“You know how we always get the contestants to phone in, to confirm the arrangements? Today, we got seven calls.”
“Seven calls, Monty? You’re not making yourself clear.”
“Miss Williams had lined up seven contestants for next Monday night instead of six.”
“How in hell could that happen?”
“God knows! But it threw us for a while, I can tell you. Finally, Manning managed to sort the odd man out. From the questions. The odd ball was a coin collector, for God’s sake, but Manning pointed out there were no questions on coin collecting. So then we knew he was lined up by mistake. So then Peter took charge and sorted him out.”
“How? You bought him off?”
Peter seemed anxious to downplay his role. “It was nothing.”
I was confused. A few moments ago, Peter was so anxious to cancel, but now it seemed he was actually helping the show to go on. Nothing? Five or ten grand! But then, what did that matter? With the phenomenal increase in exposure of Total Service Travel Agents, Peter was obviously in line to make a fortune. Sentiment notwithstanding, if the ratings were only a quarter of what Kent and Monty were projecting, Peter would be forced to move Total Service from its present cramped quarters into some ritzy high-rise – and like it!
“How’s the post? Has anybody checked the mail?” Monty asked.
“Checked it myself!” I told them. “No threats of any kind – not even an overdue bill or two.”
You could actually hear the sighs of relief.
“What is then happening with the police?” Peter asked.
I looked at him in amazement. “We’ve just been through all that, Peter!”
“How close are they? How close? Do they have ideas? Any ideas? Any ideas at all? Any suspects? They must surely suspect someone! Surely someone?”
“At the moment, if you must know, we’re all on their list. But top of the list is a lad named Gino! Borne and I tried to check him out at the markets that occupy the ground floor – and then some! – at the building you occupy, Peter. But we drew a blank. Cost me twenty dollars too. I must remind myself to put that twenty on my expense sheet!”
“Who you see? Who you see at the markets?”
“A gent named Avati.”
“Bill Avati? He is a good man.”
“Most certainly not my impression, Peter! Anyway, the police have this Gino’s boots and gloves, but he himself has disappeared. We’re trying hard to track him down.”
“Why? Just why?”
“The police theory is a simple one, Peter. This Gino was a professional con man – or con youth! We think he tried to put pressure on Spookie to get himself into the show.”
“Eighty thousand dollars up for grabs!” Kent declared proudly. Anyone would think it was his money! Who was bankrolling it anyway? Not Monty or Ace, that’s for sure. So presumably they’d talked Peter into sponsoring the whole pot. No wonder he wanted out!
“You say, the police have questioned Bill Avati? He is a good man. He will put them right.”
“Peter! We’ve moved on from Bill Avati to the missing Gino.”
“But what has happened to Bill Avati?”
“If you must know, Peter, Borne arrested the bastard and I helped escort him to police headquarters.”
“The police have arrested him? Bill Avati? Bill Avati?”
“Correct!”
“Why?”
“If you must know Peter, the police suspect he knows a real whole lot about illegal activities at the markets. He pretends he knows nothing, and yet he’s the manager. As far as Inspector Borne is concerned, that’s where the buck stops. If you want my impression, I believe the police have been just waiting for a chance to grill Avati and I – thanks to Spookie’s death and Gino’s disappearance and Avati’s own lack of co-operation – have unknowingly supplied them with that opportunity. You happy now?”
“Arrested Bill Avati? It is hard to believe.”
“I don’t know if they’ve formally arrested Avati, but when I left him, the police were questioning the bastard pretty close.”
“I must try to help. Bill Avati is my old friend. I must phone my lawyer. Please, I must phone!”
“Feel free!” Kent growled, motioning towards one of the phones on his desk.
Peter ran forward and was soon jabbering away to some legal Giuseppe in twenty-to-the-dozen, fast-paced Italian. It was so fast, I couldn’t keep up with him, but I got the impression that both Peter and the legal eagle regarded Avati as a cross between Santa Claus and Joan of Arc. It’s marvelous how these guys all stick together. In my opinion, Bill Avati was about as honest as Al Capone and as friendly as a yellow-fanged cobra.
“Speaking of names,” growled Kent as soon as Peter terminated his call and I was just about to ask to be excused so that I could put in a quick call to Borne from Sedge’s dressing room, “we’ll need a handle for Merryll?”
Hell!
“Obviously he can’t use his own name,” Monty agreed.
“That’s just what I’m saying, damn it! Something short and snappy. Two syllable names are best: Ronnie Reagan. Woody Allen. Gary Cooper. Mickey Rooney.”
“Adolph Hitler,” I murmured. “Joseph Stalin.”
“Merryll Manning’s just right,” Ace Jellis interrupted hastily. “Shame, you can’t use it!”
But boss Kent had heard me. “Okay, smart ass,” he ordered, looking me full in the face, “let’s hear your big note.”
“I think we’re all going at this the wrong way,” I answered. “We don’t want a name that viewers will remember, but one they’ll find easy to forget.”
“I’m with you,” growled Kent.
“But a name like Jack Smith or Bill Jones is too ordinary. We need a common as tap water Christian name – like Bob or Bill or Dave or Joe – coupled with a surname that’s neither too common not too unusual. My mother’s name was Ellen. How about we spell it, E-l-l-i-n? My dad’s name was Don, so let’s make it Don Ellin. Here, I’ll write it down for you.”
26
Try as I might, I couldn’t disentangle myself from Mr. Kent. He doubtless suspected my motives, so I was forced to phone Inspector Borne from Kent’s office with the master listening in on his secretary’s extension.
“I have some news.” Borne’s voice didn’t make it sound cheery.
“Been trying to get hold of you, inspector! Our Tunning’s on the warpath here. Phoned up some legal Giuseppe to prize Avati out of your grip.”
“We released him a half-hour ago,” Borne sighed. “He didn’t tell us much we didn’t already know.”
“He didn’t tell me anything – known or unknown! So what did you shake out of the bastard, Inspector?”
“He confirmed our theory. The murdered girl was passing in fake contestants.”
“How would he know that? And it’s just not true. Miss Williams was one of the most trusted members of our staff.”
“Just shows you how even an old campaigner like Merryll Manning can be dazzled by a pretty face and an amply-filled bra!”
“So who were these fake contestants? We’ll need to delete them from our line-up.”
“Gino Paletti. He was all three of the contestants – those with the false addresses.”
“Didn’t do him any good. He failed – all three times!”
“Paletti’s dead. Murdered! And that’s why we think he was killed. He had three chances and he botched all three of them. So Miss Williams had to be disposed of as well. It’s a top-level conspiracy – originated and controlled by the Mafia!”
“I don’t go along with you at all!” Kent interrupted. “You’re making Spookie’s death far too complicated. There’s no Mr. Big behind all this. A simple psychopath is what we’re after!”
Borne was evidently not pleased to discover that Kent had been listening in. Without so much as a “goodbye”, he disconnected his phone.
“God damn it!” came Kent’s angry voice. “What did he do that for?”
�
��The police are very touchy about sharing information,” I told him. “Please don’t interfere again or you’ll force me to resign.”
“Go ahead and resign! Goddamn announcers are a dime a dozen. Provided he isn’t cross-eyed and doesn’t stutter, the only requirement for a TV announcer is that he announce!”
27
“Everything set, Trev?”
Trevor Holden laughed. “You look a proper sight, Merry!”
“I’m not supposed to look funny tonight,” I replied. “Just different!” I had urged Make-up to overrule Mr. Kent. In my new and handsome toupee, I could stand in for any fairy prince.
“Even your old woman wouldn’t recognize you. You have an old woman, Merry?”
“I wish I did. I was trying to get into Spookie’s bed.”
“You and all the rest of us! Besides Ace and Monty, of course.”
“Who’s doing the warm-up?”
“You remember! They decided not to bother. We don’t really need a live audience any more. The place is packed to the doors anyway. Monty’s making an announcement over the speakers. If we like, we can dub in applause and anything and everything else later.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say laughs. I don’t want any laughs tonight.”
“You’re right. Not with Sedge in hospital and all. It wouldn’t be right.”
Not to mention an innocent, lovely girl murdered.
“Where do I wait?” I asked.
“There’s a buzzer in the dressing room.”
“I wouldn’t want to wait there.” I wasn’t frightened of ghosts. Just plain nervous – but I didn’t want Trev to know it. “I’d worry less if I had somewhere to focus my eyes – besides a tatty dressing-room mirror.”
“Wait in the wings,” Trev suggested. “Keep in my eye line. I’ll give you a wave when we’re ready.”
“I’ll hear the announcement anyway.”
“The echo’s bad out there. Keep watching me. I’ll wave you in.”
My big chance! I’d always wanted to be a TV star. But not this way. Not this way.
Trev began his final countdown. The cameramen scurried to their posts; the sound man swung his mike over the podium; the autocue operator stood ready at his switch; a make-up girl was trying to make last-minute adjustments to one of the contestants, but he kept waving her away. I felt my pocket for the tenth time to make sure I had Sedge’s cards with all the questions and answers. I didn’t trust them to the autocue. Of course, Monty and Ace knew what they were and I’d lay odds that Tunning had stolen a quick glance when he opened Sedge’s desk. Otherwise, they were all supposedly a dead secret – for the next few minutes anyway!
As Trev had said, the sound in the wings was pretty distorted, but I had no trouble interpreting the lead-in. “Our guest quizmaster for the show tonight has come all the way from Alberta, Canada. Ladies and gentlemen, a big hand please, for Mr. Don Ellin.”
I remember little of the show. I was on automatic pilot. It took me all my time and concentration just to read off the questions. The contestants themselves were the usual dull lot, only a professional young punter with an intimate knowledge of the gee-gees proving of more than ho-hum interest. The way he rattled off correct answers to the most obscure questions – like who won the Belmont Stakes in 1923 – was nothing short of amazing.
The show sailed along perfectly, if you can call boredom perfect, until right near the end. The wily punter had tied with another contestant on fifteen. A sudden death play-off was called for. But where were the supplementary questions? I pressed the problem on Trev who relayed our dilemma to the control booth. Peter Tunning came dashing down. “Ask who wins the Kentucky Derby in 1900. And if he is right, ask who wins the Belmont Stakes in 1912, and then who wins the Preakness Stakes in 1892.”
“How do I know if he gets these answers right?”
“I stand just behind where you see me. I nod my head if he answers right.”
“Okay, that solves the horses, but what about prominent people?”
“Ask him about Francesco Foscari,” Peter advised.
“Francesco Foscari,” I repeated. “What his claim to fame?”
“I nod my head. I nod my head. Another name: Francesco Zuccarelli.”
“Francesco Zuccarelli. Yes?”
“Niccola Spinelli. Niccola Spinelli. I think that is enough. You need more, we stop the tape.”
The punter got the 1900 Kentucky winner dead right. To my astonishment, Prominent People knew Francesco Foscari. To my further amazement the punter knew there was no winner for the 1912 Belmont Stakes. I was getting worried, but to my relief Prominent People guessed wrong about Niccola Spinelli. An Italian painter? Peter shook his head emphatically. The day was saved!
The crowd cheered itself into the usual frenzy and I was leaning against the podium, thankful it was all over, when the big arc lamps started flashing on and off. Hell! This was a panic signal. Despite the heat on the set, the sweat literally froze on my face. I was starting to imagine all sorts of horrors, when Monty’s voice came floating over the loudspeakers: “Would you remain in your seats, please, ladies and gentlemen? Please remain in your seats. We may need to involve you in a minor re-take in a couple of minutes. Please remain in your seats.”
I forced myself to walk across the set and climb the small ladder to the control booth. “What’s the problem?” I asked.
“The camera is the problem,” said Peter Tunning. “There is a shot of me. So we do it again.”
“How did that happen?”
“An accident,” said Monty. “It runs exactly three seconds and you can’t recognize Peter anyway.”
“I do not wish to appear on the television. I have enemies, many enemies who will try to kill me if they recognize me or know where I am.”
“Hell, Peter, your name is a household word. Every enemy you have in the world already knows you.”
“If they know my face, they not know my name. If they know my name, they not know my face!”
“Are we talking about a long shot or a close-up?” I asked.
“A close-up,” said Monty.
“Where is it on the tape? Let me see it on the monitor,” I asked.
They did. It took a bit of fiddling and it was a close-up all right, but so murky it would be impossible to recognize if it was a shot of Peter or the king of Siam.
I marked the start of the close-up with a piece of chalk and did the same to the end. Before Monty could stop me, I then scissored the whole section out of the tape and handed it to Peter. “Happy?” I asked.
Peter nodded.
“You’d no bloody right to do that!” yelled Monty. “Now the tape will run short!”
“So it will. And with a bit more trimming, it looks like you’ll now have room for an extra commercial,” I said. “Or maybe two!”
Monty’s frown suddenly changed to a smile.
“Now you can tell our patient audience to go home,” I suggested.
“You tell them, Merry. You’re the M.C., not me!”
But most of our diehard live audience had already left. There were hardly more than a score still in their seats. So much for the gripping power of live television!
28
After all that drama, I was pleasantly surprised on Wednesday night. The TV broadcast of the show actually came across – if not with kudos – at least with moderate honor.
Certainly, my TV debut wouldn’t cause Stephen Colbert any worries. But all the same, my new toupee made me look as suave and sophisticated as the best of them. I didn’t quite project Sedge’s easy confidence, his assumed but natural-seeming nonchalance, his ability to appear so unfazed and in such complete control – no matter what slip-ups occurred in the control room or what disasters of dullness he might encounter in the contestants.
Admittedly, I seemed somewhat less tolerant of wafflers and windbags, but I thought my quick temper helped the show. The quiz segments certainly moved fast. Of course, producer Monty Fairmont and director Ace Jellis h
ad been busy with the editing shears, and there was no doubt that – following my lead – Mr. Kent had cunningly loaded the program with even more commercials than usual. In addition to the normal overdose of super-contented Total Service travelers, we were breathlessly informed not only of the scientific wonders formulated into a new liquid detergent, but of a used car dealer whose honesty and generosity made Santa Claus look like a thieving miser, plus a fading movie star plugging an irresistible concoction of delicious, diet-delight biscuits filled with all the goodness of sulfur dioxide and real imitation cherries.
But disregarding all the byways, the main fact was that I looked pretty good. Maybe I’ll invest in a toupee for real.
Actually, I almost missed the show. I didn’t watch it at my place. I remembered the brand new set at Douglas’s just going to waste. And anyway I wanted to check out my inheritance a bit more thoroughly – and without cops looming over my shoulder.
Once again I parked my old Ford at the bottom of the hill and walked up the hellish grade slowly, and all ready to make a quick disappearance if I spotted a cop car anywhere near my driveway. No, the place seemed deserted. I checked the mailbox even though I couldn’t imagine that Dune-Harrigan would subscribe to anything of interest and I felt sure that the cops had already taken most of the contents away anyway.
As it turned out, I was crediting the cops with more efficiency than they deserved. Along with the usual mailbox mess of useless spiels detailing the latest record-busting specials at Demimonde Druggists and Delirious Discounts, was the electricity bill from LADWP: Over $900 for the last quarter! That was more than I paid for a whole year. The five-star professor must have taken a hot shower on the hour and left every light blazing like a shopping mall on pension day.
There was also a bill from Julio’s Prestigious Cars of Distinction: $13,000 for a 1986 Alfetta sedan. What would crazy old Dune-Harrigan be doing with an Alfetta? And where was it? The last time I checked the useless garage, it was empty!
The deadlock on the front door was almost impossible to pick, but on my last visit I’d taken the precaution of unlatching a window at the side of the house. This window fronted a flower-bed and there was no way even an acrobat could reach the sill without touching ground. I checked carefully. The earth had not been disturbed. Of course, I’d have to put my own big footprints into the earth, but I’d smooth them away before I left in the morning. Now, if only some conscientious cop hadn’t taken it into his feeble brain to secure all the windows… He hadn’t – and I was in!
Merryll Manning Is Dead Lucky Page 14