after nine.” He shot a look down at Very, who was listening and nodding. “I was in my office with Katrina when I heard these two
booms.
Whole fucking building shook.”

“Couple of blockbusters,” Very informed us, chomping his gum.

“Exactly who are you, pal?” Lyle demanded coldly.

“It’s Very,” he said, sticking out his hand.

Lyle recoiled from it in horror. “It’s very
what?”

“Detective Lieutenant Romaine Very,” he said pleasantly. “It’s my name. An honor to meet you. I’m a big fan of yours.”

“What’s a blockbuster, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“A homemade fragmentation grenade, dude. Homeboys call ’em cluster fucks. First you dip a firecracker in melted wax, then dip it in BB’s. When the wax dries it holds onto the BB’s. Each one’s equal to a quarter-stick of dynamite when it blows. And any eight-year-old can make ’em.”

“Horrifying thought,” I observed.

“I’m down to that,” Very agreed, looking around at the wreckage. “We’re not talking fun and games here. We’re talking first-degree arson.”

“Who’s doing this to me, Hoagy?” Lyle demanded, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Who’s
doing
this to me?”

“There’s the picketers for starters,” I suggested.

They were back out front two hundred strong that morning, along with the fire trucks, bomb squad van, police cars, and press. I’d had to throw a few elbows to get in the door. Lulu had bared her teeth, a sight known to terrify reporters of all ages.

“I don’t see that, dude,” Very countered. “Their whole thing is about deploring sex and violence.”

“Which makes them all the more suspicious.”

“Nah, there’s no way one of ’em could get past Tyrone at the front desk.” Lyle heaved a huge sigh. “It was one of mine,” he said heavily. “One of my own fucking people did this to me.”

“Why would they want to do that?” asked Very.

“Because they want me
gone!”
Lyle roared, quivering with rage. “Off the air!
Ruined!”

Very gaped at him. Lyle did take some getting used to.

“Who was here when it happened, Lyle?”

“Everyone,” he replied bitterly. “Except for Bobby, who’s always late on Tuesdays, and you. The Munchkins were getting tutored. The Boys and Annabelle were punching up the script. Leo and her girls were running off the new pages—”

“What about here on the floor? Where was the crew?”

“Downstairs having their morning coffee and flirting with the girls.”

“So nobody was in here when it happened?”

“Nobody. We all came running up here together.”

“How long a fuse does a blockbuster have, Lieutenant?” I asked.

Very shrugged his shoulders. “As long or as short as you want to make it.”

“Could someone have sneaked up here, lit them, and then made it back downstairs before they blew?”

Very’s eyes flickered at the steel stage door. “What’s that? Twenty, thirty seconds?”

I nodded.

“Easy.” He glanced at the heavy chronometer on his tightly muscled wrist. “I’m outta here. Shit to do.” To Lyle he said, “Nice meeting you, Mr. Hudnut.” To me he said, “Maybe we’ll get together at your place for a brew. Do some catching up.”

“Sounds good. You can help me move some furniture.”

Very winced. “Still making with the jokes, huh?”

“Feelings. Nothing more than feelings.”

“Whatever. Dude?”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Stay with me.” And with that he went strutting off.

Lyle watched him go. “Friend of yours?” he asked sourly.

“More of a nodding acquaintance, as it were.”

“Well, whatever he is, I don’t want you—”

“I know, I know. You don’t want me to talk to him.”

“Right,” Lyle affirmed.

“Wrong. I talk to whoever I want, whenever I want. If you don’t like it I can quit right now, Lyle. It’s entirely up to you.” I was getting a little tired of his bullying.

“Whoa, wait a second,” Lyle said appeasingly.

“Do you want me to quit?” I demanded.

“Well, no. I just—”

“Fine, then let’s drop the subject, shall we?”

Lyle crossed his huge arms. “Fine,” he said tightly.

We stood there in brittle silence, watching the cops and firemen pick through the debris. Lulu was still sniffing. This was her being helpful.

“What does this do to this week’s show?” I asked.

“Little enough. We’ll rebuild the kitchen. The rest we’ll improvise. That’s one thing we know how to do around here.”

“So it won’t screw you up?”

“Nah.”

“Then why was it done?”

“I just
told ya!
” he screamed. “Somebody wants to
fuck
me!”

“Calm down, Lyle.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Nobody’s trying to ruin you.”

“You’re right. I have only myself to blame for that.”

Lulu had found something in the rubble. She was slowly inching it along the wet cement floor toward me with her large black nose. I went over to her and examined it.

“What’s she’s got?” Lyle demanded.

“Just a cigarette butt.” Not that it was a common butt. It was a dark brown Sherman. I pocketed it and patted Lulu and told her she was a good girl. She snarfled at me to let me know she already knew that. For this she expected an anchovy.

“Damned crew’s been smoking up here again,” Lyle grumbled, shaking his huge red head. “I
told
’em not to smoke on the set! Do they listen to me? No! Does anyone?
No!
I’m not running this show. Everybody just does whatever the fuck they want. They wanna smoke, they smoke. They wanna blow me up, they blow me up.” He was shaking now, sweat pouring from his brow. “They’re
all
fucking me! Every single one of them. Fucking me. Fucking me!”

Katrina came up behind him now. Today she wore a strapless floral bubble dress cut to midthigh and white spike heels. “Uh, Lyle … ?” she squeaked tentatively.

“What!” Lyle raged blindly.

She shrank from him, terrified. “N-Nothing.”

He got hold of himself. “Oh, geez, I’m sorry, baby,” he apologized, running a gloved hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to … what is it?”

She tossed her frizzy blond mane. “It’s just that I was thinking, since everybody’s so bummed out, maybe we could—”

“Here’s your herbal tea, Lyle,” Naomi interrupted, handing him a steaming
Uncle Chubby
mug. Another P.A. trudged along two steps behind her with an armload of blue-paged scripts. She handed me one. One of the strongest memories I have from my stint on the staff of
Uncle Chubby
is someone handing me a new version of the script.