The Man Who Cancelled Himself (4 page)

I nodded, wondering what was left that could possibly hurt him more than he’d already been hurt. “Your editor said you had new revelations. Is this what he meant?”

He climbed back up to his feet. We resumed walking, Lulu tagging along behind us.

“Mind if I take my turn now?” he asked. “There’s some shit I’d like to know about you, too.”

This was him seizing back the offensive. Or trying. A collaboration is often this—a battle of wills.

“Such as?”

“Whether I can expect you to be a friend or an enema.”

“Are those the only two choices on the menu?”

“They are with me. I’ve had some pretty negative experiences with people, Hoagy. Too many. So I need absolute loyalty. That’s a must. Can I count on you?”

“To do what?”

“Be my friend.”

He said it simply and naively. It almost sounded like a plea.

“You can’t buy friends, Lyle.”

“Sure you can,” he said smugly. “I do it all the time.”

“What else do you want to know about me?”

“Are you a fan of my show?” He watched me carefully for my answer.

“I’ve seen it.”

He waited for me to say more. He wanted me to say more. Desperately. TV people always want you to tell them they’re the rare exception, the real thing—genuine quality in a sea of born-to-be-mild mediocrity. Because they honestly and truly want to think they are, and because they honestly and truly know they aren’t. Most of them do, anyway. I wasn’t sure about Lyle yet.

When I didn’t say more, he said, “I never sweeten, y’know.”

“Sweeten?”

“No laugh track. Not ever. All the laughs you hear on
Uncle Chubby
are honest laughs. I earn ’em. I do quality, every single fucking week. Because I care. Because I won’t do that brain-dead
shitcom
they do out in L.A. My show is New York. It’s alive. It’s unique.
I’m
unique.” He proclaimed this grandly, for all the birds and fishes to hear. “Face it, I’m the funniest man on television.”

“If you say so.”

He gave me The Scowl. “Okay, who’s funnier?!”

“Do politicians count?”

“I’m
the funniest,” he insisted, jabbing himself in the chest with a fat, blunt thumb. “Me. Get this, pal—
Uncle Chubby
matters to me, okay? My people there, those are the people who count in my life. They’re my family. I’m not just talking about Katrina. I’m talking about Muck and Meyer, The Boys, who been writing for me since college. They’re like the brothers I never had. I mean, Christ, Marty Muck was one of the original Suburbanites. So was Fiona.” He meant Fiona Shrike, the actress who played his sister, Deirdre, in the show. And who Lyle was once married to. “I’m talking about The Kids, Annabelle and Bobby, my young writers. I’m so fucking proud of ’em. And The Munchkins, Casey and Caitlin,” he added, referring to the real-life brother and sister who played Chubby’s on-camera nephew and niece. “They’re like my own flesh and blood, those two. And their mom, Amber. Her and me go way back. Amber was my assistant director. And Marjorie Daw, my network supervisor. She’s the greatest. I gave her her start in the business.” He cackled. “Also her first orgasm.”

I was beginning to think I would detest Lyle Hudnut. Which didn’t exactly thrill me, but didn’t surprise me either. I was used to working for people I didn’t like. “I think I understand what you’re saying, Lyle. Believe me, I intend to interview everyone who—”

“No, ya
don’t
understand what I’m saying,” he snapped.

“Okay, then, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we go into production next week. And once we do, we become totally cut off from the outside world. We’re a classic closed society. We got our own pecking order, our own laws, our own loves and hates and beliefs. I’m saying that you’re an outsider. And the only possible way you can comprehend my world, comprehend
me,
is to be one of us. I’m saying I want ya on staff.”

I tugged at my ear. “As what, Lyle?”

“As a writer, whattaya think? A fucking prop master?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Why not?” he demanded, waddling along.

“I don’t do windows or sitcoms.”

He waved this off. “The Boys’ll teach you in no time flat. They’re walking, talking sitcom encyclopedias. Know every episode of every show that’s ever been done. You’ll hang out, you’ll listen, you’ll learn. And most importantly, you’ll be accepted as part of the family. That’s the only way you’ll get to know ’em. Believe me, they’re very sensitive people.”

“I didn’t know it was possible to work on a sitcom and be sensitive.”

“Hey, we’re all human beings.”

“I didn’t know it was possible to work on a sitcom and be a human being.”

“I want you by my side,” he insisted stubbornly. “Look, pal, I’m gonna be major-league busy. I can’t be blocking out time for you. You gotta catch me on the run. Over lunch, in editing … Only way you can do that is to be around. Tell ya what—I’ll make you an executive story consultant, okay? Seventy-five hundred a week. On top of what you’re getting to do the book, which is already the highest fee of any ghost in the business.”

“I give good value.”

“I wouldn’t call a third of my royalties good value,” he growled.

“No one’s complained yet. At least not by the time it was over.” Of course, a number were dead by the time it was over, but there was no use telling him that. He had enough on his mind. And I needed the job.

We walked in silence a moment.

He broke it. “All right, I’ll make it ten grand. If it’s money that’s bothering ya.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then what is?” I don’t write jokes—at least, not intentionally.”

He let out his huge
hoo-hah-hah
of a laugh. “Christ, nobody’s gonna expect you to be funny. Half the sitcom writers in the business can’t break a pane of glass with their best fast ball. Besides, I don’t need ya for gags. The Boys are my shtickticians. No, you …” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “You’ll be my feelings specialist.”

Lulu stopped cold in the sand and began to cough violently, sending her pith helmet toppling down over her eyes, blinding her. I bent down and straightened it.

Lyle frowned at her. “Swallow a shell or something?”

“No, she just can’t believe her ears,” I explained. “And neither can I.” Now she showed me her teeth. She’s rather sensitive about the subject of her flappers. “Your feelings specialist, Lyle?”

“My feelings specialist,” he confirmed. “Everybody’s a specialist of some kind nowadays. Nobody’s good at doing everything. That’s why you gotta have a staff. Me, I come up with the story ideas and break ’em down into scenes. The Boys, they bang out the best first drafts in the business. Table-ready in three days. All that’s missing is the texture and the depth. That’s when the group takes over. Annabelle, she services The Munchkins and Rusty. There’s nobody better at kids and dogs. Bobby, he’s our angry young playwright. A real head-banger. Plus he’s deep—which The Boys, God bless ’em, ain’t. Then we get it up on its feet. Me, I rewrite most of my own lines on the floor as we rehearse. Fiona’s the same way. She’s a master of improv. The Boys punch up the gags as we go along. We’re a small, tight group. Real efficient. But I been thinking we need a feelings specialist this season, what with Deirdre’s new romance and all. You have feelings, don’t ya?”

“Why, is that a prerequisite?”

“Your job is to keep each character’s emotional arc straight, vis-à-vis the story. Which ain’t always easy. I mean, I always know where Chubby is. But with the other characters I can use someone at the table with a clear eye to say, “That’s a funny line, Lyle, but Deirdre wouldn’t say that just yet because she’s not ready to forgive Chubby.’ And I’ll go, ‘Okay, you’re right.’ And change it. Or say we get stuck and we can’t figure out what the fuck Deirdre’s supposed to say next. I can turn to you and you’ll say, ‘Okay, what is Deirdre feeling right now?’ And we’ll talk it through.”

“And for that I get paid ten thousand a week?”

“Every week. It’s right up your alley.”

“I try to stay out of alleys. How much writing is involved?”

“None. You’re strictly a consultant. Unless you wanna try your hand at a first draft, in which case you’ll get paid the Writers’ Guild half-hour minimum just like everyone else, fifteen thou and change. Plus all the residuals you can eat.” We walked on in silence. “So whattaya say, pal?”

“Exactly what I said before, Lyle. I’m not a sitcom writer.”

“I don’t get you, man!” he fumed angrily.

“I’m complex,” I acknowledged. “But I’m not deep. Tell me about these new revelations of yours.”

He stopped, shaking his head slowly. “No way, Hoagy. Uh-uh. Not unless you agree to my terms. Take it or leave it.”

“This is a deal-buster?”

“This is a deal-buster,” he promised me, jowly chin stuck out. “I’m drawing a line in the sand.”

He actually did, too, with his sandal. Right there between us. TV people tend to be rather heavy-handed. Or footed, as the case may be.

“Sorry we couldn’t do business, Lyle.” I was about to stick out my hand until I remembered his thing about cooties. I pulled it back and thanked him for the tea. Then I started back up the beach to his awful house without looking back. Lulu followed me. She likes my cooties.

“Would it make any difference if I told you that one of ’em set me up?!” he called after me.

I stopped. “One of who?”

“My family. I was done in by one of my own people. That whole bust was a setup, from start to finish.”

“How do you mean?” I walked back toward him. He was still planted there beside his line in the sand.

“All I know,” he replied, “is what my lawyer told me—the Public Morals Division of the New York City Police Department doesn’t do routine roundups. They got better things to do than sweep porn theaters for beaters. They only follow up specific complaints. Which means somebody tipped ’em off that I was there that day.”

“I see,” I said doubtfully.

“The whole scene was weird,” he said heatedly. “They
knew.
I mean, the van was
waiting
there out front to take me in. And, get this, the press was out there, too. Ready to nail me.”

“You have to admit it was not lacking in news value.”

“No, no, you’re missing my point—they were
already
there. Practically before the cops. How did they know about
me?
Unless they were tipped off, too?”

“By who?”

“Hey, not everybody loves me. This is me admitting it. Some of my people even hate me. One of ’em enough to try and ruin me. I wanna know who, Hoagy. I have to know who.”

“Why didn’t any of this come out before?”

“Because everybody wanted to get it over and done with. The district attorney, my lawyer, God, me … I was a wreck. It was a fucking circus, for Chrissakes. So I pleaded no contest, and the DA agreed not to push it. A fair deal for everybody, and I’m back on the air. But I’m not satisfied. How can I be? One of my own people tried to ruin me. I wanna know who did it to me. I wanna deal with it in this book. I got to. Because …” He broke off, lips quivering with rage. “Because it’s driving me crazy!”

“How do you know it’s one of your own people? Have you got any proof?”

He snorted derisively at me.

“How do you know?”

“I
know,
dammit!” he roared, over the sound of the waves. “Christ, don’t you ever believe what people tell ya?”

“Not lately,” I said quietly.

He glanced at me sharply. “That’s no way to live, man. You gotta have faith. I know where you’re coming from. Trusting no one. Holding everyone at arm’s length. I been there. And it sucks. It’s no way to go through life, believe me.”

I watched a jogger pass by us, wondering why it is that celebrities who are. trying to clean up their act always try to run mine through the rinse cycle as well. Why can’t they just shut up? Why can’t they pick another writer? I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you’re serious about this—”

“I’m totally serious,” he fired back.

“Then I suggest you hire yourself a good private detective. Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t want someone who knows what he’s doing. I want you!”

“Careful. I flatter easily.”

“Look, I can’t hire a detective. I need someone who can function as a real member of my family. An insider.
You.
Besides, you’re supposed to have a certain … knack. I mean, my editor said if anyone could get to the bottom of it, you could.”

I had worked for this editor before. His gleeful taste for high-profile tell-alls by convicted serial killers, drug-addicted teen prostitutes, and would-be presidential assassins had earned him the nickname The Merchant of Menace. He bothered a lot of the highbrow brigade. Me he had never bothered. He paid on time and he left me alone, which is all I ever ask.

“I write books, Lyle. I don’t solve crimes.”

“He said it was a perfect fit, you and me,” Lyle argued stubbornly.

“Never be fooled by a perfect fit. There’s at least three-percent shrinkage to take into account—particularly when I’m thrown in hot water.”

Lyle Hudnut clasped his hands before him, as if in prayer. “This isn’t just about a show, Hoagy. Or money. Or endorsements. Uncle Chubby is my
life.
Somebody tried to take him away from me. That’s murder, is what it is. You take a performer’s character away from him and you’re committing murder. Nobody should be allowed to get away with that. Nobody. I have to know who it is. I got a right to know who it is. You’re the one person who can help me. I’m begging you, Hoagy. I’m down on my knees.”

And he was, with a thud. Right where he’d drawn that line between us in the sand.

Only the line in the sand was gone. The waves had erased it. There was only smooth, wet sand there between us now. A corny and obvious symbol, to be sure. But I wasn’t surprised by it. Not in the least. Because it had already happened. I had already entered the world of prime-time television.

I never thought I’d ever stoop so low as to be a sitcom writer. Not me. No way. But my life had been full of surprises lately, few of them pleasant. Still, my story was cherry pie compared to Lyle Hudnut’s. What had happened to Lyle Hudnut shouldn’t happen to anyone.