The Man Who Cancelled Himself (33 page)

“Still, you must be seriously disappointed.”

“About what?”

“God coming to town.”

“Why should that bother me?” she asked, raising her cup to her lips.

“You’re not actually going to drink that, are you?”

She looked down at it warily.

“This show is your turf,” I pointed out. “God’s invading it. Not what I’d call a ringing vote of confidence.”

She set the cup aside. Not so nervy after all. “It’s Godfrey’s decision to make, not mine. I don’t feel the least bit upset that he’s coming. All I feel is …” She hesitated, then plunged on. “I feel fed up. I’ve had it with the TV business. What I want to do is run home to Wisconsin, have three or four kids, and spend my time baking cookies and taking them to soccer practice.”

“What kind of cookies?”

A faint smile crossed her lips. “Sounds silly, I guess.”

“Utterly. Have yourself a husband all picked out?” I asked. And it was the wrong thing to ask.

Her eyes locked onto mine. There was challenge in them. There was invitation. And there was something else—a jolt of attraction. Strong one. She felt it. I know I did. “I’m working on that,” she answered me huskily. Then she strode back to her seat.

Me, I poured myself a cup of coffee, black, and took a big slurp. It didn’t kill me. No such luck.

Lyle clapped his huge, meaty hands for attention. “Okay, here’s the deal, gang,” he announced, as he and Katrina moved down to the writers’ end of the big table. “We take the initiative. We prove to God that we’re prepared to do a show without Rob. That we
have
a show without Rob.”

“But we haven’t,” Marty pointed out.

“We do, too,” argued Lyle. “Same story, new twist—the schmuck stands Deirdre up. Doesn’t show for their date.”

Tommy shifted in his chair. “Who fixes the dishwasher?”

“Nobody,” replied Lyle.

“But Chubby’s g-got parts strewn all over the kitchen floor,” Bobby protested.

“So he bullshits her,” Lyle pitched. “Tells her the repairman had to order a part or something. Typical Chubby lie. He’s making it up as he goes along, hoping it’ll somehow work out.”

“That plays,” Tommy admitted grudgingly. “Only we don’t have a second act without Rob.”

“We do, too,” insisted Lyle. “Chubby takes her to the pool hall himself. Because he wants to cheer her up and because—”

“He’s hoping to win the repair money from her,” Marty said.

Lyle nodded. “So he can call the guy tomorrow and get it fixed, okay?”

“Wait, what do we do with The Munchkins if they’re both out?” asked Annabelle.

“We fuck the kids,” Lyle snapped irritably.

“Tonight, a very special episode of
The Uncle Chubby Show,”
intoned Tommy gravely.

“Shut up, Tommy,” snarled Katrina.

“We c-could park them with Mrs. Dennison,” Bobby suggested: “The neighbor with the g-giant—”

“Okay, fine,” accepted Marty. “But what do we
do
at the pool hall?”

Lyle said, “A whole bunch of real nice brother-sister shit about how much they mean to each other. Until the milkman shows up, and she finds out what really happened to the forty bucks. She gets pissed, but she forgives him. We top it off with our bedtime story and we fade out. Perfect, right?” he exclaimed, daring someone, anyone to contradict him. “Perfect!”

No one said a word. All eyes were on Marjorie, who sat there thinking it over, her long, slender fingers forming a steeple under her chin. “I don’t think it’s strong enough, Lyle,” she concluded.

Lyle gave her The Scowl. “Who died and made you queen?”

“This is our return episode,” she continued, undeterred. “We need a show that people will be talking about the next morning at work. Something truly special.”

“I suppose you’d be happier if we had robots in it!” he fumed, sneering at her.

Marty: “Seems kind of thin to me, too, Lyle.”

Tommy: “Me, too.”

“I’m, like, yeah.”

“It’s n-not about anything.”

“I suggest,” stated Marjorie, “that we wait until God gets here before we—”

“Well we’re
not
gonna wait for God!” Lyle waved his arms and roared. “We’re gonna go with
this
show.
Now!
Because I say so! It’s
my
fucking show, and I say we’re going with it! We
have
to show God that we’re carrying on, business as usual. If we don’t he’ll be in our faces morning, noon, and night, all season long. If he wants us to recast Rob down the road, that’s cool. We can do that. But in the meantime, we carry on!” Again he clapped his hands together. “Okay, now everybody beat it. Get to work. Except for you, Hoagy,” he said, turning his gaze on me. “I need to talk to you in private.”

Marjorie and the writers filed out, Muck and Meyer grousing at each other under their breath like two old-timers on a shuffleboard court. Katrina remained behind with Lyle and me.

“I said
in private,
Katrina,” he said stiffly.

“But—”

“Beat it, you stupid cunt!”

She ootsie-fooed angrily out the door, Lyle’s guard eyeballing her every curve. And there were many. The white leather halter dress she was wearing was very tight and very short.

“You’re all class, Lyle,” I observed quietly.

Lyle ran a gloved hand over his face. “Geez, you’d think people would be more sensitive,” he moaned.

“To what, Lyle?”

“Me. My needs. Support is what I need from them right now. Not some stupid argument over Act Two. Christ, somebody’s trying to fucking
kill
me!”

“That’s true, Lyle. Somebody fucking is. And you were lucky—this time.”

He shot me a worried look. “What, you think they’ll try again?”

“I do.”

Lyle glanced across the room at his guard, then back to me. “This detective,” he said, lowering his voice. “This Very person …”

“What about him?”

“He got any leads yet?”

“That takes time, Lyle.”

He began to pace. “Who’s doing this to me, Hoagy? Who wants me gone?!”

“I don’t know.”

“You have
no
idea?”

“I have plenty of ideas.”

“Share ’em with me.”

“Not now.”

He gave me The Scowl. “When?”

“When they’ve started to take shape. Right now they’re just a big blob of ooze. Kind of like our book.”

He paced some more, his lips making those crisp, flatulent noises I’d come to know and not love. “Naomi says you know about the two of us. Who told you?”

“No one had to. Discreet you’re not.”

Lyle didn’t disagree. “She says you were pissed about—”

“Being used as a cover so you could screw her behind Katrina’s back? I was.”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “You were just handy is all. Seemed like a nice, tight fit.”

“So to speak.”

“She’s a bright kid. I’m just trying to give her a leg up in the business.”

“So to speak.”

“I won’t do it again if it bugs you.”

“It bugs me.”

He smirked at me. “What, you don’t approve of me giving her some?”

“Your sex life is your business.”

“You got that right,” he said defiantly. Then he slumped into a chair. “Can’t help myself, Hoagy. Women are like a compulsion with me. A need. I hope you can understand that. I hope you’re not gonna stay mad at me.”

“What do you want me to do, Lyle? Slap your hand? Tell you that you’re a baaad boy? What do you want?”

“I want you to like me,” he replied meekly.

“We’re collaborators, not friends.”

“I want us to be.”

“Not possible—not unless you make some big changes.”

“Like what?”

“Like stop shitting all over people.”

“You mean Katrina?”

“I mean everyone, Lyle.”

He shrugged. “It’s like I told you—I’m just honest, that’s all.”

“You’re just a schmuck, is what you are. Why do you think somebody’s trying to kill you?”

His face darkened. “Geez, you don’t think it’s
Katrina,
do you?”

“Could you blame her?”

He thought about that a moment, visibly distraught. “No, I guess not,” he admitted. “Maybe … maybe you’ve got a point. Maybe I’m not the easiest person to be around. But I’m gonna change, Hoagy. I’m gonna take something positive out of this. I swear I am.” He looked up at me beseechingly, a big, unruly kid starving for approval. “Okay?”

“Okay, Lyle,” I said, not sure if he meant it or not. Possibly he was just shaken by Chad’s death. Or telling me what he thought I wanted to hear. Who knew? I didn’t. The man was a riddle. Always.

His blue eyes twinkled at me now. “Gonna pitch in on the script with us?”

“Can’t today, Lyle. Things to do.”

He frowned at me. “What things?”

“The book, of course.”

“What if I need you? Where will you be?”

“I’ll be working at home.”

“What’s wrong with your office here?” he demanded.

“I’ll be working at home,” I repeated.

He peered at me suspiciously, sensing I wasn’t being totally straight with him. Dumb he wasn’t. “Okay, if you say so.” He struggled to his feet. “Only, it runs both ways, Hoagy.”

“What does, Lyle?”

“The shit. You ever lie to me and you’ll be sorry. I’ll find out, and you’ll be sorry.”

“Watch your step, Lyle,” I said cheerfully.

“You, too, Hoagy,” he said, not the least bit cheerfully. There was nothing but menace in Lyle Hudnut’s voice. “You, too.” Then he barged out the door, his police guard tagging along two steps behind him.

Vic came downstairs to meet us. I waited for him outside under the awning with Lulu cowering between my legs, swathed in bandages. Passersby glared at me angrily. They assumed I’d been abusing her. So did Mario, the daytime doorman, who kept curling his lip at me. He’d never liked me. Which was okay. I’d never liked him either. Three paparazzi were camped out by the curb in the hot sun, waiting for Merilee to show herself. Me they didn’t bother with. “Wow, get a load of her,” droned Vic as he came out the front door. He still had his apron on over his polo shirt and slacks. Rather frilly one, too. A smaller man couldn’t have pulled it off. “Must have been some tussle.”

“It wasn’t exactly a fair one. He was much bigger and he bit below the belt.” I picked her up gently and said a few things to her I won’t bother to repeat here. Then I handed her over to Vic, along with her collapsible Il Bisonte travel bag. “Some things she’ll need—salve, pills, change of bandages, her various sinus medications, her
Flipper
chew toy … Also a jar of anchovies. She prefers them chilled.”

“I remember,” he assured me, cradling her in his big arms. She pawed feebly at his hairy wrist. “Nice gesture on your part, Hoag. Merilee’s elated.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” I said gruffly. “Lulu just got herself banned from the studio, that’s all.”

“Sure, sure,” Vic agreed gently. “Mother’s touch is what she needs. Works out well for everybody. Except for you, I guess.”

“You kidding? First good night’s sleep I’ll get in years.”

Lulu let out a low, pained moan. I scratched her under her right ear, the good one, to let her know I didn’t mean it. She licked my hand to let me know she knew it.

“You’re welcome to visit her, Hoag,” Vic offered. “Any time, day or night.”

I thanked him. Then I mumbled something about having to run and I headed off quickly down Central Park West. No sense dragging it out. I don’t know if she tried to tear herself out of Vic’s arms and come limping after me. I like to think she did, but I didn’t look back. It was best not to.

I was halfway down the block when I heard Merilee calling to me, her stage-trained voice booming out over the din of cars and busses. Of course, if she were appearing onstage right about now they’d have to clear out the orchestra pit and the first seven rows of seats just to accommodate her stomach. I wasn’t prepared for just how huge she’d become. Not just her stomach either. Her hips were as wide across as the avenue. Her tush, which had once resembled a ripe, firm peach, was now riding like the back end of an old Buick—an old Buick toting two tons of sandbags. She made her way down the sidewalk toward me in slo-mo, as if she were moving through Jell-O, so bloated she could barely waddle, the photographers circling her like angry flies as they snapped her picture and shouted questions at her. Merilee Nash is not a petite woman. She’s six feet tall in her size-ten bare feet, big-boned and broad-shouldered. But she’s also one of the two or three great natural beauties in the entire film world. And that was pretty hard to imagine right about now. Her long, shimmering golden hair was unkempt and greasy, her fine patrician face puffy and flushed, her skin broken out all over. Her glasses had slid down to the end of her nose, which was running. The jumbo-size, somewhat damp, gray sweatsuit she was wearing gave her an unappetizingly larval appearance. On her swollen feet she wore sneakers without laces.

I didn’t recognize this person. This person was not Merilee Nash. I stared. Couldn’t help it.

She caught me. “I look just like a Queens housewife named Gert, don’t I?” she panted, swiping at the dirty hair that was smeared across her sweaty forehead. “All I need is a hair net, fuzzy slippers, and a cigarette stuck in my lip.”

“You’ve never looked lovelier, Merilee.” I gave her my linen handkerchief.

“You, mister, are full of baked beans,” she sniffed, mopping her face with it.

“I’ve missed your quaint little expressions.”

“I’ve missed
you,”
she said shyly.

The photographers were snapping both of us now, and yelling at me.

“HEY, STEW, WHO’S THE DADDY?!”

“PUT YOUR ARM AROUND HER!”

“YOU TWO GETTING BACK TOGETHER?!”

“SAY DA-DA!”

Vic left Lulu in the arms of Mario and came after them. He meant business, too. He’d thrown down his apron. He stepped in front of them, his tree-trunk arms spread wide, and began herding them toward the gutter, their curses and protests bouncing off of him. This was Vic doing his job. The man is a human snowplow. He pushed them right out into Central Park West in front of oncoming traffic. They had to cross over to the park to avoid being hit. He stayed where he was, standing guard over us at a discreet distance.