One Big Joke

by Laurence Shames

  “No, just curious.”

  “Not super-fast. Fast enough.”

  “Faster than a man can run?”

  “Once it gets going, yeah, I think so. Faster than most guys can run, I think.” With a shrug, he swiveled forward and continued on.

  After a moment, Bert said, “Can it roll okay on a dock?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Like, at Garrison Bight, where the houseboats are. Can this thing go down there?”

  “Long as there’s a ramp, sure.”

  Bert rubbed Nacho’s head. “What would it cost to rent it for a couple hours?”

  “Hey, you can hire me for as long as you like. Eighty dollars per.”

  “Thanks, but here’s the thing. No offense, you’re very pleasant company and all, but I don’t need a driver, just the bike. How ‘bout for the bike alone?”

  The young man with the great legs glanced dubiously at the ancient fellow in the passenger seat. “You gonna pedal it yourself?”

  “Never mind who’s gonna pedal it. How much would it be to rent?”

  “Well, jeez, I’m not supposed to do that. I mean, I don’t own the thing. I just take it out for shifts. I’m not supposed to leave it unattended.”

  “Okay, I understand. Mind if I ask what your name is?”

  “Danny.”

  “Danny, listen, I would never ask a person to do something that he ain’t supposed to do, but how about I pay you five hundred bucks to park the bike in a certain place at midnight tomorrow and then you wander off and have a couple drinks or something? Rest your legs a while. I mean, would there be any harm in that?”

  Effortlessly pedaling, flashing the playful grin, Danny said, “Well, no, I guess not. Not if I didn’t get caught.”

  “Deal, then?”

  “Five hundred cash?”

  “Five hundred cash.”

  “Okay, deal.” He pedaled another block or so. Moonlight flashed between palm fronds, throwing shadows that were improbably crisp.

  “Oh, and Danny,” Bert resumed, “there’s one more little thing. I’m gonna need the leotard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The leotard. I need it.”

  “This leotard?”

  “Yeah, that leotard. Could you take it off, please?”

  “Now wait a second—”

  “Don’t get me wrong, young fella. I’m not makin’ any kind of what is currently fashionable to call unwanted sexual advances. It’s just, like, for a gag, okay? Tell ya what, let’s make it seven-fifty and throw in the leotard.”

  40

  “Any more staples?” Marsha asked.

  It was barely ten o’clock next morning, and she and Lenny were already down on Duval Street, tacking flyers onto utility poles and palm trees and the bulletin boards of cafes and bars. The flyers had been hastily run off in Pat’s office in the perfect yellow house. They said:

  KILLER COMEDY SHOW AT TITTERS GUEST STAR DIRECT FROM

  NEW YORK CITY

  NO COVER

  TWO DOLLAR COCKTAILS

  ONE DOLLAR DRAFTS

  IF YOU DON’T FEEL LIKE LAUGHING JUST COME FOR THE CHEAP BOOZE

  Reaching into the bottom of his backpack for the staples, Lenny said, “Boy, this really takes me back.”

  “What does?” asked his wife, as she loaded another row of tacks into the gun.

  “Putting up posters. Doing free shows. Doing almost anything, practically begging just to get people to listen to your stuff.”

  Marsha shot a staple through the fourth corner of a flyer. It made a satisfying snap as it bit into a pole. “Or in this case, just getting in enough bodies to make sure the room is glutted up.”

  They moved to the next pole down the street, through a gradually thickening crowd of early drinkers and window shoppers and people too sunburned from the day before to get out on the beach. “Yeah,” mused Lenny, “getting people in a room. That’s what it generally comes down to. Which is really kind of amazing if you think about it. That people will show up, I mean, to listen to what you have to say. How many people get that privilege in life—having strangers pay attention to their stuff and maybe laugh or maybe even think about it afterwards?”

  “Hand me another flyer,” Marsha said. She was on a roll and kept on stapling.

  Lenny was on a different kind of roll and kept on musing. “Back in New York, when I got in such a lousy mood…Well, okay, things weren’t going so well, but you know what I think really happened? I forgot how lucky I was. I started taking things for granted. Like the luck I’d had so far was just a down payment on what the world still owed me. Which is bullshit. The world’s already given me more than I probably deserve.”

  They weaved down another block. Duval got noisier and more thickly laden with smells of sunscreen and stale beer. Some Harleys roared by. The Southernmost Choo-Choo crawled past, carrying another load of tourists from the cruise ships. Marsha, honed in on the task at hand, scanned the sidewalks and the entryways of shops to see where she could hang more flyers.

  Lenny, dogging her steps and leaning forward in that avid way he had when he was talking, said, “But you haven’t really been hearing what I’m saying, have you?”

  “Sure I have. You’ve finally been admitting that you’re really lucky that people pay attention to your work.”

  “Not exactly, Marsha. I mean, that’s not the main thing I’ve been saying. Or trying to say. Or thinking.” He reached up and gently took her wrist, the one that was holding the staple gun. It was the only way he could think of to get her to stop stapling for a moment. “What I’m talking about is feeling lucky in my life. Which means us. Which means you. Which means how we are together. You’re my luck, Marsha. I forgot that for a little while.”

  “Glad you remembered.”

  “If I ever forget again, snap a towel against my ass or something.”

  “A wet, heavy towel. That would be my pleasure.” She kissed him on the cheek. Then she freed the wrist that held the staple gun. There were more posters to put up.

  

  Around noon, Bert the Shirt sashayed past a pair of secretaries and continued straight on through to Ted Clifton’s inner office.

  “For Christ’s sake, Bert,” said its occupant when the visitor was already well beyond the threshold, “this is the second time you’ve just barged in here uninvited.”

  “Right,” the old man agreed, “and the last time I did it you got even by assaulting my dog. But let’s put that behind us and be nice today. May I please sit down? I have some news you’re gonna wanna hear.”

  Grudgingly, Ted Clifton put aside some papers and motioned his visitor toward a chair. Bert didn’t sit down right away. First he very deliberately placed the chihuahua on the same corner of the businessman’s gleaming desk where it had been the visit before. Then he re-tucked the tails of the lucky shirt he’d worn for the occasion, a silk job with a pattern of craps dice all coming up sevens. When he was finally seated, he said, “I’m happy to tell you that Pat is now leaning very strongly toward giving you the lease.”

  Clifton seemed deeply unimpressed with this bit of information. His upper lip curled into a smirk and he gave a skeptical lift to one of his eyebrows. “Leaning very strongly,” he mimicked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Nothing. It means nothing. Just more bullshit and more games and more stalling.”

  Bert ignored that. “She has a small favor she wanted me to ask of you.”

  “A favor? She has the gall at this point to ask me a favor?”

  “She’s putting on a special show tonight. Kind of an all-or-nothing thing. Asking the local A-list comics to come in. Bringing down a surprise guest from New York. She’d like you to be there.”

  The invitation only made Clifton more annoyed. “Well, I don’t want to be there. I have zero interest in her goddamn show.”

  “It’s important to her.”

  “What do I care? And why the hell’s it matter if I’m there?”

&
nbsp; Bert leaned forward very slowly and put his yellowish hands flat on the businessman’s desk. “Ted,” he said softly, “I know this is hard for you to fathom, but she happens to believe in what she’s doing. She thinks there’s some value in it. She’s hoping for one more shot at getting you to agree, maybe work with her somehow, help the place succeed.”

  “That place will never succeed. That place was custom-made to fail. And I’m not interested in failure. Never have been. Never will be.”

  Bert shrugged. “Okay. Fine. Some people only bet on favorites. I don’t see the fun a that, but there it is. Anyway, Pat wanted me to tell you that if you come see the show and it doesn’t change your mind, she’ll give it up, she’ll sign over the lease. Right then and there. She says you should bring the papers.”

  Clifton folded his arms and thought that over, his right thumb twitching against the trademark on his perfect cotton sweater. He brightened for some fraction of an instant but then narrowed down his pink-rimmed eyes and said, “And why the hell should I believe she’ll follow through on that? Because she’s leaning strongly? What if she changes her mind? What if she’s just jerking me around?”

  “Then I guess you will have wasted a couple hours listening to comedy. Maybe even had a few laughs.”

  The man behind the big clean desk seemed very far from laughing.

  Bert paused a moment then reached over, petted his dog, and went on very casually. “And if Pat doesn’t do like she says she’ll do, then we’re on to Plan B, which is all set up and ready to go.”

  Clifton kept a studiously blank expression on his blandly almost-handsome features.

  Bert said, “Come on, you know all about Plan B.”

  “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

  The dog started licking its ass.

  “And get your fucking chihuahua off my desk.”

  Bert did as he was asked and cradled Nacho in his lap. “Ted, can we talk? You don’t like me. I’m fine wit’ that. I don’t like you either. But business is business, and we got business to do. No hard feelings that you tried to go around me wit’ Lou and then you tried to go around me wit’ Peppers and Carmine. Bottom line, it didn’t work. So I know all about Plan B and I know you know all about Plan B. But here’s the part that might surprise you. I happen to agree with it.”

  Guardedly, tentatively, with so little breath behind the words that it seemed they could be sucked back with the smallest inhalation, Clifton said, “You do?”

  “I do. It’s time. If Pat goes back on her word and doesn’t sign the papers, then yeah, it’s time. But can’t y’even find the decency to let her take a shot, save face, keep some dignity? Go to her show. It’s no-lose, Ted. If by some miracle ya change your mind—”

  “I won’t,” he interrupted.

  “All right then, if she signs the papers, that makes life way less messy for everybody. If she doesn’t sign, well, you know what’s gonna happen next.”

  “No I don’t. Remember that, Bert. I don’t know what’ll happen next. I never said I did.”

  “Fine. Stick to that. The boys and me will be heading over there around eleven. We’ll save ya a front-row seat.”

  41

  Back in bed after a room-service lunch, Ricky was nuzzling Carla’s ear. This didn’t feel at all unpleasant, and neither did his warming breath against her neck, but still, she put a discouraging hand against his shoulder and wriggled an inch or two away from the caress and toward her own side of the bed. “Sorry, Ricky. I just don’t feel like it right now.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Okay.” It had been quite a while since he’d been turned down but it took him almost no time at all to remember how much he didn’t like it. He indulged himself in a brief pout then gave Carla a long moment to feel guilty for the rejection. Finally he said, “It’s just, you know, with Carmine and the show and the whole live bait scenario, I’m feeling all keyed up.”

  She lifted a corner of the sheet and spun out of bed. The movement wasn’t abrupt, exactly, but there was a certain angular resolve in it. Looking back at him, her voice gradually rising more than she expected it to, she said, “I’m sorry about that. I really am. But Ricky, it’s not my job to keep you un-keyed up. Or un-paranoid. Or un-anything. It’s your job. And I really think that if you keep trying to pawn it off on someone else, you’re gonna push away a lotta people by the time you’re done.”

  He propped another pillow under his head and gave a thoughtful tilt to his chin. But the attempt at a calm expression couldn’t quite mask the hurt feelings or the fact that his first reaction to having his feelings hurt was to get angry and strike back. “Wow, where the hell did that come from?”

  She didn’t answer. She’d found some clothes and was starting to get dressed.

  “I mean, did I say or do anything to deserve that? I don’t think I did. I’m trying to make love to you, you start unloading on me. I just don’t get that, Carla.”

  She’d pulled her shorts on and was buttoning a blouse. “Oh, were we making love? I thought it was more like you were taking a tranquilizer. Listen, Ricky, we’re both on edge. We’re dealing with it differently. You need what you need and I need what I need. What I need is some air. Some light. What I don’t need right now is looking at the ceiling. I’m going out. Alone. I’ll see you later.”

  

  “Hol’ on, wait a sec,” said Peppers, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon glare that came skidding across the water. “That’s gonna be our alibi? That we were there the whole time?”

  “Best alibi there is,” said Bert.

  He was sitting in his aluminum folding chair at his favorite spot on Smathers Beach, a place where a stub of stone jetty made the wavelets fold back on themselves so that their tops rose up in steep little points like the curlicues on Dairy Queen. Nacho, in sunglasses with blue lenses, was watching with rapt interest as sandpipers ran away from little squirts of breaking surf.

  Carmine said, “’Scuse me, Bert, due respect, but I don’t see where sittin’ right there inna place we’re gonna torch is really the best alibi.”

  “Ya don’t? Well, lemme ask ya a question. But first, slide over a step, you’re standing in my light. Okay, question. If you’re gonna torch a place, ya gotta be there at some point, right?”

  “Well, yeah, sure,” the big man said.

  “And once the job is done, ya gotta get the hell out. Am I right?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Okay. So how ya gonna be less whaddyacallit, conspicuous? Waltzin’ in and out when there’s nobody around for cover, just you and maybe some cops and passers-by and a security camera or two? Or when you’re just, like, melting into a crowd, plenty of other bodies around?”

  The goombahs just blinked at one another.

  “And another question,” Bert went on, stroking Nacho between the ears in a spot he stroked so often that the hair was starting to wear off. “Suspiciousness. Say at some point ya gotta justify your presence at the premises where the unfortunate incident occurred. Whaddya say? ‘Duh, I just happened to be walking past?’ No. That’s lame. Whereas if you can say, ‘Hey, I was there all night, I came to see the show,’ then it washes.”

  Peppers did not seem entirely convinced. He kicked the pointy toe of his black shoe through the thin sand that covered the coral rocks. The toe came out badly scuffed and he hoped he hadn’t altogether ruined the shoes. “Okay, so we got a logical reason for bein’ there. But still, if we’re seen comin’ out of a flaming boat—”

  “This is why the timing is so crucial,” Bert cut in. “Why we gotta do it right at closin’ time, when everybody’s leavin’ anyway. We light the candle. It takes, like, ten, fifteen seconds. We join the crowd moving away, walking, running up the dock. Big confusion. Crowd huddles up. I stay there gawking. You guys slip quietly away. Mission accomplished.”

  “And the gas?” Carmine asked. “What’re we gonna do, hide it under our table?”

  “I stashed it already,” s
aid Bert the Shirt. “Like I said I would. Stashed it in broad daylight, wit’ many locals such as myself walkin’ up and down the docks, bringin’ various and sundry to their boats. Nobody paid attention. Why would they? It’s stashed right next to the back exit, handy as can be. So, you guys have any more doubts or worries you’d like me to address?”

  42

  Titters had never been half so full.

  Maybe it was the posters plastered all over town. Maybe it was the favors Pat had cashed in—the promises to muster friends and family, the free plugs on local radio blaring through a giant bullhorn at the beach. Maybe it was the novelty of talent from out of town. Most likely it was the lure of cut-rate drinks.

  In any case, the club started filling up around eight o’clock, and by nine, when the show was scheduled to begin, it was jammed and buzzing. The noise level gradually rose from a companionable hum to a sustained and general roar that carried with it both sore throats and excitement. People jostled at the bar where Pat and Lenny were working side by side; beer foam dribbled over the rims of glasses as elbows bumped together. Marsha and Sam, pressed into front-of-the-house service, led customers to tables and staunchly defended a prime spot in the middle of the room that was reserved for a group of VIPs who’d be arriving later.

  Around 9:15, the house lights dimmed and Pat got up on stage, finding the spotlight with the loose, sure tread of a veteran performer. She was wearing jeans and a shimmering silver blouse that shot back glints like flashbulbs. She made a sweeping flourish with the mic, bowed to the applause, then said, “Welcome, everybody! So glad to see you’re all desperate for a laugh. Christ knows I am. But before we start, may I ask you all to please kneel for our national anthem…No, wait, that’s the NFL. This is Key West. So sit, stand, kneel, lie down with a friend of any race, creed, color, or any one of four thousand eight hundred and sixty-two gender identities. What the hell, if it’s okay with the Pope, it’s fine by me. So have fun, keep smiling, buy more drinks, and I promise you an evening that you won’t forget until after you’ve forgotten almost everything else.”