The Man Who Cancelled Himself (47 page)

On the monitor, Lyle grinned at me maliciously. “Made ’em myself for the Fourth of July. I was gonna do a whole fireworks show out at the beach for the kids in the neighborhood. Only none of their parents would let ’em come. On account of I was a
baaad
influence.”

“I see. Well, they certainly did a job on the Japanese restaurant. But they couldn’t do a thing about the calendar, could they? Time was not on your side. It was only Tuesday morning. The Boys still had the whole rest of the week to beef up Chad’s character. And Chad had the week to grow into him. You didn’t want that to happen. You didn’t want Chad to be good. So you shortened the workweek—by spiking the chili. The catered lunch from Big Mama Thornton’s was your idea. Not Katrina’s. You put her up to it, encouraged her to suggest it in front of the gang so they’d like her and think she was contributing something to the show. But it was all your idea. She kept quiet about this, even though suspicion naturally fell on her. After all, she didn’t touch the chili, and you did. You made a point of sneaking some so you’d get sick and throw suspicion off of yourself. But she refused to point a finger at you. She kept quiet. Just as she kept quiet about the fact that the two of you
weren’t
together in your office in the moments just before the blockbusters went off. You lied to the police about that, and she covered for you.”

“Ya got her to talk, didn’t ya?” Lyle snarled angrily. “Ya got to her. I shoulda known. Never trust a cunt to keep her fucking mouth shut. But, hey, I needed an alibi.”

I heard another commotion behind me. Very was restraining Katrina again. It was me she was after.

“Damn you!” she screeched at me. “You never meant what you said about you and me. I
believed
you and you were just
using
me!”

“I had to, Katrina. It was the only way.”

“You were
pretending!”

“Isn’t that what we all do?”

“I hate you! I hate, hate, hate you!”

Marjorie was frowning at me. Poor child didn’t know what to make of me. I get a lot of that. And I’m not always proud of it.

I turned back to the microphone. “Katrina told me she knew you were responsible for those bombs, Lyle. And she suspected you were behind the chili, too. But she covered for you. Because you were her provider, her employer, her man. She figured you must have had your reasons for doing all of this. Besides, no one got hurt. Not really. Not yet … Where did you get the fluid essence of ipecac, anyway?”

Lyle answered, “Scored it three, four years ago from a Doctor Feelgood I used to go to on East Seventy-second Street. Found it in his supply cupboard. Thought it might be good for a prank someday.” He ran his hand over his face, smearing his moist makeup. “He’s in jail now.”

“You don’t say. Maybe you’ll run into him.”

“No way,” he snapped defiantly. “I ain’t going to jail.”

“We’ll see about that. Where was I? Oh, yes. By spiking the chili you shut down production for the rest of the day, stretching the schedule impossibly tight. You made a big hue and cry about this. Bitched, moaned, trashed your john. All for show. This was exactly what you had hoped for. This was you getting your way. Or trying. Because it backfired on you once again. God wouldn’t let you have your way. Wouldn’t let you bump Rob from the season premiere. Instead, he expanded your workweek. Agreed to pay for overages so you could tape over the weekend. Most generous on his part. In effect, he cornered you. Now you were trapped. Stuck with Rob. Stuck with the show that God wanted. And that’s when things got ugly. Because
you
get ugly, Lyle, whenever people try to make you do something you don’t want to do. When your father tried to get you interested in ham radios, you burned his place down. And you reacted violently once again. You’re a sick man, Lyle. You have a serious illness. You have something else, too. A hidden gift. You told me Herb tried to get you interested in electronics. You told me how much you hated it. What you neglected to tell me was how gifted a pupil you were. I just found that out a few minutes ago, Lyle. I phoned Herb. He confirmed it. He said you were a wizard with electronics. That’s why he was so sorry you didn’t stay with it. He thought you had a real future in it. Needless to say, you’ve never lost your touch. And it served you exceedingly well when it came time to rid yourself once and for all of Chad Roe. It was you who hot-wired the urinal. It had to be you. Leo was telling the truth. She didn’t see anyone go in your john before Chad did. No one
did
go in there. Which left only one possibility—
you.
You hot-wired it yourself in those few minutes you were alone in your office before the nine o’clock writers’ meeting, a meeting which you insisted be held in The Boys’ office. You entered your john by means of your own inside connecting door. You knew Chad was sneaking leaks in your john. Naomi ratted on him, no doubt. She misses nothing. You rigged it up, then went down the hall to The Boys’ office to meet, and wait, knowing full well that Chad and no one else would eventually slip in there to use your urinal. And that when he did it would kill him instantly. You figured, correctly, that everyone would assume that
you
were the target, and that poor Chad was merely caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the truth is that it was Chad who was the target all along, not you. He was a threat to you. You wanted him gone. So you took care of him. Regained the upper hand. Not for long though. Because now God was all set to mothball you. Right away, you called a family council meeting. You vowed you would not let God take
Uncle Chubby
off the air. Because the show must go on—in Chad’s honor. Because that’s how artists say good-bye to each other. Because no one, not even God, has the right to take that away from you. Damned touching. And some performance, when you consider that it was
you
who fried the poor guy. Still, God did agree to fly in this morning to check things out firsthand. You figured once you had him here on your turf you could bully him and get your way. And all would be peaceful again in the land of Lyle. And maybe it would have been, too, if I hadn’t screwed things up. You were suspicious of me when I cut out yesterday afternoon. You figured I was lying to you. And I was. The truth is I was seeing your parents. You found out—from them. Herb and Aileen called you after I left them yesterday to thank you for your hospitality. Their way of reaching out a hand to you.”

Lyle nodded grudgingly and growled, “They left a message. I wouldn’t talk to ’em. No way I’d talk to ’em. Or trust you, ever again. I warned ya. I told ya what would happen. You went behind my back, Hoagster! You
lied!”

“And
you
freaked. Because you couldn’t control me. And because maybe, just maybe, your parents told me what really happened to you that day up on the roof of your high school gym. Years ago, you made up a fiction about your illness and your shock therapy, and you’ve lived with that fiction ever since. Your memory came back. Sure it did. You simply denied it. Denied the truth. Blamed your parents instead. Because it suited your self-image. And because it was a helluva lot easier for you to swallow than your own severe manic depression. You had every intention of putting this fiction in your memoir, under the guise of truth. It was certain to win you some sympathy. Certain to win back those fans you’d lost that day in the Deuce. They’d forgive you now. Sure they would. You were a misunderstood, abused teen. Zapped by evil, sadistic parents. They’d have to forgive you. Trouble is, I found out the real truth about your suicidal depression. And you figured I’d pressure you to reveal it. Maybe even cash in and go public with it on my own. You didn’t want this. It was your life and your book. You wanted complete control. Control you could feel slipping away. Because of me. Your lousy goddamned ghost, the overpaid schmuck who was supposed to be -helping you, not fucking you. You had to get rid of me, and fast, before I could spread the word around town. So last night you slipped out of your suite at the Essex House. How did you manage to duck out on your police protection?”

Lyle cackled gleefully, puffing up at the memory of his cleverness. “There was this one dumb shit outside the door in the hallway. Him I lost by going out the service door in the kitchen. I took the fire stairs down. They let out near the freight elevator. I went out the back entrance on Fifty-eighth. Cop in the lobby was watching the main entrance. He never saw me.”

Behind me, Very muttered something sourly under his breath.

“I told Katrina I felt like going to a movie,” Lyle added. “Told her I needed to be alone, and not to worry about me. She bought it. She wasn’t happy, but she bought it.”

“Because she thought you were actually slipping out to see Naomi,” I explained. “And she feared she’d only drive you away if she hassled you. She figured it was best to let you get Naomi out of your system. She knew you were under a great strain, and that this was your way of dealing with it. She even covered for you. Told your police guard you were taking a bath when he checked in on you. Hell of an understanding woman, Lyle. More than you ever deserved.”

“I caught a cab to your place just in time to see you leaving for dinner,” Lyle went on. “I followed you down to The Blue Mill in the Village. Went and stole a cab while you was in there, only I couldn’t get a clear shot at you after dinner so I followed you back home. Sat outside your building for a while. My alternate plan was to buzz you, go on up, and strangle you right there in your apartment.” He held his fat pink hands up before him, fingers spread. “Did feel kinda risky to me. A neighbor might see me or hear me. I was gonna chance it though. Only then you came right back out in a tux. I followed you to the Carlyle. Got my chance afterward, when you was practically slipping it to Marjorie right there on the sidewalk.”

I heard a pained gasp behind me. Marjorie.

“Sorry I had to come between you two, Hoagster,” he apologized, sneering at me. “Not that you missed out on a whole lot. I mean, the rack of the century she ain’t.”

Now it was Marjorie who was trying to flee the booth. Very wouldn’t let her go, either.

“Only you didn’t get me, Lyle,” I reminded him. “You screwed up. Just as you screwed up by killing Chad. Because the sorry truth is that you were even worse off without Chad than with him—God made that clear to you this morning. He put you on the shelf. No telling what would happen to the show now. Or when it would happen. But one thing was clear: Fiona would play a big role in it. It would become more and more her show, and less and less yours. Which meant only one thing to you—Fiona had to go, too. She was a threat, so you killed her. She was your ex-wife and you killed her.”

“AND I
’
LL KILL YOU, YOU EVIL SCHMUCK!!”

There was a commotion out on the stage. Marty trying to get at Lyle. The writer was hysterical. A cop restrained him.

“As it happens, Herb and Aileen always liked Fiona,” I continued. “She’d been nice to them when you two first married, and they never forgot her kindness. So they phoned her yesterday while they were in town. To say hello, tell her they’d met with me—and tried reaching you. It was a short, pleasant conversation. But it scared the shit out of her. Because she knew precisely how you’d react when you found out I’d seen your folks behind your back. She knew you’d freak. She wanted to warn me. She wanted to tell me you knew about it. That’s what she wanted to see me about this morning. But she never got the chance. You killed her before she did.”

“I had to,” he insisted.

“What were you going to do next, Lyle? Kill your folks, too?”

“I had to,” he repeated stubbornly. “She made me.”

“How?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at me, as if it were obvious. I guess it was, to him.

“Once again you had to be clever about it,” I pointed out. “Since there was a plainclothesman parked right outside your office door. You had to slip out without him or anyone else seeing you, and you did. Because it so happens you have the only window in the entire place, and that this window has a nice, deep granite ledge—a ledge that runs along the outside of the building and connects up with the window at the second-floor landing. That’s how you did it. You went out your window and came in the landing window. Then you unlocked the fire door to the dressing rooms, made your way unnoticed to Fiona’s dressing room, smothered her with a pillow, and sneaked right back the way you came. No one saw you. In fact, as far as anyone knew, you were in your office the whole time. You told Naomi you didn’t want to be disturbed. That’s the message Marjorie got when she tried to see you. You did this for a very good reason—you weren’t in there. The cop was guarding an empty office. Most ingenious, Lyle. You only made one mistake.” .

“What mistake?” he demanded, treating me to The Scowl.

“You forgot to clean up after yourself. You left your finger smudges all over the landing window. I saw them when the lightning lit up the sky outside the window. They were on the
outside,
Lyle. Meaning someone had opened the window from out on the ledge. That’s when I realized what you’d done, and how you’d done it. But I still don’t understand why. Not really. Not murder. Not over a television show.” I paused and tugged at my ear. “Especially such a
stupid
television show.”

He blew. “It is
not
a stupid television show! It’s
Uncle Chubby!
The number-one show in America. And
I’m
Uncle Chubby. It’s
my
show!” He was screaming now, pounding his chest with his fists. “Ya hear me,
mine!
I write it. I star in it. I direct it. I
am
it.
Me!
Nobody else. And nobody else has a right to take it away from me. Or change it. Nobody. That’s
my
decision. My right!”

“And so you exercised your right?”

“That’s it,” he agreed quickly, tongue licking nervously at his lips. “That’s it exactly, Hoagster. I exercised my right. Not for myself. Not for me. I did it for the show. To protect the show. I was fighting for the integrity of the show.” He was speaking rapidly, breathlessly now. The words spilled out in a torrent. “You
have
to fight ’em. Because they’re always trying to bring you down. Fuck ya. Make you compromise. A little here, a little there. They
ruin
you. Like with Chad. That was God fucking me. Trying to
ruin
me. He was a lox. Chad was a lox. And he
made
me use him. I said no way. I won’t have him. Not in my show. He said, ‘Oh, yes, you will, Lyle.’ So I showed him. I—I took care of him. Couldn’t play comedy if his life depended on it.” Lyle cackled. “And it
did.
So I showed God who was boss. Not for me. I couldn’t care less about me. I did it for my people. All my people.” His eyes flickered around the soundstage. “You people who depend on
Uncle Chubby.
Who love it like I love it. Who love me like I love you. I didn’t
want
to do it. But I had to. Same with Fiona. I didn’t want to kill her. Christ, no. I loved her. But I had to. Because I love
Uncle Chubby
even more. And all of you who depend on it. I did it for you. I did it for
Uncle Chubby.
This show means more to me than anything, and anyone. Even more than Fiona. It’s all that matters. Making it the best there is. My way. I did it for you people. I did it for you … ” He broke off, looking around at everyone, his eyes wild, his chest heaving. “Why’re you all looking at me that way? Ya think it’s
easy
being me? Ya think I
wanted
to kill ’em? No way. I had to. I tell ya, I had to. It was necessary. A necessary creative decision. I make millions of ’em a day. Millions. I didn’t want to kill ’em. God
made
me.”