As we waited in line behind the other big, black cars, I think all three of us were a little nervous.
Me? At the ramparts of Castle Who’s Who, I would be attacked by a platoon of reporters and blasted by flashbulbs. Without glamour as my armor, I would surely be shot down by searching squints, derisive intermedia shrugs, and tiptoe searches for whoever was pulling up behind us. I already hated them for their disappointment. Aside from that, I was perhaps a smidgen concerned that I might pull some mortifying stunt like spill wine on Peter Jennings or elbow Dr. Ruth in the eye.
Otto? He had strict instructions not to smoke, whistle, or hum until he had dropped us off.
Angie? She was hoping that neither Garth nor Otto would bungle and embarrass her and that we wouldn’t be the brunt of some mordacious Page Six gossip column for arriving in an old car. The tension didn’t keep her from trying to siphon off the jitters with distracting small talk.
“Put that thing in the trunk, Garth.”
I had Stuart Sharp’s bug in my lap.
Several last-minute details had made our departure particularly tense. Stuart showed up just as we were leaving, and his bug turned out to be a rare bird mount that I couldn’t pass up. The bone, however, turned out to be a porcelain laboratory fixture, and I declined ownership.
“Not a bad bug, huh?” I smiled at the slouching kiwi in my lap. For the uninitiated, these drab, flightless, and virtually wingless birds look like hairy gourds. If you squint, and you’ve been exposed to high concentrations of cleaning fluid, kiwis might resemble giant weevils. “A steal for fifty bucks. And with its own provenance on the bottom of the plaque detailing that it was mounted pre-’72. I have to remember to get the paperwork to Stuart. And then there’s—”
“Don’t touch that box,” Angie growled, and my hand jumped back to my side. “Why couldn’t you have left the kiwi and the box at home?”
“We were already running late. Besides, I wanted to enjoy the bird and wanted to find out what was in the box.”
The box was the other last-minute detail. No sooner did we get rid of Stuart than a FedEx truck squeaked to a halt at our door. I was just holding the door for Angie to board her carriage and shouted to the FedEx guy if he had anything for me. He did, I signed, we zoomed off. Wending up the avenue, I opened the box and found that it was cold inside. Among some slivers of dry ice, wrapped in bubble plastic, I saw red, yellow, and black stripes. So I gasped and exclaimed, “Snakes!”
Angie’s not squeamish as a rule, but almost everybody has an animal that makes him or her physically uncomfortable. Right: Angie doesn’t exactly take to legless reptiles like they were puppies. However, I was excited. As a letter contained in the package explained, my snake woman Lorna Ellison in Phoenix had come through with a dead Micrurus euryxanthus—an Arizona coral snake. She’d also found a dead scarlet king snake for me. A double whammy. I just had to get them stuffed.
“Sorry.” I closed the box and slid it onto the floor, away from her. My heart was still all pitty-patter over my good luck. I just worried that the ice was almost gone and that the snakes seemed in the process of defrosting.
“Aren’t you worried about Nicholas?”
Such sudden changes of subject are usually the start of a tiff, this one not entirely unpredictable based on a hindsight view of the cumulative minor episodes of stress. For some reason I never see them coming.
“Not really. He knows what he’s doing. Always has,” I sighed.
“I wonder if he saw a doctor about his head. He should see a doctor, don’t you think?”
“He doesn’t go to doctors. He prefers pharmacists, nurses, and technicians.”
“What? Why?”
“He sees it as cutting out the middleman.”
“That’s silly. And the police are after him too. I’m worried. I hope he’s okay.”
“Nicholas? He’s indestructible.”
“I’m not so sure. You should be worried too.”
“He’ll save his own thieving hide.”
“Garth?” I heard icicles forming. “Wasn’t it your thieving brother who saved your hide from the retros? A pretty darn charitable thing for a thief to do.”
I shouldn’t have said anything else, but I did. “You don’t know him the way I do.”
“I know you, Garth, and in some ways you’re more like him than I think you realize.”
Now I was getting pissed off, but I clammed up as she continued.
“You’re pretty cynical, you know, and it’s not like you don’t share his love of angles. He’s got an angle on making money, figuring out how people value things, right? Selling stolen goods back to the victim is wrong? Well, if you ask me, there are shades of that in you renting out a bear for a week for what it would cost you to buy three bears. And not too different from picking up a kiwi from Stuart for fifty dollars and selling it for a thousand.”
“That’s just business.” I was shocked at how hollow that sounded, and jumped to bulkhead the flood of feelings. “Look, I understand what you’re saying, but—”
“The big difference, Garth, is that Nicholas has a shred of charity for his brother.”
“Not lookink, Garv,” Otto said, his eyes twinkling in the rearview mirror.
I kept my trap shut and glowered like a man. But the ice jam between Angie and me broke soon enough when we reached the head of the line and were waved on into the bowl of red light at the Savoy Revue entrance.
Much to my surprise, our arrival was a moment of glory, like so much slow-motion 16mm newsreel footage from a Grauman’s Chinese gala. The Lincoln had been spiffed up at the detailer’s, and the barrage of flashbulbs lit up the deep black lacquer of her paint and glittered off the chrome bumper and trim. Even on the inside, the cracked red leather upholstery was lustrous, and a pigmented wax had made the dashboard look like new. Nobody seemed to notice the scraped taillight, the touch-up spots on the fenders, and the steering-wheel divots. Ebony, sleek, and stylish, we rolled up to the red carpet, the towering neon marquee fluorescing the red interior like black light. Media strained the velvet ropes flanking the entrance, microphones waving in the air like cattails. Heads turned, murmurs rippled, and a round of applause broke out in the crowd of haggard photogs and frazzled reporters. And it wasn’t for the slinky Broadway monologist whose red-carpet chat with a Showbiz! interviewer was interrupted by our arrival. The applause certainly wasn’t for me and Angie. I think the enthusiasm was for our retro chariot, the Lincoln.
A lobby jockey in a red tunic approached and was quickly stymied by the Lincoln’s suicide doors (they swing away from each other, so the handles are side by side) until I tapped the right one. We stepped out and got one of the monologist’s famous sardonic sneers, though I don’t think this was part of an act.
A chuckle rippled through the crowd next as Angie took the kiwi from my hands and put it back in the rear seat of the Lincoln. Oops. She took my arm (rather abruptly, I thought) and we walked up the red carpet toward the Savoy Revue entrance. Neither Showbiz! nor any other TV types—though poised—made a lunge for us, for which I was grateful. I glanced back at Otto. Chin high, he motored away down the block, a cigarette already in his lips.
Angie looked smashing, she really did, and my clumsy male vocabulary can’t adequately describe the ensemble. The dress was gun-metal blue, strapless, and therefore calculated to give ample canvas for Peter’s art baubles, the dark metal and gems of which were more than done justice by Angie’s creamy skin tone.
Of all the various used furs I’ve given Angie over the years, this would have been the night of nights to don one. If the year had been, say, pre-1985. Now? Nix on the critters-as-clothes. I understand some repentant rich are giving their fur coats to the homeless. So Angie had on a blue-gray mouton wrap. To be precise, that’s a brushed, dyed, and satin-lined sheepskin that has both the buttery feel of a nutria fur and a uniform quality that makes it look synthetic to the untrained eye. Nobody will throw paint on you for wearing mouton, and if th
ey do, they should pelt everybody with woolly seat covers and a hankering for lamb chops too.
Past the gauntlet of press, where ushers reached to open the theater doors for us, I imagined the worst of the self-consciousness was over.
Then the main doors opened, and camera flashes went off. Now I understand why Jack Nicholson is always photographed in shades. I guessed this was a volley of publicity photos, though among the blue blobs swimming across my retina I saw a few press tags. I further deduced that the event organizers had layered the media so that only the crème de la crème from the big magazines qualified for a spot inside.
A woman sidled up to us.
“Hi, so glad you could come. Can I check your seat numbers?” This was her polite way of saying “Who the heck are you?”
I pulled the invite from my pocket, which with nervous fumbling I’d managed to roll into a tube. I heard the woman clear her voice, caught a glimpse of a clipboard, and heard her say, “Here are your seat numbers, and you can go right down those stairs to the reception area. Okay?” I felt her hand on one elbow turn me in the right direction.
“Angie, can you see?”
“Enough.” Her arm hooked in mine, she heaved a nervous sigh. “Let’s go.”
My vision returned enough for me to see clumps of people backslapping earnestly on either side as we made for the stairs. That and the crazy purple pattern of the carpet underfoot. The ceiling was way up there someplace.
A wide staircase spiraled us gently to the lower level, a room painted a black shade of navy with mirrored pillars. The lounge was already fairly full, and we made our way to the bar for a glass of Fumé Blanc.
“I don’t see Peter. Late, like always,” Angie muttered through her teeth.
“Relax, Angie, relax,” I said through a clenched smile. To survive, we’d need to cooperate.
“Relax?” she said, turning to me in an artificially conversational way. “They’re all looking at us.”
She was right, though it wasn’t like they were staring. Calculated, second-too-long glances were being shot our way from all over. But also elsewhere. Everybody was checking out everybody else, identifying, categorizing, and generally making mental bug collections of the throng.
“Not to worry. If nothing else, they must at least think we’re rich. Right? So what’s to be nervous about? We’ll just stand here and look rich, right? Anyway, we’re looking at them too.”
“That’s because they’re famous.” Angie poked at my bow tie, and I could feel her fingers trembling. “Do you know who that guy leaning on the mirror over there is? That’s—”
“Yup, that’s him, all right. Relax, Angie, relax. Breathe slowly, evenly.” The most striking thing about celebrities is both how much they do and how much they don’t resemble themselves on- screen. Surrounded by so many, I quickly discerned that while their faces are by and large recognizable, it’s the rest of them that can be surprising. The proportions, or disproportions, can be quite startling. With some notable exceptions, the men are all much shorter, the women much taller. And, simply put, the bigger the star, the bigger the head. Literally. Mucho jumbo skulls. There’s an osteological thesis in there for some lucky doctoral candidate with oversize calipers.
The centerpiece of the downstairs lounge area is an overproportioned aluminum deco nude, and we sidled up next to it to wait, sip, and otherwise feign small talk for a half hour. Finally, from out of the mondo craniums and Watusi females, Peter showed—a sad specimen indeed, even in a tux. He’d chosen one of those futuristic Nehru tux shirts with a black tab where the tie should be. Despite the weak chin, lanky build, beetled brow, bald pate, and long, limp curls, it was his unctuous deportment that was his endearing quality, a human skin operated from within by a bucket of live, social-climbing squid. Dismissing my outstretched hand with a squirt of smarm, he promptly set about parading us around to various designers, personalities, and silver spooners. Peter introduced Angie’s jewelry to everybody. Angie and I were only introduced (by ourselves) to those well mannered enough to inquire. Facial fatigue was setting in from the amiable grin I’d plastered on my jaw, and the grind of ignominious social whoring had me praying for a time warp to the curtain call.
Praise the Lord! The lights flashed, and the horde trooped upstairs to the main lobby. A recognizable supermodel walked up the steps directly ahead of me with some swarthy, smug bastard on her arm. The libido is a lascivious janitor in a man’s boiler room, and I could hear the echo of mine weeping.
Programs in hand, we wended and hobnobbed our way down the aisle. Seat-seekers squeezed by those who stopped for a brief chat. We were prime aisle plugs, not that Peter noticed or cared.
Finally, in the middle of the eighth row from the back (orchestra), we sat down, with Peter between his date and Angie (flanked by his merchandise), and me between the date and a man I thankfully did not recognize. So I was three down from Angie. I guess Peter purposely kept me sitting away from Angie either so she could schmooze someone over on that side or just to flip me the bird. This was Angie’s big night, and I had already resigned myself to being highly cooperative.
The theater is oblong, and the gold ceiling is formed from overlapping arches zeroing in on the proscenium. Sort of like the bull’s-eye that Porky Pig pops out of and says, “That’s All, Folks!” Just on a titanic scale, like the cone of a Saturn V rocket booster. An orchestra pit fronted the stage, musicians’ heads and instruments peeking out like prairie dogs. They were plucking, honking, and tuning up. Television cameras, technicians, and a snake orgy of cables flanked the stage. Three tiers were overhead.
Since I was out of Peter’s conversation loop, I busied myself with the program. The first piece of info that riveted my attention was that this shindig was being broadcast live and digitally, though it would simultaneously be translated for analog transmission. I wondered what sinister construct the Church of Jive would build on that.
I remember looking around at that point and thinking that in this huge crowd of celebrities, with all the security in place, Angie and I couldn’t have been safer from the Church of Jive. And after all we’d been through, that was a very satisfying feeling.
I turned my attention back to the program. The evening’s schedule was thus: an opening Uptown Belle dance number, then an introduction by the Princess, followed by Special Musical Guest Voodoo Jive Daddy, followed by the glib and reticent magicians Glenn and Keller, then a brief slide presentation about the seriousness of head injuries by former President Gerald Ford, then . . . blah blah blah . . . and eventually the headliner act, Speed Wobble.
But there was a slip of white paper stuck into the program. I read it, then I picked my eyeballs up off the floor and read it again, just to be sure I wasn’t having a hallucination:
Due to an unavoidable last-minute cancellation, Voodoo Jive Daddy will be replaced by Scuppy Milner and the Swell Swingers.
Chapter 28
I blinked, I squinted, but the slip of paper still read Scuppy Milner and the Swell Swingers. I turned to show Angie, but when I waved the little piece of paper at her, she only managed to tear herself away from Peter’s pontifications to give a hello wave back. I sat there, brain abuzz, staring at the slip of paper. My eyes zoomed in on the sponsors list: Fab Form, Aurora Corp., Illinois. Like a brick hitting my head, I remembered that plaque in Roger’s office, the testimonial of some kind from the Aurora Corporation. What did that stupid drink have to do with all this? My palms went sweaty, and I took a good look around for Roger Elk.
Bookerman, or his impostor, was one of the sponsors, and there’d likely be commercial breaks with Fab Form ads. The Swell Swingers were performing. All to a huge, nationwide audience.
The glowing lightning rod in my head arced voltage into the convulsing monster of realization. This was where the retros meant to use the tone spheres.
Were this a wedding, I suppose I could have stood up just before the the Swell Swingers hit the stage and said, “I object!” But if I were to make som
e sort of scene at Cinderella’s ball, especially if no danger was readily apparent, I would likely be arrested: quickly, quietly, and uselessly.
Well, Scuppy Milner was here someplace, and my guess was many of the other culprits were as well. It wouldn’t do any good for me to confront them. What, I’m going to walk into that vipers’ nest and announce that they’re all under arrest? The obvious move was to get Tsilzer down to the Savoy but quick.
I waved at Angie and mouthed, “I’ll be right back.”
A digital clock off to one side of the stage showed 8:51 P.M. Nine minutes to airtime, probably a half hour or so to the Swell Swingers.
Swimming against the current of seat-seekers, I squirmed my way into the lobby, where a distracted usher waved me to the nearest pay phones, either outside the gents’ room downstairs or I could try the gents’ on the second mezzanine balcony. Well, there was still a jam of people coming upstairs, and the elevators were hectic, but traffic on the up staircase was nil, probably because of the velvet rope across it. I ducked under the rope and trotted up the spiral.
At the top, I found the remains of a private reception, the demeanor of the guests on hand leaning more toward white-haired contributors than members of the Screen Actors Guild. I didn’t pay them much mind, except I did a little two-step trying to maneuver around some woman in a tiara holding a script. Her bluish earrings were very familiar.
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