Canned applause/hoots/yells/whistles–a rocket launch straight for the toilet.
Somebody spiked the punch–our live audience got bombed pre-showtime.
Sid Elwell ID’d the crowd: mostly juiceheads AWOL from the County dry-out farm.
Act #1–a Pizza De-Luxe male hooker. Topical patter de-luxe: Eisenhower meets Sinatra at the “Rat Pack Summit.” Ring-a-fucking-ding: Ike, Frank and Dino swap stale one-liners. The crowd booed; the applause meter went on the fritz and leaked steam.
Act #2–A Pizza De-Luxe prostie/songbird. Tight capris, tight sweater–mauling “Blue Moon” made her bounce in two directions. A pachuco by the stage kept a refrain up: “Baby, are they real?” Bud Brown sucker-punched him silent off-camera; the sound man said his musings came through un-squelched.
Act #3–“Ramon and Johnny”–two muscle queen acrobats. Dips, flips, cupped-hand tosses–nice, if you dig shit like that.
Whistles, applause. Bob Yeakel said the guys worked shakedowns: extorting married fags with sodomy pix.
Some spurned lover out-of-nowhere yelled, “Ramon, you bitch!”
Ramon blew the audience a pouty kiss.
Johnny spun in mid-toss; Ramon neglected to catch him. Johnny hit the stage flat on his back.
The crowd went nuts; the applause meter belched smoke. Kay Van Obst drove Johnny to Central Receiving.
#4, #5–Pizza De-Luxe torch singers. Slit-legged gowns, cleavage, goosebumps–both sang Bob Yeakel-lyriced ditties set to hit records. “The Man I Love” became “The Car I Love”; “Fly Me to the Moon” got raped thusly: “Fly me to the stars, in my souped-up 88; it’s got that V-8 power now, and its traction holds straight! In other words, OLDS IS KING!!!”
Cleavage out-tractioned lyrics–the drunks cheered. Sid Elwell hustled a new car battery/applause meter on stage for Chris Staples’ bit and final bows.
Chrissy:
Running on fear–that car chase spooked her. I told her I’d have Bob Yeakel tap some DMV slave to trace the license–my backstage pitch shot her some last-minute poise.
Chrissy:
Scorching “Someone to Watch Over Me” like the Gershwins ALMOST wrote it for her–going hushed so her voice wouldn’t crack–the secret of mediocre songsters worldwide.
Chrissy:
Shaking it to “You Make Me Feel So Young”; putting the make out implicit: _she’d_ call _you_ at three o’clock in the morning.
Chrissy:
Wolf whistles and scattered claps first time out. Better luck at final bow time: Bob Yeakel hooked the applause rig up to an amplifier.
Chrissy won.
The crowd was too drunk to know they got bamboozled.
Bob congratulated Chris and stroked her tail fins on-camera– Chris swatted his hand.
Ramon moaned for Johnny.
The sales crew snarfed Pizza De-Luxe pizza.
Leigh called to say she’d caught the show on TV “Dick, you were better off as Chucko the Clown.”
I grabbed Chrissy. “Tell Bud and Sid to meet us at Mike Lyman’s. You gave me an idea the other day.”
* * *
Bud and Sid made Lyman’s first. I slipped the headwaiter a five spot; he slipped us a secluded back booth.
We huddled in, ordered drinks and shot the shit. Topics covered: “Rocket to Stardom” as epic goof; would my repo work spring me from my second producing gig? Bud said he spieled the car chase to Bob Yeakel; Bob said he’d try to DMV-trace the temp license. Sid reprised the Big Dog repo–I used it to steer talk down to biz.
“I’ve been stuck with this ‘Coward’ tag for years, and I’m tired of it. My career’s going nowhere, but at least I’ve got a name, and Chrissy doesn’t even have that. I’ve got an idea for a publicity stunt. It would probably take at least two extra men to pull off, but I think we could do it.”
Bud said, “Do _what?_”
Chris said, “I’ve got a hunch I know where this is going.”
I whispered. “Two hoods kidnap Chrissy and I at gunpoint. The hoods are psycho types who’ve got this crazy notion that we’re big stars who can bring in ransom money. They contact Howard Wormser–he’s the agent who gets both of us work–and demand some large amount. Howard doesn’t know the gig’s a phony, and either calls the fuzz or doesn’t call the fuzz. In either case, Chrissy and I heroically escape. We can’t identify the kidnappers, because they wore masks. We fake evidence at the place where we were held hostage and tough it out when the cops question us. We’re bruised up and fucked up from the ordeal. The kidnappers, of course, remain at large. Chrissy and I get a boatload of publicity and goose our careers. We pay off the fake kidnappers with a percentage of the good money we’re now making.”