The Man Who Cancelled Himself (40 page)

I bandaged her up, wondering why it was all of the women in my life were wearing gauze these days. “Look at it this way. At least you’re in the clear with Lieutenant Very now.”

“You mean I wasn’t?” She seemed startled.

“No one was. “And no one is—except for you.”

She lingered there in my lap. Until I smiled at her. Hastily, she got up and sat as far away from me on the sofa as she could. Sat there in silence, inspecting her bandaged knees.

“It’s not ever going to happen, is it?” she finally said, quietly.

“What’s not?”

“You’re never going to be over her.”

“I’m never going to be over her.”

She sighed and glanced up at the ceiling plaintively. “Oh, well. At least you’re honest.” She got up and came over to me and kissed me on the forehead. Then she padded down the hall and closed her bedroom door softly behind her. She didn’t bother to say good night.

I sat there a moment, finishing her brandy. Then I rinsed out the glasses and turned out the lights. Then I went home. I don’t know if a big yellow cab followed me. I don’t know if anyone followed me. I didn’t care.

I didn’t sleep very well.

In the morning God arrived from California.

W
E SAT DOWN WITH
him around the big table in the rehearsal room at nine o’clock sharp. God was big on punctuality. Lyle and Katrina were there, Katrina decked out in a sober leopard-pattern
bustier
and hot-pants ensemble. Marjorie, Leo, and The Boys were there. So was Jazzy Jeff Beckman, vice president of television production for Panorama Studios, who had flown in from L.A. with God. Fiona, Annabelle, and Bobby were not there. I was. There was coffee. There was pastry. There was a plainclothesman guarding the door. There was a great deal of tension, and no cheer. None. Zero.

The morning papers had pounced on Chad’s death. “
ZAPPED
!” screamed the banner headline in the
Daily News.
“
pissed
!” cried the
Post.
Both were calling it murder, just as Very predicted they would. And both were right on top of the “mysterious food poisoning incident” as well, the
News
describing
The Uncle Chubby Show
as being “the victim of a crazed psycho-killer out for revenge or blood or both.” The
Times
didn’t bother with the story, since it happened locally. But the tabloids played it up big, so big it crowded the photos of Merilee and me standing together on Central Park West all the way back to the People pages, where the
Post
identified me as “former literary lion Shelby Haig.” Out in front of the studio, TV crews from
Hard Copy, Inside Edition, A Current Affair,
and
Entertainment Tonight
—the four horsemen of TV journalism’s apocalypse—were spilled out into the street with the Citizens for Moral Television, clamoring for more dirt. God had had to fight his way through the mob to get inside the building. As a consequence, he was in a bad mood. I didn’t know God well enough to know if he had a good one.

Godfrey Daniels was a lanky, sandy-haired man in his early thirties with a chilly manner and a face like concrete. He said very little, and revealed even less about his true feelings or his intentions. Merely sat there, oozing self-importance. He wore thick, rimless glasses, and when listening to a pitch he propped them up just above his eyebrows, like a pair of welder’s goggles. When he spoke he affected a faint English accent, the result of a year of postgraduate studies at Oxford. Somehow, a myth had arisen that he’d been a Rhodes scholar-athlete, a myth he did nothing to deny. Actually, he had been one of the top amateur golfers in California when he was at Stanford. But it was television, not golf, that was in his blood. His father had been one of the producers of
Gomer Pyle.
And a close friend of Grant Tinker, who gave Godfrey his first job. Godfrey dressed casually but expensively in a Charvet striped broadcloth shirt open at the neck, glen plaid linen slacks, and tasseled Ferragamo loafers. A pale yellow Sea Island cotton cardigan was thrown over his shoulders. Sweaters were his trademark. He always wore one, never a jacket. His detractors, and they were many, called him The Empty Sweater. When they weren’t calling him God.

Jazzy Jeff Beckman, Lyle’s financial partner, was an edgy, pimply little ferret in his late twenties with a flattop crew cut and the softest, pinkest hands I’d ever seen on a man. Jazzy Jeff wore a denim shirt and flowered silk tie and khakis, as well as the lingering symptoms of Bell’s palsy, a stress-related disorder where the nerves on one side of the face go numb, causing it to sag—somewhat like a Dick Tracy character. And causing him to dribble saliva out of that side of his mouth. He had to keep dabbing at it with a napkin, and had trouble speaking. Which was no problem. Like God, he was there to listen.

And Lyle was there to pitch. And pitch he did. He went high and hard with the same patched-together retread of his that he’d shpritzed the day before, the one where Chubby takes Deirdre to the pool hall himself. Heavy on the brother-sister bonding. Heavy on the meaning of family. Heavy on the social relevance thing, too. Up came those six million hungry kids again, and the sixteen million without health coverage, Lyle wielding the statistics like a club, daring God to turn his back on those poor, sick, hungry kids,
his
kids. Lyle pitched sans mask and gloves, and he was surprisingly nervous. Kept talking faster and faster, like a salesman who is about to have the door slammed in his face. Still, it was a good pitch. Lots of enthusiasm. Lots of laughs.

Not that God ever laughed. Not once. The programming wizard merely sat there slumped in his chair, glasses up on his forehead, listening. Never once did his facial expression change. Jazzy Jeff laughed once or twice, politely, but mostly sat there wiping his drool and watching God for a sign. Marjorie Daw kept watching God, too. She was extremely deferential around him. Did not speak unless spoken to. She wore a navy blazer and white gabardine slacks over her bandaged knees, and seemed even more poised and alert than usual. Me she wouldn’t look at.

God didn’t react at all when Lyle was done. Just continued to sit there, blank-faced, all eyes in the room upon him. Until, abruptly, he flipped his glasses down onto his nose and turned to Jazzy Jeff. “How do you like it?” he asked the little studio veep.

“Cute,” Jazzy Jeff hedged, dabbing at his mouth. Actually, what he said was “Oot-groot,” but I’d never stoop so low as to make fun of someone with a speech impairment, even a short television executive. I’m just trying to give you a feel for the room. Part of my job.

“It’s marvelously cute,” God agreed, his voice genteelly clipped. “It’s about heart. It’s about warmth, family values—everything we’re looking for at eight o’clock.”

“I knew you’d like it, pal.” Lyle was beaming. “Because it’s about who we are. And wait’ll I tell ya what happens in the second show—”

“But we’re mothballing you until we can recast Rob,” God broke in brusquely. “We’ll hold your slot for you until then. I’m here to give you my word on that, Lyle. We’re good for at least three weeks—we’ve got the Mac Culkin back-to-school special, the American League Championship Series … Worst-case scenario, we can even slide in a couple of your slam-dunk shows from first season to get your viewers wet for you. Right?”

Lyle gaped at him in stunned disbelief. It was obvious that God had already made up his mind before he left L.A. He’d simply listened to Lyle’s pitch as a courtesy. He had no intention of going ahead without a new Rob Roy Fruitwell. None. Zero.

“Major bonus for your writing staff, as well,” God continued. “Gives you time to get your first six-pack in Emmy shape. Meanwhile, we look for Rob. It won’t be easy. Chad was such a perfect fit. But we’ll find our man. Maybe someone will shake out after the first-wave cancellations. If not, we can always—”

“Time out here!” Lyle blustered, his anger mounting. “This is the show I wanna do, Godfrey. I’m taping
this
show
this
week. And I feel
very
strongly about it.”

God said nothing. He had already spoken. He would not get down in the trenches with Lyle. Instead, he shot a look at Jazzy Jeff.

Jazzy Jeff wiped his mouth. “How do you feel about Tony Curtis, Lyle?”

The Boys froze. I think Tommy Meyer even stopped breathing.

“What’s Tony fucking Curtis got to do with anything?” Lyle demanded, glowering at him.

“Man’s looking for a series,” Jazzy Jeff replied. “Looks great, feels great. Any reason Rob couldn’t be a tiny bit older?”

“He’s seventy years old!” Lyle roared, his face turning red.

“Sixty-nine,” Jazzy Jeff countered. “And it’s not as if Fiona’s twenty-something.”

“Tony would perk up our older demographics immensely, Lyle,” added God. “Let’s face it—it’s the seniors who are sitting home at night watching us. And older women, they remember Tony when he was a real matinee idol.”

“Mr. Tight Pants,” agreed Jazzy Jeff, nodding.

“He’s seventy!” bellowed Lyle. He was sweating and shaking now.

“Sixty-nine,” said God.

“And can he play comedy,” Jazzy Jeff enthused, drooling. “I saw him on cable just the other night in
Some Like It Hot
with Marilyn Monroe. Drop-dead funny. And Tony was hysterical in it.”

“That was thirty-five years ago!” Lyle shouted.

“People loved him in that bloopers special he did for us just last season,” God countered.

“He tested so well we signed him to an overall deal,” added Jazzy Jeff.

“Which you’re looking to burn off by dumping him in my show!” hollered Lyle, enraged. Katrina patted his arm, trying to calm him. He slapped it away. “Absolutely not, Godfrey! No way! No, no,
no!
I refuse. You guys are outta your fucking minds. Tony Curtis?! Un-fucking-believable! I mean, shit, why don’t we just go all out and hire Elvis, huh?! She can fuck his
ghost!”

God stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I love that. That’s a slam-dunk eight-o’clock show. It’s
The Ghost and Mrs. Muir,
only hipper.”

“Slam dunk,” agreed Jeff. “If only we could find the Hope Lange of the nineties.”

“Farrah,” said God with cool certainty. “It’s perfect for her.”

“And Ryan can play Elvis,” Jazzy Jeff burbled excitedly. “Real-life husband and wife—what could be more perfect? What resonance! What doability!”

“And Ryan won’t even have to lose any weight,” cracked Marty.

“Just remember to name her character Diana,” Tommy advised drily. “So you can call it
The King and Di.”

God stared at him. “I love that.”

“Slam dunk!” cried Jazzy Jeff. “And I’ve got the perfect husband-wife writing team on the lot. She’s even
from
Tupelo.”

God pointed a finger at Jazzy Jeff. “We have to talk about this on the plane home.”

“Definitely,” agreed Jazzy Jeff.

Lyle just sat there in pained, miserable silence. They were so caught up in their idea they’d forgotten all about him.

Me, I just felt fortunate to be there. I was actually seeing the creative process happen—the birthing of a prime-time hit. I felt lucky. Ill, but lucky.

Lyle seized back the floor. “I won’t do my show with Tony Curtis!” he screamed, pounding the table like a huge, unruly, child. “I won’t! I won’t! I
won’t!”

“Okay, then how about Richard Lewis?” offered Jazzy Jeff, effortlessly changing direction.

“The comic?” Lyle seemed thrown by this one. His fat lower lip started to quiver with agitation.

“We found him tremendously appealing in
Anything But Love,”
God reported. “We feel he has untapped leading man potential.”

Jazzy Jeff nodded. “Untapped.”

“But he’s a
comic,”
Lyle protested.

“Is that a problem?” asked God.

“Of course it’s a problem,” he argued. “You can’t have two comics in the same fucking show. We’d bounce right off each other. Somebody’s gotta be the straight man. And Rob’s the straight man.”

“Richard has the range to play straight,” God assured him. “And he and Fiona will be electric together.”

“Sparks,” said Jazzy Jeff.

Lyle gave God The Scowl. “Has Fiona’s agent been leaning on you?”

God frowned. “Why would you say that?”

“Because she and Richard Lewis have the same fucking agent, that’s why!”

“I’m simply trying to help, Lyle,” God said placatingly. “Chad was an ideal fit. We got lucky with him. We may not be so lucky this time. We may have to bend a bit.”

“Bend how?” demanded Lyle.

“This isn’t necessarily a negative, Lyle,” God stated.

“Bend
how?”

God shrugged. “I don’t know how. You people are the creative—”

“BEND HOW!”
Lyle screamed.

God sighed and pushed his glasses back up onto his forehead. “Perhaps Chubby needs to get out of the house a bit more. Get a job, get a girl … get a life.”

Now Lyle panicked, his massive head swiveling around the table at everyone in bug-eyed fright. He looked like a cornered animal. He looked … trapped. For the first time since I’d met Lyle Hudnut I found myself feeling sorry for him. “You’re … you’re talking about a whole different show, Godfrey,” he said hoarsely.

God said, “Not at all, Lyle. I’m merely suggesting that Chubby leave Deirdre alone with her kids from time to time. She does hardly any parenting, and we should give her that chance. The single mother thing is very hot right now. So is boomer romance. That’s why we’re so high on introducing Rob. We’re talking about an engine here. This will give our engine the chance to run on six cylinders, instead of just four. Make it stronger, tougher. Give us a genuine ensemble of characters. Let’s face it, most hit shows are ensemble shows.”

Lyle snorted derisively. “We’ve been the number-one show in America for the past three seasons.”

“And I want you to be number one for three more,” God said reassuringly. “But to stay there we have to grow. We’re talking about an organism here, Lyle.”

“Gee, I thought we were talking about an engine,” Lyle jeered, trying to bait him.

But God couldn’t be baited. “Look at this as a challenge,” he said smoothly. “Look at it as an opportunity to make something positive and good out of an unfortunate situation.”