Who Killed the Fonz?
Page 14
• • •
RICHIE WAS NOT ON THE dance floor, he was on the pay phone near the bathrooms, shouting into the receiver, a finger jammed into his ear so he could hear. “Yeah, Mom, I know, you’re right, I should’ve told you the truth. Now could you please put Lori Beth back on? Mom, listen, just focus on the good news, okay? He’s alive. Fonzie’s alive.”
He hung up and rejoined the party. It was the best one Milwaukee had seen since the Brewers won the pennant. Richie hadn’t been this ecstatic since Gleb Cooper called to tell him he had sold Welcome to Henderson County.
Gleb Cooper.
He had forgotten all about Gleb and his ultimatum. And here it was—Saturday night. The deadline. He had to call him. He had to give him his decision. What was his decision? What would he say? Would he really agree to write some awful thing that would completely annihilate whatever reputation he still had in the film industry, whatever little artistic integrity that remained after years of slow, steady compromise? Would he really degrade himself like that now? Did he really have to? He did, didn’t he. Was this what it meant to grow up, to age? You became the person you told yourself you never would? Because you had to, just to survive?
It made his head hurt. It made his heart hurt.
He cooled off at the bar. A milk shake calmed him down, helped him think.
Fonzie appeared beside him, leaning against the bar. He was out of breath and, finally, perspiring, though trying not to let either one show. He glanced at Richie, saw his dour face. “Geez, Red,” he said. “Who died?”
“You did,” Richie said.
Fonzie nudged him with his elbow. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“But I did, Fonz. For twenty years.”
“Forget it.”
“How can I? I’m sorry I lost touch.”
“Nah, I’m the one who’s sorry. When I heard about your dad, I just . . .” Fonzie looked away, down at the bar.
“I know,” Richie said. He put his hand on Fonzie’s shoulder. “I get it.” Fonzie grimaced and put his hand on his lower back. “Still hurting pretty bad, huh, Fonzie?”
“I’m okay.”
“Man, I can’t believe it,” Richie said. “You fell in love. In a way, Fonzie is dead. And Sealock did kill him—Margo Sealock.”
“Now there’s where you’re wrong. Love never killed anybody.”
Richie’s smile disappeared.
“C’mon, Red. What’s really eating at you?”
Richie told him—Gleb and Space Battles and Suttree. As Richie talked, it occurred to him: when he read Suttree he had a clear vision of the character, of the images he would put up on-screen. When he envisioned Suttree in his rowboat, on the river, resisting every current, his back was straight, his hands were up and out, gripping the oars, his face was squinted against the wind—it could have been something else he was riding along in. Not a boat at all—a 1949 Triumph with a silver gas tank, ape-hanger handlebars, front fender removed. He had been missing his friend so deeply, and he had not even realized it until he had found him in a book.
Fonzie said, “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I’ll probably just take the job. It’s the responsible thing to do.”
“That’s not what I asked you.” Fonzie turned to him. “I asked you what you want to do.”
“I want to tell him no. I want to make Suttree.”
“Then that’s what you gotta do.”
“It’s impossible, Fonz. I need five million dollars.”
“Fine,” said a voice behind them.
Margo.
“I’ll be your producer,” she said.
“If only you were serious,” Richie said.
“I am completely serious. Our new Shotz Light has been a big success, business has never been better—I have the money.”
“But then why did Martin need Sackett-Wilhelm? Why didn’t he just get it from you?”
“I would have given it to him if he had asked. He knew that. But still he never asked. I think it was because he thought he had to do it all on his own. That was his curse, thinking that. But it doesn’t really matter what he thought, or why he was the way he was. What matters is I have the money and I had it the whole time, and after all that’s happened I don’t want to stay in Milwaukee anymore. I don’t want Martin Jr. growing up in a place where his name reminds everyone he meets of disgrace.” She looked at Fonzie. “What do you think, Arthur?”
“It’s riding season year-round out there, Fonz,” Richie said. “And they can always use good stuntmen.”
“Forget it,” Margo said. “His days of flying off bridges are over.” Fonzie bared his teeth, put his hand on his back again. “Know how he hurt his back?”
“Sure,” Richie said, “the crash.”
“Guess again.”
“The Cossack?”
“Opening a window.”
Fonzie said, “Can you believe it? Nowadays, opening a window beats me up just as bad as crashing my bike.”
“There’s no hit man like time,” Richie said.
“Hey, look,” Fonzie said, “if moving to Hollywood means seeing my girl in a bikini on a regular basis and being near my old buddy? Count me in.”
Men Who Work was finishing a tune by The Cars. The crowd applauded. “Thank you, thank you,” Potsie said into the microphone. “And now for an original: it’s a seventeen-minute multimovement rock opera about the history of Milwaukee manufacturing.”
The crowd began dispersing for the bathrooms, the bar. Some booed.
“Where are you going?” Ralph said. “You’re gonna love it, I swear, just wait until we get to the rap part.” The few who had remained on the dance floor now joined the exodus.
Fonzie pushed himself off the bar. “I’ll take care of this.” He left Richie and Margo and limped over to the jukebox. He hit it with his elbow, and Bill Haley’s voice filled the room.
“Rock Around the Clock.”
The people cheered and stormed the dance floor all over again.
• • •
RICHIE PUT IN THE MONEY, dialed gleb cooper’s office.
“Richard, how are you? You got news for me? I have a great big bottle of champagne in my hands. I’m ready for good news. I’m working the cork out, Richard. The cork is close, it’s close. Tell me you got good news so I don’t waste all this brut. It’s good brut, Richard, it’s great brut.”
“I’m sorry, Gleb. I’m sorry, but the answer is no. I just can’t do it.”
Gleb was silent for several seconds. “Part of me was hoping you’d say that. It’s good to know there are still people out there who stand for something.” Then he said, quiet and serious, “But you know what that means for us, Richard.”
“I do.”
“I wish it hadn’t come to this.”
“So do I.”
“It’s not personal.”
“No. It’s not. It’s just the way it has to be.”
“We did great work together.”
Richie said, “Maybe one day the world will take another look at Welcome to Henderson County.”
Gleb scoffed. “No, that will never happen, Richard, that movie’s dust. I’m talking about Sorority Slaughterhouse. You know about cable, don’t you? Soon, Richard, as many as twenty-five percent of homes will watch cable TV. I just read it. Can you imagine? And this new cable channel, Cinemax? Sorority Slaughterhouse will kill on Cinemax, Richard. Kill. Your work will live on.”
When Richie hung up, Fonzie was standing there. He had been listening. He put his arm around Richie, gave it a squeeze.
“Look out, California,” he said. “Here we come.”
• • •
A CHEER ERUPTED THROUGH THE crowd. TJ was wheeling in Fonzie’s Triumph, completely restored to its original condition. Fonzie let out a low whistle and made his way over to it. He circled it, examining the work. His face was stoical, but when he spoke, his voice caught. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “I couldn’t have done a bett
er job myself.”
It was the highest compliment.
He threw his leg over the bike—gingerly—and got on, turned the engine. It was loud. The cheering was louder. He revved it. It was better than any music.
Fonzie looked at Margo. He jerked his head at her to climb on. She came forward but remained off the bike. He cut off the engine. “What’s the matter?”
She jerked her head toward the back of the bike and said, “Move it or lose it, gorgeous.”
The crowd teased Fonzie, but he was scooting back, letting her get behind the handlebars. She kick-started the engine and revved it. The people cheered and cleared a path to the door. Fonzie held on tight to Margo. He winked goodbye to Richie, who waved back. “See ya later, Fonzie,” he said. But the engine drowned him out. It didn’t matter. There were no goodbyes.
They all followed the two of them outside. It was dark. The revolving A cast its neon glow on the pavement. Lieutenant Kirk stopped all traffic and waved Margo and Fonzie out into the road, both men giving small salutes to each other as they passed.
Margo opened it up, and it was not long before she and Fonzie disappeared into the night. Richie stood there in the parking lot among all those people—his people. His home. No matter where he was.
Then he went back inside. His friends were calling him to the stage. They had a guitar for him. The song was “Splish Splash.” He hadn’t played it since he was a kid. But he knew it would come back to him. It did not matter how long it had been. It was all there, everything he needed. It had been waiting for him all this time.
More from the Author
The Good and the Ghastly
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MVP
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© MICHAEL TUREK
JAMES BOICE is the author of four previous novels: The Shooting, The Good and the Ghastly, NoVA, and MVP. He has contributed short fiction, journalism, and essays to such publications as McSweeney’s, Fiction, Salt Hill, Post Road, Salon, LitHub, The Daily Beast, and RollingStone.com. Originally a native of California, he now lives and writes in Jersey City, New Jersey.
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ALSO BY JAMES BOICE
The Shooting
The Good and the Ghastly
NoVA
MVP
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