The Man Who Cancelled Himself (41 page)

Lyle glared at him. “I don’t want Richard Lewis.”

“Fine,” conceded God. “Cast whoever you want. It’s your show.” He glanced around the big table at everyone. “You people are the talent. We listen to our talent. And we support our talent, one hundred percent. That’s why we’re the number-one network. We believe in giving people the chance to do the work
they
want to do—their way. There are no sides here. We’re all on the same side—your side.” He paused, stroking his chin. “If it helps your thinking any, we’re also searching for twenty-something appeal at eight o’clock. We’d kill for the next Luke Perry.”

“Christ, who wouldn’t?” said Jazzy Jeff.

“Maybe a
younger
boyfriend is the solution,” God suggested. “Someone with poster appeal. Someone who can get us publicity—the
right
kind.”

Lyle bristled but said nothing.

“We want what you want, Lyle,” God said. “We want the same thing.”

“And what’s that?” growled Lyle.

“A stronger show.”

“The show is perfect the way it is,” Lyle insisted stubbornly. “Perfect.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Godfrey Daniels flipped his glasses back down onto his nose. “We just want it to be more perfect.”

“I’m road kill,” moaned Lyle, slumped behind his desk, hollow-eyed with shock and disbelief. “I’m dead meat. Over and out. Crow food. Dead, I tell ya. They don’t want me no more.”

He had fled for the privacy of his office immediately after God left the studio with Jazzy Jeff and Marjorie. His plain-clothesman was stationed outside. Katrina was coiled on the sofa, sipping herbal tea and watching him with concern. I was sitting in an armchair watching him, too. This was a new Lyle, beaten and defeated. The bluster and cockiness had gone out of him. The defiance, the energy, the
life
had poured right out. He was like a freighter with a gaping hole in its bottom, sinking in deep black water right before our eyes.

“They don’t want me no more,” he wailed, one more time.

“They do so, Pinky,” Katrina squeaked. “You heard God. He said he’s behind you one hundred percent.”

“That’s the kiss-off,” Lyle said despairingly. “Those are always their last words just before they chop your head off.” Tears welled up in his eyes, spilled down his round cheeks. “I’m dead, I tell ya. Dead.”

“And what are you going to do about it, fat man?” I demanded.

His head snapped back, as if I’d slapped him. “Huh?”

“You heard me,” I said. “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m gonna … I’m gonna …” He trailed off, ran a hand over his face. There was a spark in his eyes now. Tiny one, but it was there. “I’m gonna fight ’em, is what I’m gonna do. It’s my show. Mine. I’m
The Uncle Chubby Show.
Not Tony fucking Curtis. Not Richard fucking Lewis. Not Luke fucking Perry.
Me!”
He was coming back to life now, rising up out of his chair.
“Me!
I’ll fight the bastards, that’s what I’ll do. My fans—I’ll go right to my kids. My kids are with me. They won’t let this happen to me. I can count on my kids. They love me. They …” He sank back down, the spark abruptly snuffed. “Fuck me, who am I kidding? I can’t count on them. Or anybody else. Nobody gives a shit about me.”

“I do, Pinky,” Katrina insisted. “Hoagy does.”

Lyle’s eyes flickered at me. There was suspicion in them. I didn’t know why. He heaved a huge sigh. “I hate having that fucking cop parked right outside my door.”

“Sssh, he’ll hear you,” whispered Katrina.

Lyle snarled, “I don’t care. I feel like I’m a fucking prisoner in here.”

“He’s protecting you, Lyle. Someone’s trying to kill you, remember?”

“Let ’em,” he snapped. “They’ll be doing me a huge favor.”

Katrina observed him, fretfully chewing on the inside of her mouth. “We should hold a family council meeting, Pinky.”

“What the hell for?”

“To tell the staff that we’re suspending production,” she replied, finishing her tea. “How would noon be?”

Lyle shook his head. “I can’t. Can’t face all of them. No way. Just have Leo do up a memo. She’ll know how to word it.”

“But, Pinky, don’t you think you ought to—?”

“Just do it, Katrina!” he barked. “And leave us alone for a while, will ya? I need to talk to Hoagy.”

“Okay, Lyle,” she muttered sullenly, starting for the door.

“And send Naomi in,” he added.

She stopped in her tracks. “What for?”

“Whattaya mean, what for?” Lyle growled back at her. “I need her, that’s what for.”

“Why do you need her?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

He rolled his eyes, exasperated. “For
business.
Christ, Katrina, what’s gotten into you?”

She hesitated, unsure if she wanted to get into this in front of me. Then she took a deep breath and plunged ahead, hooters heaving. “I’m only going to tell you this once, Pinky. So you better pay attention. Here it is: I’ve stood by you through thick and thin. And I’ll continue to stand by you. Because I love you. But if you ever,
ever
shit on me, if you cheat on me, if you bone me, so help me you’ll be sorry you ever got involved with me. Because I’ll hurt you, Pinky. Worse than you’ve hurt me. I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll never stop hurting. Do you understand?”

Lyle glowered at her menacingly. “Sure, I understand ya. Now you understand me, cunt. Nobody hurts me. Nobody
can
hurt me. And
nobody
tells me what to do!” He pounded his chest with his fist. “I’m Lyle Hudnut! I do whatever I want, whenever I want,
to
whoever I want! Got that?”

She threw her teacup at him. Hit him, too. In the shoulder. Then she stormed out, slamming the door behind her so hard that Magic Johnson’s picture fell off the wall.

Lyle rubbed his shoulder, cackling. “God, she’s a pistol. Gets me hard as a rock when she’s like that. My boner’s about to lift this whole desk right up off the floor.”

I tugged at my ear. “What about that heartwarming ‘I’m gonna change’ speech of yours, Lyle?”

He smirked at me. “Who are you trying to be, my conscience?”

“Thank you, no. I already have a full-time job.” I sat back and crossed my legs. “What’s on your mind, Lyle?”

“Nuttin’. Just needed to get me some.” He anxiously reached into the credenza behind his desk and pulled out a plastic sandwich bag half filled with white powder. Coke. He dumped a heap of it out onto the Lucite-topped desk, stuck a length of
Uncle Chubby
drinking straw into his left nostril and began to make like a Dustbuster, snorting every last bit of it up.

“Where did you get that?”

“I still got my sources.” He came up for air, sniffling. “Never know when you might need some. And I need me some. Gotta stay one step ahead of the panic.”

“That won’t do you any good, Lyle.”

“Yeah, well, lemme tell ya something, Hoagster. That’s a whole lotta bullshit. I feel mo’ better already.” And he already looked plenty glazed. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

There was a discreet tapping at the door. Lyle hurriedly stashed the bag away, wiped the desk clean, wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. Then he said come in.

It was Naomi. “You wanted to see me, Lyle?” she asked, styling for him there in the doorway. The blue knit jersey dress she wore that day was particularly tight.

Lyle gazed at her hungrily. “Sure did. Come on over here, kid,” he commanded, holding his arms out to her.

She glanced at me uncertainly.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “Hoagster knows all about us. Come to Papa.”

She flounced over to him and plopped down into his lap, and the two of them began to suck some serious face. Lyle ran his big mitt up her bare leg and under her dress. Until she let out a gasp. She stuck her tongue in his ear. He moaned. I can’t begin to tell you how glad I was that Lulu wasn’t around for this.

“You look at that duplex on West End?” he asked her, breathing heavily.

“It’s darling, Lyle,” she purred, wriggling around in his lap. “Only it’s
way
too much for me on my salary. And the down payment is—”

“You let
The Uncle Chubby Show
take care of the down payment.”

“But I just heard the show is being—”

“Don’t you worry about that. You always got a job with me. You just keep on doing what you do best.” He whispered something in her ear. She let out a dirty giggle. “Now go call the realtor and tell her you’re taking it.”

“If you say so, Lyle,” she said, her eyes gleaming with naughty delight.

“I say so. I sure as shit do.”

She scampered out. He watched her go, stoned and horny. Then he turned and gave me The Scowl. “Don’t look at me that way.”

“Which way is that, Lyle?”

“Like you just sucked on a pickle for half an hour.”

“I was weaned on one. What happens now, Lyle?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Guess I’ll fuck ’em both till I get tired of one of them. Why, you want Katrina?”

“I meant with the show.”

“Oh.” He ran his hands through his curly red hair. “Fuck if I know. I mean, shit, Chad’s starting to look better and better. I could
work
with the guy. Or at least
around
him. But this … this is scary fucking shit. No telling what we’ll end up with—whole fucking show could end up on a PT boat by the time they’re done with it. Totally different show. Totally different. Totally.” He broke off, sniffling. “Fuck it. Doing a show’s always a fight. Even if you’re number one. Every day it’s a fight. You never stop fighting. That’s TV. It’s about survival. It’s about getting yours. I spend ninety percent of my time pushing this big huge boulder up the side of a mountain and the other ten percent of my time trying to figure out why the fuck I bother. Fuck it, maybe I should just quit.”

“And do what?”

“Hang out at the beach,” he replied comfortably. “We can finish our book. I can do another album, go on tour, shoot a movie. Who knows, maybe I’ll even take up golf. I mean, shit, it’s just a lousy sitcom. Who needs it?”

“You do. This show is your life. These people are your family.”

“Says who?” he demanded.

“You did, as I recall.”

“Aw, who needs it?” he said once more, though with much less conviction. Because he was blowing smoke and we both knew it. The man wouldn’t walk away. Couldn’t walk away. This was his home. This was his … what was it Fiona called it? His asylum. Yeah, that, too.

He clapped his hands together. “So where are we with the book?” he asked, turning businesslike.

“You feel like working?”

“Why not? Now’s as good a time as any.”

“Very well.” I reached for my notepad. “I learned some not uninteresting things about you yesterday.”

He frowned at me, puzzled. “Who from?”

“Your parents. I met them for tea.”

His response was varied and rich. First came surprise. A widening of the eyes, tightening of the mouth. Then came embarrassment. He reddened, and couldn’t make eye contact with me. Then came rage. Clenching of fists. Quickening of breath. Flaring of nostrils. And then, finally, came the brakes—the supreme effort to hold onto his self-control. All in a span of less than three seconds. “W-Why’d you do that, Hoagy?”

“There were some things I wanted to ask them.”

“What about?”

“Global warming, the trade deficit, lasting peace in the Middle East. I booked them into the Mayfair. You treated them to
Guys and Dolls
and dinner at The Post House. Most generous of you. They went back this morning.”

“You shoulda said something to me about this yesterday, Hoagy,” he said quietly, between his teeth.

“Why is that, Lyle?”

“You
know
why,” he growled menacingly.

I tugged at my ear. “Sorry, my mistake. I didn’t think you’d be interested in seeing them.”

He let out his huge
hoo-hah-hah
of a laugh. “You got that one right!” he cried jovially. I was forgiven. Possibly he was too stoned to stay mad. “So how are the old fucks?”

“Seemed well. They asked how you were.”

“What’d you say?”

“That I didn’t know.”

“Why’d you say that?”

“Because I don’t. I did say someone was trying to kill you.”

“Why’d you say that?”

“Because someone is.”

“I’m fine,” Lyle declared. More for his own ears than mine. “I
will
get through this thing. I
will
survive. Somehow.” He peered at me. “What’d you find out from ’em?”

“That you were put on liquid phenobarbital when you were four months old—to stop you from crying all of the time. That means we can trace your history of drug dependency all the way back to the crib. Not a terrible opening for the book.”

“Geez,
great
way to open the book!” exclaimed Lyle. “Those sadistic fucks. How could they
do
that to me?”

“Your doctor prescribed it. They thought they were doing the right thing.”

He sneered at me. “What, now you’re taking their side?”

“I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m merely telling you what they said.”

He narrowed his eyes at me suspiciously. “What else? Any other juicy shit they did to me I don’t know about?”

I had considered this one carefully. Agonized over it, in fact. Because it goes against my nature to withhold something. Especially something as significant as Aileen Hudnut trying to kill Lyle when he was two. But it also goes against my nature to bury someone. And I’d be burying her but good if I disclosed—if
we
disclosed—what she’d done to Lyle forty years ago. It would put the old woman through hell. Also destroy whatever slim chance of reconciliation they might have. It would hurt, not heal. And I didn’t wish to be a part of that. Was it my decision to make? Maybe not. But they’d asked me to make it, so I was making it. This was one secret I was going to keep from Lyle Hudnut. I cleared my throat and looked him in the eye. “They did it to themselves, is more like it.”

“Whatta you mean?” he asked, frowning.

“I mean, Lyle, that Aileen was drug dependent herself for many years—addicted to an assortment of tranquilizers.”

He stared at me in disbelief. “Aileen? A
druggie?!”

“She was. All those times you remember Herb saying she was lying down, she was actually having problems of her own. Problems they shielded you from, as most parents of that generation did. Your mother suffers from depression, Lyle. As did her father.”