She introduced the night’s first comic, a middle-aged woman with a wild head of tangled gray hair and a pair of flame-red harem pants whose legs were wide enough to hide watermelons in. The comedian launched in on a serious note. “Tonight I want to talk about progress.
“Back when I was coming up in comedy…well, not that far up, obviously…But back when I was breaking in, there were hardly any female stand-ups. It was, like, ninety-five per cent guys. One day I asked a male colleague, a buddy, why he thought that was. He thought about it a minute, then he said, ‘I’ll you why it is. It’s because women don’t think it’s funny not to get laid.’
“So I thought, yeah, all these guy comedians, a big part of their routine is not gettin’ any. Can’t get a date. Girlfriend won’t put out. Wife always has a girdle on. And I had a Eureka moment. No, I don’t mean I vacuumed. I did the math. Hey, if there’s all these guys not getting laid, there’s a roughly equal number of women not getting laid. Why the hell can’t we make jokes about it? How about a little parity in the not-getting-laid comedy genre?
“And let’s face it, ladies, not getting laid can be a fucking riot. Though, actually, you know what’s even funnier? Sort of getting laid. Like, you’re in bed naked with a guy and you’re still not sure if you’ve been laid or not. The only clue is that the guy rolls over, lights up a cigarette, and asks you how it was…How what was?
Hey, I hear some laughs out there. Kind of high-pitched, nervous ones. It’s okay, girls, laugh! We’ve all been there, right? Don’t squirm, guys. We know you tried your best. Don’t get discouraged, that’s the main thing…”
At around ten-thirty, at the Harbor House, Ricky was still rehearsing his opening in front of the dresser mirror. His eyes were a bit glassy, his pupils dilated, and there was a sporadic twitch at the left corner of his mouth.
Carla was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on her shoes. Looking up at his taut reflected face, she said, “I thought we got rid of all the pills.”
“Good try. But not quite. I tucked away a little stash. Diet pills. Muscle relaxants. Light stuff. No big deal.”
“I thought you were done with all that, Ricky.”
“Guess you were wrong. Listen, I’m all keyed up. I told you that. I think I got plenty of reason.”
“There’s always plenty of reason.”
He swiveled in his chair to face her. “Spare me the lecture, and enough with the rescuer bit, okay? I got a show to do.”
“A show. Wow. That’s what you’re so keyed up about? A show? Not facing Carmine? That’s a little weird, Ricky.”
He tugged on his twitching cheeks and said, “Is it? Not to me. Old saying: Dying’s easy, comedy’s hard. Do you have any idea how long the time feels between setting up a joke and waiting to see if the laugh comes? It’s a freakin’ eternity. Then, if you do get a laugh, what next? You set up the next bit and wait eternity again. It’s very scary. So you stress and work your ass off trying to control it. That’s what keys me up. What happens afterwards with Carmine? That’s a separate deal. That I know I can’t control.”
“Maybe I can,” Carla said.
He gave his head a skeptical tilt. “Maybe. Maybe you can. Maybe you will. Another rescue job. Seems to come naturally to you.”
He turned back to the mirror.
43
There is always curiosity about an empty table in a crowded club, always speculation that perhaps the prime spot is being reserved for bona fide celebrities. So heads turned around 11:30 as Sam threaded her way through the packed house, leading a quartet of late arrivals to their place of honor. But if the others in the audience were hoping for a glimpse of the famous, they were disappointed. The new group comprised a very old man in a loud shirt clutching a chihuahua like a loaf of bread, two young guys who might have been bit players in gangster movies that no one ever saw, and a stiff-looking business type who looked vaguely familiar from around town but inspired no fond associations.
A fresh comedian was just being introduced as the foursome settled in. He was tall and skinny, with thick black-framed eyeglasses and ears that stuck out at right angles like the side-view mirrors on a car. He took the microphone, brought it very close to his lips, flung out his free hand in a wide, ebullient gesture…and then he froze. He said nothing. He did nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. Ten seconds passed. A couple of people coughed. After ten more seconds, there were some murmurs, some squeaks from shifting chairs. After half a minute, a smell of nervous sweat began to be noticed in the room, the smell of discomfort and dread that people give off when witnessing a wreck or someone dissolving right before their eyes.
After forty-five seconds, the comedian dropped his outstretched arm, smiled, and said, “Thank you. I call that piece Anticipation. Can kind of drive you crazy, right? Me, I spend a lot of time thinking about all the things that can drive a person crazy. Not the obvious ones. Nuclear annihilation, Florida sinking underwater. Truth is, nobody goes crazy over stuff like that. Too big. Too impersonal. It’s the little stuff that makes you crazy. Grape skins getting caught between your teeth. Then when you try to floss ‘em out, the floss breaks and you got this tiny thread hanging on your gums. It’s like fifty times smaller than a pubic hair, but it’s taken over your world. It’s all you can think about. It’s ruining your life. So you reach in with your thumb and finger, and now it’s already starting to get unhygienic because you remember that just a little while ago you shook hands with a guy who has a cold. But you’re committed, so you reach in with the thumb, and it pushes your tongue aside, so now you can’t stop thinking about your tongue. How it just kind of hangs there in your mouth. How does it just hang there? That seems weird, right? So you start moving it around, you can’t stop. Then that stringy little purple thing underneath starts getting irritated…”
At the VIP table, only Peppers was laughing. He said to Carmine, “What, you don’t think this guy’s funny? He’s different. He’s fuckin’ wit’ our heads.”
“I ain’t heard a single joke,” the big man said. “What kinda comedian can’t tell a joke?”
“Milton Berle,” said Bert. “Now he could tell a joke. He’d just look at ya and open his eyes real wide, ya’d wet your pants.”
Ted Clifton said nothing. He wasn’t listening to the conversation and he hadn’t been listening to the comedian either. He’d been looking around the room, doing a rough head-count of the guests. For just a moment it almost seemed a shame to him that Titters was maybe starting to catch on, finally, right before it closed. Who knew? Maybe, given enough time, the place could actually work. But it wasn’t his problem and he didn’t waste a lot of time or energy on the thought. He had the lease papers in his pocket, along with an expensive pen. He made a mental note to make sure he got the pen back once the papers had been signed.
Backstage, Lenny and Marsha were putting the finishing touches on a maze-like obstacle course with lots of booby traps. There were places where microphone booms could suddenly be dropped like traffic barriers, sharp turns where loops of wire could be pulled taut at ankle level, straight-aways where a hell-bent pursuer might run into a rolling costume rack full of get-ups for the drag shows. There was a rusty locker just wide enough for Marsha to squeeze into while she choreographed the mayhem, and an ancient engine housing for Lenny to hide behind when crouching at the ready with his phone in camera mode.
Outside, shortly after midnight, on the dock leading to Titters’ back exit, Ricky and Carla stepped around a driverless pink Pedi-Cab and climbed the short ramp to the stage door. Next to it, neatly tucked behind a concrete post, was a red gas can with a vented cap and a cheerful spout like a child’s drawing of a tea-kettle.
As arranged, Ricky knocked three times, paused, then knocked louder, twice. Lenny opened the door, pulled the two of them inside, handed Ricky a purple leotard, and showed him where to dump his street clothes when he quick-changed and fled. Then Marsha led
them on a tour of the winding, twisting path through the seemingly random clutter. “Your escape route,” she explained. “I’d memorize it if I were you. Walk it three, four times. Got it?”
Pat announced last call just before the headliner was scheduled to come on, then, moving counter to the flow of bodies drifting toward the bar, she sidled over to the table where the VIPs were seated. Flashing a gracious, all-inclusive emcee smile, she said, “How’s the show? Everybody having fun?”
Carmine grunted.
Peppers said, “Pretty funny.” Then he stopped himself, afraid it might be undignified to show so much enthusiasm.
Pat said, “How about you, Ted? You impressed?”
Grudgingly, the businessman said, “Nice show. Nice turnout.”
“Nice enough to change your thinking?”
“No. Not even close. But I’m happy to see you go out on a high note.”
He pulled some papers from his pocket and smoothed out their creases with the heel of his hand. He managed something approaching a smile as he passed the pen to Pat.
She took it and leaned over the document, very briefly perusing its contents. With a resigned sigh, she pulled back the sleeve of her shimmering silver blouse. She brought her fingers very close to the dotted line.
Then she said, “No. Uh-uh. Sorry, Ted. I’ve decided not to sign.”
“You what?”
“I’ve decided not to.”
“But you said—”
“I said I was leaning toward signing. But come on, Ted, you’re a business guy. Look around. Could you walk away just as something is turning the corner? I can’t give up now. Forget it.”
Clifton said nothing. His face went from its usual veal-like pink to a congested and unwholesome purple. His blotchy neck swelled and throbbed against his collar.
The house lights blinked three times then gradually began to dim. Pat smiled and said, “Well, that’s my cue. Gotta go.” She turned and walked away. She still had the pen.
Clifton scowled at her back, looked down at his unsigned papers. “That bitch.”
“Zat any way ta talk?” said Bert.
“She lured me in here just to jerk me around and make us look like idiots.”
“Speak for yourself,” the old man said. He petted his dog and looked at Carmine and Peppers. “I don’t happen to think we look like idiots. I think we look like guys who were hoping to avoid unpleasantness. It didn’t work. Such is life. So let’s not get our bowels in an uproar. We got a plan. Everything is right on schedule. Let’s just stay calm and get it done.”
44
Onstage again, radiant in the spotlight and glowing in the success of the evening, Pat waved the microphone and blew kisses to the cheering audience. “Thank you all so much for being here. Thank you for laughing. And now it’s my great pleasure to introduce a performer who many of you will recognize from his frequent guest appearances on shows like Wasted Education, Naked Suburb, and Back in My High School Bedroom. A regular at top clubs on both coasts. Soon, God willing, to star in his own network series. Ladies and gentlemen, direct from New York City, let’s give it up for…Ricky Reed!”
At the mention of the name, Carmine grabbed the edges of the VIP table hard enough to make the glassware rattle.
The room crackled with applause and the stamping of feet against the floorboards as the comedian bounded out from behind the makeshift curtain.
Carmine said, “Holy shit, it’s really him!”
Innocently, Bert said, “Who?”
“The little pissant clown that stole my girlfriend.”
Onstage, Ricky paced and swooped. “Thank you, thank you. Such a pleasure to find myself in Key West. Actually, it’d be a pleasure to find myself anywhere. Been looking for years. No real clues yet.”
Carmine said, “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him.” He put his palms flat out in front of him and made a move to rise.
Bert reached out a gnarled but still strong hand and grabbed him by the wrist. “Here? Now? In front of like a hundred witnesses? Slow down, Carmine. Think.”
“Remember that test we all took in school? The one that matched you to your dream career? Mine came back terrarium designer. I thought, great, this is what I was born to do? Put different-colored pebbles in an aquarium that doesn’t even have water in it, and now and then drop in a turtle?”
Carmine’s breath was coming in quick hard pants. His lips pulled back and showed the edges of his teeth. “As soon as the asshole’s routine is over then. I got him. He’s mine. You’re gonna help me, Peps. You promised.”
Peppers didn’t look happy but he gave a solemn nod.
“So I go to the guidance counselor. He says, ‘Don’t take it so hard. It’s not like it’s your only shot in life. Let’s look at your top three’. He riffles through some papers. ‘Okay, number two. Goatherd.’ This was in Newark, New Jersey. Great place to be a goat, right? So I’m looking at the window, wondering if it’s high enough to be worth throwing myself out of.”
Ted Clifton bent low over the table and said, “Look, I don’t know or care about your little personal issues, but you guys have a job to do. That comes first.”
“No it don’t,” said Carmine.
Clifton looked to Bert to make his case. Bert petted his dog and shrugged.
“So the guy riffles some more papers. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘here’s number three. Vice-President.’ So I think it over. Hmm. ‘Any idea where I can get a good deal on some turtles?’”
His voice thinned out by exasperation, Clifton said, “Look, we have a deal. If Mr. Benedetti hears—”
“Do me a favor and shut up,” said Carmine.
The businessman pulled back like a poked clam.
Soothingly, Bert said, “Relax, Ted. These guys got more pressing business. The other, don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“You?”
Onstage, a fast segue. “But, hey, enough about me. Anybody having a birthday today? Ah, there, you in the back. Nice. Happy birthday, schmuck!”
Carmine had started easing back his chair, putting himself in position to spring up. There were six other tables between him and the stage, no straight aisle between them. Then it was maybe three strides from the stage to the curtain behind it. He guessed it would take around ten seconds to close the distance.
“Okay, enough about him. Back to me. I’ve always been kind of a glass-half-empty guy. I admit it. Got it from my family. Every time we got together, every phone call, it was always about who died, who caught cancer, whose vasectomy went wrong and their testicles swelled up like cantaloupes. If they didn’t have any big bad news, they settled for small bad news. ‘Remember Aunt Fay? She can’t move her knuckles...’”
The routine rolled along. Some bits got laughs, some bits didn’t, but over time there came a momentum that broke down the listeners’ resistance and barged past their defenses; that peeled away the membranes around the guilty and neurotic secrets that at the start of the set had felt like private burdens but turned out to be the common property of everyone in the room. Ricky knew how to milk that momentum, knew when to strut, when to pause, when to pivot to a next idea so that small truths would be revealed with the sudden sharpness of a slap and tension would let go in a burst of helpless guffaws. His tempo gradually quickened, jokes blending seamlessly with self-revelations that morphed back into punch lines. His volume crept up, his movements on stage became a manic blur, and by the time the routine ended his shirt was splotched with sweat.
The applause swelled up long and loud, spiked with hoots and whistles. Ricky acknowledged it with a deep bow, then another, then a raising of humbly pressed-together palms and a Hindu-style tilting of his head. He slipped the microphone back into its stand, flashed a final smile to all corners of the room, and started running for his life.
45
The crowd was just beginning to disperse when Carmine and Peppers sprang up from their seats and bolted toward the stage,
their progress slowed by rising bodies and shifting chairs. Carmine lowered his shoulder like a fullback and bulled his way through, cursing and being cursed at in return. Tables toppled. Glassware smashed. Ice cubes skittered across the floor.
The killers clambered up the pair of steps that led onto the stage. Spotlight beams threw sinister and distorted shadows that tracked them as they sprinted across the bare platform, their footsteps heavy and hollow on the boards, heading for the slender gap in the black curtain that Ricky had passed through only moments before.
Just before they reached it, Lenny, crouched under a desk, shoved a costume rack across their path.
The goombahs went down hard in a heap of sequins, gold lame, and feather boas. Scrambling to their feet and waving away bits of fluff, they tried to get their bearings in nearly total darkness. Not more than fifteen feet away, a dim red Exit sign glowed feebly. As they made their way toward it, Marsha, cozy in her locker, twitched a cable that brought mic stands raining down against their shoulders and set broken barstools rolling toward their shins. By the time they reached the exit they were bruised and winded and a precious minute had been lost.
But Carmine was not discouraged. He had no doubt that he would find Ricky Reed just outside the door, probably smoking a cigarette or maybe a joint, and then the only problem would be deciding whether to pummel him to death, drown him, or just knock him unconscious and cart him away to be finished off at leisure.
Muscles clenched, belly on fire at the prospect of revenge, the big man flung the door open. It groaned on its hinges but on the other side of it there was no sign of Ricky. There was just an empty dock and a swath of the flat and viscous water of Garrison Bight twinkling copper in the moonlight.
One Big Joke Page 17