“In the TV enactment, a young woman is sitting by herself in a very chichi restaurant with a schnozzola as red as a monkey’s rear end. Camera pulls back to another table, where two upscale femmes are talking about her. ‘Uh-oh,’ one is saying, ‘looks to me like Gladys could use a little Septumagic.’ And the other one says, ‘Yeah? Looks to me like she’s due for another trip to Betty Ford.’ ”
Granted, it was a tough crowd, a lot of them in the biz. There were executives with the network and West Coast affiliates; talent agents and their clients, who were showing Des their support in the hope of reciprocity; and his comedian friends and competitors from Vegas and elsewhere. Judging by the reaction to Gibby’s less-than-stellar material, he was getting through to about one-tenth of the audience. The others were talking among themselves or being distracted by the cameras and/or a scowling Lolita Snapps, in a white gown, sneakers, and a headset, looking a little like Dennis Rodman in drag as she managed the floor.
“And the small-print advice,” Gibby went on bravely, “always delivered by a British lady at very high speed … ‘Not recommended for anyone suffering from asthma or bronchial discomfort, ruptured mucous membranes, apnea, hoof-and-mouth disease. If profuse bleeding occurs, or intense sneezing, or if your nose remains engorged and stiff for longer than four hours, seek medical advice immediately.’ ”
Across from me, also hidden from the studio audience, Des, in a tux but with a black shirt open at the neck and a bright green cummerbund to indicate his swaggering nonconformity, was being helped onto the crescent moon by two ninja minions.
Onstage, Gibby was pointing to the applause signs.
We were less than a minute from magic time, and my throat was suddenly very dry.
With Des comfortably situated, facing the curved edge of the moon, riding it, cowboy-style, the ninjas began operating the winch device that gathered the cable, hoisting the contraption aloft. Des rose up to a height of twenty-five feet or more, his Irish mug expressionless. I wondered if he was aware of the precariousness of his situation. A fall from that height probably wouldn’t be fatal, barring a broken neck, but it would certainly do damage enough to sideline his talk-show hosting for a while.
There was nothing wrong with Gibby’s timing. As soon as Des and the swaying moon arrived at the catwalk, the writer warm-up thanked the unresponsive audience and hotfooted it from the stage. He brushed by me, trailing a familiar odor of fear and flop sweat.
I turned my attention quickly to Lolita, who was holding up a hand, indicating Stand by.
With my heart pounding, I waited and watched.
Only seconds more.
I took a deep breath and released it, saying a silent prayer that I would remember the intro and get it out without a spoonerism. At those moments, I always thought of the legendary Harry von Zell flub, “Ladies and gentlemen … President Hoobert Heever.”
Suddenly, in response to an order to Fitz’s headset from the director’s booth, he and the band began blasting out the catchy theme he’d composed, and home viewers on the East Coast were seeing the prerecorded title sequence with Des romping about L.A.
When the music softened and segued into a few repeated bars, Lolita’s big finger pointed at me like the barrel of a gun. My cue to get to work.
“Frommmm Hollywood …” I began, consciously channeling all the announcers I could recall, from Gene Rayburn to the subtly satiric delivery of Saturday Night Live’s Don Pardo. “… the Worldwide Broadcasting Company presents the debut of … O’Day at Night … with our special guests … Nashville’s number-one singing sensation … Rennie Nolan … from the WBC megahit Flaunt It! … the beautiful Emmalou Adams … direct from the MGM Grand in Las Vegas … the hilarious Plimsol Brothers … and the mayor of the city of Los Angeles, Lucille Marquez.”
The stage and the theater were suddenly enveloped in darkness, thanks to Pfrank’s oddball visual concept.
There was an intake of breath from the surprised audience, but I was prepared for the blackout and didn’t miss a beat. “And now here he is … the Celtic Lord of the Laugh … that irrepressible son of a shamrock … who’s trying not to be too starstruck in Hollywood-land … Des … mond … O’Day-eee!”
A red dot appeared on one of the three cameras precisely at the same instant a spotlight captured Des up near the catwalk, straddling the moon. He looked surprised and startled, and pretended to lose his balance, wrapping both arms around the upper part of the crescent.
The studio audience responded with a universal gasp. Then some giggles. And as Des righted himself, grinning from ear to ear, arms extended in a “Look Ma, no hands” gesture, the applause and cheers rose energetically and on cue.
The image of a starry night sky was being projected on a backdrop and, with luck, the televised illusion would be of the comedian floating through the heavens on the crescent moon, dodging huge hanging stars while singing the Harold Arlen–Yip Harburg classic “It’s Only a Paper Moon.”
He was about halfway to the floor when the moon jerked and he was almost tossed off for real.
“Whoa,” he interrupted the song to shout at the two black-cloaked stagehands nobody could see. “Take it easy, boys.” He looked at the camera and added, “That’s what you get, folks, for usin’ stagehands sent over compliments of Jay Leno!”
There was a rim shot courtesy of Fitz’s alert drummer, followed by laughs and more applause from the studio audience.
Des picked up the song again and, finishing it in time with his arrival at stage level, hopped from the unstable moon with athletic grace.
To the encouraging sound of whistles and shouts and more applause, he did a surprisingly professional pirouette and punctuated that with a low bow. “Good evening, good evening, ladies, gentlemen, and all the many alternative genders in between. Welcome to our first big show in this new little theater.
“You folks at home probably can’t tell how small this building is …”
“How … small … is … it?” the band asked in unison, an homage to the late Johnny Carson that would, with hope, link Des to the forever king of late-night entertainment.
“It’s so small, you can’t even begin to Twitter or tweet. The best you can do is twuh. And my dressing room? The prison cells at Guantánamo Bay were bigger. Better furnished, too, now that I think of it.
“But we have the magic of television on our side. And that’s no little thing. For example, all I have to do is point my finger and … bid-a-boom …”
Fitz and his band were suddenly illuminated, the former in a white tux and a green T-shirt, his musicians in green tuxes over white T-shirts.
“… allow me to introduce you to me auld boyhood chum Fitzpatrick and his chart-bustin’ band o’ merry minstrels … Knackers!”
When that round of applause began to subside, Des pointed at me, and I was suddenly hit by a blinding light. “I think you all know my good friend from Wake Up, America!, that master chef, restaurateur, raconteur, and, for this week, my right-hand man. Billy Blessing!”
I bowed, not quite as deeply as Des, and smiled. As I walked toward him, the intricate set and lighting design passed another test. A leather chair and couch seemed to materialize, while shadowy stagehands scurried to the wings.
“What’s this all about, then?” Des asked, indicating the furniture.
Going along with the bit, which was from the clueless comic/smart straight man playbook, I explained that the chair was for him and the couch for his guests.
“And then what? We just sit here?”
“You converse with your guests,” I said. “Discuss important things, or entertaining things. What did you think you’d be doing out here for an hour every night?”
“Frankly, mate, I didn’t have a plonker’s plink.”
The camera faded out on Des’s amazingly pliable face holding on an exaggerated what-do-I-know? expression while the audience reacted with laughter.
And … we cut to a commercial, with Lolita giving us a reassuring
thumb-forefinger circle. Everything was okay.
So far.
My dressing-room mate, Rennie Nolan, was scheduled to be the first guest. But he was among the missing and, in a bit of panic improvisation, it was decided by the director in her booth that the Plimsols, a trio of high-energy comedy midget acrobats, be brought on early.
Dressed as leprechauns, they tossed one another around, staged fake fights, performed surprising gymnastics, and eventually dragged Des into their bang-ups, kicking him in the ankle, tripping him, and then, big finish, pretending to knock him flat, lifting him over their heads, and carrying him offstage to the tune of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.”
Rennie Nolan arrived during the Plimsols’ segment, in leather jacket and jeans instead of formal wear, looking, frankly, stoned. But he’d remembered to bring his guitar, so during the three-minute commercial break, his makeup was blotted, his hair gelled, and his butt placed on a stool in front of the band just in time for Des to welcome him to the show. Our host then disappeared into darkness as Nolan began singing a cut from his new album.
Though the performance went reasonably well, all things considered, the singer’s sit-down with Des was deadly. It began with Nolan dreamily announcing that he had recently become the spokesperson for FEC, the Fight to Eradicate Chlamydia. He then began to expound on “the pain and serious consequences of the disease” to our hypochondriac host, who began sliding back away from him until he was almost out of the frame.
“Ya know, ma fren’, it is th’ mos’ common STD bacteria in the USA today,” Nolan said, leaning forward into Des’s personal space. “It’s so damn destructive. And folks don’ know they got it. Kinda gets up in there and plays hell with all the lady parts. And with men, hell, arthritis and—”
“Sorry to interrupt you, Rennie,” Des said when he could stand no more. “You’re doin’ great work, bud, but we’ve got to sell a few things.” He faced the camera and added, “Stick with us for more fun with the luscious and loquacious star of Flaunt It!, Ms. Emmalou Adams.”
During the commercials, it took three ninja minions to “escort” a now rubber-legged Rennie from view, and a fourth to get Des an industrial-size bottle of antibacterial sanitizer.
Emmalou Adams had been watching the segment from the wings. After her introduction, which was delivered by our host with all the lecherous innuendo of a man who’d been playing Vegas for the past seven years, she walked onstage and allowed Des to do a paw-and-pet number a little to the left of even Gerald Butler. Taking her hand, he kissed each of its fingers and then led her by that hand to the couch, all the while seemingly transfixed by the dramatically low neckline of her tight blue silk blouse.
She sat down on the couch and, with no small malevolence, said, “You know, Des, considering your reputation as a player, you really should pay attention to all those scary things Rennie was saying about chlamydia.”
It was the first time that night that I felt like laughing.
Des made quick, nonflirtatious work of the rest of their interview, dismissing her just before the commercial break with an obviously insincere, “Emmalou, I wish we had more time. Promise me you’ll come back …”
As she rushed offstage, she mumbled, “Asshole,” loud enough to be heard not only by me but by Mayor Lucille Marquez, who was standing beside me in the wings. The prim-looking politician’s face broke into a grin. “I’m guessing that word will be getting quite a workout on this show,” she said, watching Des strut around the stage.
After the break, I escorted her out to meet him.
She welcomed Des to Los Angeles and presented him with a key to the city and a scroll indicating that he was now an official Los Angeleno.
There was brief badinage about life in L.A. with, as planned, the mayor getting the last word. Suddenly frowning, she took the scroll back from Des, glanced at it, and relaxed. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I was afraid I’d given you the one we forgot to present to Conan O’Brien.”
Smiling to the audience, she departed to much applause. That left Des and me alone onstage to bring the whole thing to a close.
“I want to thank you, Billy, for makin’ this special night even more so,” he said. Then, following the direction of Lolita’s pointing finger to camera two, he thanked the viewers for tuning in and invited them back to “our little after-hours club of fun and frolic every weeknight, same time, same WBC station.
“What a great and wonderful country America is,” he continued, his pliable face registering humility, “where a hooligan from Dungannon can tell a few jokes and sing a few songs and wind up”—his face underwent the best effects-free transformation into evil lechery since Spencer Tracy segued from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde in a single take—“with as many birds as Mr. George Clooney and almost as much nicker as Mr. Bill Gates.”
While he’d been delivering this insincere au revoir, the half-moon had descended behind him. He stepped back and stared at it for a beat. He was supposed to say, “Looks like my ride is here,” and hop aboard the crescent, floating upward, reprising “Paper Moon.”
Instead, he turned to me. “Billy, why don’t you take the trip, mate, while I head out to the nearest pub?”
This bit of improv caught me off guard. Was I supposed to get on the damn thing? Or insist he do it? Or what the hell? All I got from Des was a demonic leer. I looked to Lolita, but the floor manager shrugged, obviously as puzzled as I was.
Des’s next move clarified the situation. He faced the studio audience and asked, “You folks want to see me ould flower Billy takin’ a moon dance, right?”
There was the expected outpouring of encouragement. Lolita gave me a big thumbs-up.
Having no other choice, I approached the wooden moon warily. I saw that some kind soul had fitted it with a narrow padded bicycle seat. Somehow that didn’t ease my apprehension. As I straddled the damn device and lowered my butt to the seat, I couldn’t help but wonder if Des didn’t have another surprising bit planned. Like maybe a “company spy” taking a bone-breaking fall that would guarantee a fair degree of publicity for the show.
With a jarring jerk, the moon started its rise. I got a firm grip on the front of it and looked over at the stagehands working the winch. Make that stagehand. Only one of them. Des had had two, I was certain. What was the deal? The hoist seemed to be working smoothly, but it was a little disconcerting to realize I was being short-staffed.
Backed by Fitz and the band, Des was singing his own lyrics to Harold Arlen’s melody: “It’s Billy Blessing’s moon, hangin’ out in a cardboard sky …”
The higher up we went, the less I cared for the situation, especially when my right shoulder brushed against one of the hanging stars. I wouldn’t be lowered to the stage until the credit crawl ended. How long did that take? Sixty seconds? Ninety?
My flight stopped with the top of the moon inches away from the catwalk. I looked down. I knew I was just a shade more than twenty feet from the stage, but it seemed twice that far.
There was an odd whirring sound coming from somewhere below, and I thought for a second it had been the winch. But that had been silent during my rise, and it was not in use now. I looked at Lolita, who was giving Des a speed-up arm swing. She didn’t seem to have noticed anything off. At that moment I could no longer hear the sound. I wondered if it could have been an anxiety-induced form of tinnitus.
Des was finishing his serenade. I told myself that had to mean the show would end any second.
“… but it wouldn’t be make-believe, if you believe in me,” the comedian sang. He bowed, basked in the applause, waved both hands in a farewell gesture, and said, over the noise, “G’night, mates. Believe!”
Okay, it’s a wrap, I thought. Back to earth for Billy, safe and sound.
That’s pretty much when the bomb went off.
I’m guessing, because I was momentarily transported to a much less troubled dimension. A second before that happened, I witnessed a bright light, and I think I heard the explosion.
When I returned to reality, people were screaming and the moon and I were in a wild spin, banging against the hanging stars.
But we stayed aloft, thanks to what I later discovered had been an automatic locking device on the winch controlling the cable. I grabbed a star and used it to slow the moon’s spin. Through the smoke and the floating debris, I saw that my solo ninja had been knocked flat on his or her back. Others were down. A camera operator. Lolita.
There was no immediate sign of Des. The stage where he’d been standing was ruptured and charred, a large section of concrete foundation showing through the damaged tile.
The audience members had rushed away from the stage area and were climbing over one another to get through the exit doors. I leaned forward, put my head against the plywood moon, and closed my eyes. All I had to do was stay calm and wait for the shouting and the panic to subside. Some thoughtful soul would see me and lower me to the ground. As best I could tell, my damage was slight.
I opened my eyes again to make sure about that. Only then did I realize that the moon and I were covered with bits and pieces of Des O’Day.
Chapter
NINETEEN
“What the heck is he doing back there?” I asked.
I was sitting on a stool in the wings, not far from my least favorite prop. A white-gloved coroner’s technician was using king-size tweezers to pick things from the wooden moon’s surface. Another tech was standing behind me, using the same instruments on my head and neck.
Hence my question.
“He’s gathering body particles,” the homicide detective said. “They’ll take all those little bits back to the lab and try to put Humpty Dumpty together again.” He was leaning against a wall across from me. He was older, grayer, and had put a few pounds on his wiry frame, but I’d recognized him the moment he entered the studio. Detective Pete Brueghel. One of the cops who’d investigated Tiffany Arden’s murder twenty-three years ago.
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