Laurel and Hardy Murders (5 page)

The Lambs bartender requested that Natie lower
his
voice.

“We can’t afford new tickets,” Natie said, half mumbling, his cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.

Dutchy sneered. “Whatcha doin’ with the treasury, buying a refrigerator to keep MTM in?”

“Damn it,” said Natie, “I just pay the bills. Talk to O. J. or Hal about running them up!”

O. J. quickly and deftly steered the discussion away from financial matters by observing that he wanted to get home by eleven o’clock to tape the soundtrack of
Broadway Thru a Keyhole
on WOR-TV. The art of channeled digression. It got the buffs onto a ten-minute tangent concerning the brief career of Russ Columbo.

When the original subject was returned to, it was agreed (mostly out of exhaustion) that the Two Tars would proceed with convention plans and the parent tent would discuss transportation another day. Natie looked very dubious.

I said I’d inform Butler of the decision when he woke. His head was flat on the table; he snored. Toby moved his tie out of the cheese spread.

“All right, gentlemen,” said O. J., “the main topic tonight is the June banquet. The Laurel and Hardy film this year, with your sanction, will be
The Hoose-Gow.
Fin has a good part in it, Charley Hall has a bit, too. As for Mae—listen to this! We’re actually going to see what there is left of
The Knifethrower
!”

“WOW!”

Everyone babbled excitedly. Dutchy whistled. “How’d you run it down?” he asked. Nostalgia was the only area he ever opened up on. “I thought it was gone for good.”

“Hal found it.”

“Where?”

“He’s got sources,” O. J. replied. “Who knows—”

“—what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!” Phil Faxon sneered in a sinister timbre.

The entire committee joined him in an imitation of the invisible crime-fighter’s memorably aquilinic snigger.

“To continue,” O. J. chuckled, “at the banquet we will have on the podium, Bob and Ray once more, Rodney Dangerfield, our own Chuck McCann, and Butterfly McQueen—”

“What she gwine t’do?” Phil laughed. “Sing ’n’ dance?”

No one said anything, but several reproving glances were cast in his direction. Phil, nearing sixty, was apparently suffering hardening of the prejudices.

O. J. mentioned a few other “iffy” possibles for the head table, then proudly announced, “I have one more piece of excellent news, gentlemen...the most important thing of all! This year, the annual Sons comedy plaque will be given to Billy White and Jack Black!”

“Goddelmighty,” Natie said, awestruck, “they must both be ninety!”

O. J. shook his head. “Jack’s ninety-two, but Billy’s only eighty-seven.”

“
Only
?”

We were all impressed. Though I’m younger than most of the board, I remember comedy appearances on early TV of Black and White, “America’s oldest, funniest vaudeville stars.” They dated back to 1900 or thereabouts. White was British, like Stan, but lost his accent and music-hall style in Second Avenue burlesque, Coney Island carnival, vaudeville, et cetera. He met Jack Black at Minsky’s, where Black was a candy butcher. They shaped up a two-act PDQ and soon became a headlining team.

“Both of them,” O. J. told us, “now live upstate at the AGVA retirement home. We’ll rent a limousine—”

Natie groaned.

“—pick them up, then take ’em back afterwards. Of course, if the weather’s rough, they’ll have to cancel, but otherwise—”

“Forget the otherwise,” said a new voice. “They’re
not
coming!”

It was our VP, Hal—at long last back from the phone booths. A chunky man about 5-foot-7, he has a head of grizzled gray hair that looks like a used Brillo pad. I would have suspected a hairpiece except for the dandruff flecks that he scratches from his scalp and, after a quick, furtive inspection, flicks to the floor. He sat down between Dutchy and Tye, barking his shins on the table leg in the process. Reaching for crackers and cheese, he managed to decorate his cuff with an aromatic smear of the latter substance.

“What do you mean, they’re not coming?” O. J. echoed, stunned.

“Just what I said,” Hal mumbled through a mouthful of Keeblers. I turned away, not willing to study the open spectacle of teeth and masticated Saltines.

Hal has a habit of dropping bombshells casually at committee meetings, then staring abstractedly into space, as if unaware of the weight of the pronouncement he’s made. At last, under the impatient prompting of the board, he said he’d talked to the nurse at the AGVA home and learned that Billy White had suffered a mild stroke. He was in fair condition, but it was extremely unlikely that’d he be going anyplace in the next few weeks.

“What about Jack?” O. J. anxiously asked. “Couldn’t he accept the plaque for both of them?”

“I dunno,” Hal said, swallowing a mouthful of cracker. He complained it was too dry. Tye rose, went to the bar and bought him a drink. Meanwhile, Hal admitted he hadn’t considered the possibility of bringing just Jack Black down. “I thought you wanted the two of them.”

“Well, certainly,” O. J. said, “but if it’s not possible, Jack can take the place of both. In fact, he’s the one we really
need.
You know how sharp he still is? He agreed to do a part in the skit we’re getting ready.”

“At
his
age?” Natie asked, startled. “Sure it’s safe?”

“His doctor said the mental challenge’ll be good for Jack, provided he gets plenty of rest before and after.”

“Well, so be it,” Dutchy Hovis said. “Hal, get the home back on the horn and ask Jack if he’ll come by himself.”

“He’s liable to be asleep by now,” someone observed.

“Never!” It was Tye Morrow. He set the drink in front of Hal Fawkes. “Jack is probably still up chasing nurses.”

Hal said he’d call Black as soon as he finished his drink. In the meantime, we discussed what to do if Jack Black said no. At the least, that would mean scrapping the ten-minute pantomime playlet which the old man was supposed to participate in. There just wouldn’t be enough time to find someone else to replace Black.

Phil Faxon said he could fill in with twenty minutes of radio and film sound-track imitations, but O. J. patted his hand and diplomatically said he didn’t want to spoil Phil’s evening by asking him to get up and perform again.

“I know what
I
could do!” Barry Richmond grinned, his black-framed glasses glinting in the artificial light.

“We all know what you can do, Norman!” Al Kilgore answered. “Go back to the motel and wash out the shower!”

“No, really,” Barry insisted, “there’s one thing that bugs me. Nobody ever gets my title right! Every time I set up the lights or build the stage platform for a banquet show, what happens? Somebody puts my name in the program wrong.”

He wasn’t being all that serious, but O. J. couldn’t politely refuse the gambit, so he asked Barry what the trouble was.

“The last program referred to me as ‘Lighting Designer, The Hon. Barry A. Richmond.’”

“What’s wrong with that, Hon?” Natie cooed in a grotesque parody of flirtatiousness.

“As president of Montmartre, I insist on correct protocol—”

“Barry,” Tye Morrow interrupted, with some severity, “you’ve been complaining about this for three years now, and still nobody knows what you’re talking about.”

“And I don’t want to know,” Kilgore laughed.

“I don’t blame you,” Barry agreed, “I don’t know what I’m talking about myself.”

“Hear, hear,” Natie chimed in. “All in favor of Barry not explaining what he’s talking about, say ‘Aye.’”

A nearly unanimous chorus.

“Nay?”

“
Nay
.” Every eye turned in the direction of the murmured sound.

“Toby,” Dutchy yelped, “are you outta your bird?”

“Barry’s always talking about his correct titles,” Toby protested. “I want to hear what they are, finally. All of them.”

“
All
of them?” Barry gawked.

Toby nodded.

“Okay,” Barry sighed, rooting through his briefcase, “here goes...”

At those magic words, nearly everybody got up.

“RACK ’EM!”

“Who wants another refill?”

“I gotta take a leak.”

O. J., Barry, Toby, and I stayed, but everyone else moved in all possible directions at once. The bustle of bodies roused Frank Butler, who’d been snoring for some time.

“Hey, boy, what’s up? Meeting over?”

“Not yet.” I shook my head. “Just a recess.”

“Recess, hell!” Barry objected. “This is for the minutes.” He consulted a paper withdrawn from his briefcase. “My complete title is—His Excellency Sir Barry Alan Richmond, Knight Bachelor, Night Errant, Order Cross Lorraine, Order of the Brutish Umpire; President of the Serene Republic of Montmartre and her Dependencies; Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, Defender of the Faith and God’s Middle Finger on Earth—”

The last one fetched a whoop from Toby, but Barry went on, obliviously. “Chief Magistrate, Emperor of Montmartre Possessions in India, China and the Ottoman Empire, Co-Prince of the Valleys and Suzerainties of Andorra, Doge of Little Italy, No-Account of Monte Cristo, High Muckamuck, Thane of Cawdor, Grand Bastard of Flanders, High Priest of the Effluent Society and Most Grand and Exalted Ruler of the Ancient and Worshipful Guild of Gongfemors—”

“What in holy mouthwash is
that
?” Butler growled.

“Latin for
sewer cleaners.
Bey of Prigs, Dey of Reckoning, Chief of State of the Montmartre Community/Commonwealth and Greater North American Co-Prosperity Sphere—”

Toby, who’d kicked the whole thing off in the first place, shook his head, rose, and, squeezing past Butler, hurried in the direction of the men’s room.

“But there’s more!” Barry called after his retreating back. “Grand Panjandrum and Seneschal of Montmartre, Protector of the Hairy Ainus and three South American tribes—”

“Huh?” It was O. J.

“I don’t know their names. One tribe can’t speak at all, the second only talks through its noses, and in the third, the men and women speak different languages and understand each other only with a lot of difficulty.”

“Barry,” O. J. begged, “that’s enough.”

“There isn’t much more. Great Mogul of Montmartre, High Constable, High Sheriff, Marshall of Eastern Rumelia, Regent of the Duchy of Finkelstein—”

There was a loud noise at the other end of the table. Barry and I looked over at Frank Butler. He had just clomped an ancient, rusty .45 on the table in front of him.

“You nearly done?” he asked calmly.

“Leader-of-Men-Seducer-of-Women-and-General-All-Around-Nice-Guy-
that’s-it
!” Barry rattled off the words so fast they ran into each other. Then, from the corner of his mouth, he told me to get the hell up so he could push past and take himself out of Butler’s vicinity.

We both rose, leaving Butler alone with O. J. That was a big mistake. If I’d stayed, I might have saved Wayne Poe’s life—admittedly a doubtful honor.

When the committee sat back down, O. J. dropped a bombshell. “Gentlemen, Frank Butler here has suggested we get Wayne Poe to appear at our banquet. If Jack Black can’t make it, he could fill in beautifully.”

Loud protests. Angry words. I stared at Butler, wondering why he’d proposed his nemesis of the scissors-and-seltzer-bottle. I was sure that Butler, once crossed, wouldn’t tend to forget a grudge. I suspected a plot.

Butler held up his hand for silence. “Listen, boys,” he said, lighting a cigar, “Poe was the hit of the Two Tars show. Everybody stood up and clapped.”

Was Frank Butler drunker than I’d realized?

“Wayne Poe,” Natie emphatically stated, “is a first-class son-of-a-bitch! Somebody ought to break his neck!”

Dutchy seconded the sentiment.

Phil Faxon observed that if Wayne Poe dropped dead immediately, it would be too soon.

“He’s right,” said Natie. “Everybody in favor of Wayne Poe dropping dead, say ‘Aye.’”

“AYE!” The voice vote was nearly unanimous.

“You’re not supposed to vote,” Al Kilgore told Toby.

“For
this
, he should be allowed,” Natie said.

O. J. argued about having Poe on the show with us. Now as long as the question didn’t actually get put to a vote, I knew O. J. would do as he pleased. He actually liked Poe. Since I could not, as a delegate-at-large, propose the motion to ban the comic, the next-best thing I could do was to relate my version of what really happened in Philadelphia.

But I didn’t get a chance. Hal Fawkes reappeared and when O. J. saw him, he seized the opportunity to change the subject.

“Well? Did you get hold of Jack Black?”

Hal nodded. He plopped in his chair, catching the pocket of his jacket on the wooden arm, ripping it. He cursed.

“Come on, Hal!” Natie prompted. “Don’t make us pry it out of you!”

“I’ve got him holding, O. J.,” Hal said, ruefully fingering his jacket. “He’s not so sure he should come now, so maybe you better talk to him. Last booth over.”

O. J. rose and went to the lobby and the telephone. We all held our breaths.

“If Jack doesn’t come,” Hal said, “we’ll hafta scrap the film clip of him and Billy.”

“Film clip, hell,” said Barry, “we’ll have to line up a new guest of honor pretty damn fast.”

But O. J. returned and said he’d talked Jack Black into coming, after all. Everyone sighed gratefully, glad to be spared having to tolerate another one of Wayne Poe’s dreadful performances.

“And now, gentlemen,” said O. J., “my agenda is covered. Is there any other business to discuss? Yes, Al?”

Our Grand Sheik announced that he had a motion of vital importance to make.

“Yes? What is it?”

“RACK ‘EM!”

D
ESPITE MY HEADACHE, I
had no intention of letting Butler slip away after the meeting. Considering his performance at the pool table and his totally out-of-character endorsement of Wayne Poe, I figured he was too sloshed to stand a chance against my own deck if we played gin.

For double insurance, I bought him a straight Bombay and Michelob chaser at the bar, then suggested riding over to West End Avenue for a rematch. He agreed and wanted to drive us there, but I hastily told him to leave the Packard in the Port Authority lot and let me treat us to a cab. It was a small price to pay for personal safety.