Corky hated fancy places. Overstatement. He had not been to enough of them to develop anything approximating hatred. But he disliked them plenty. It was mainly a matter of belonging—all the other people in whatever rich room he found himself—their credentials were in order, they understood the dimensions, got the decorum right. Corky simply felt false—he had no business being there, soon he’d be found out, then thrown out, humiliated publicly, never the happiest way.
When the Postman had invited him to lunch. Corky tried to make it an office meeting but the old man wouldn’t hear of it, simply said, “The Seasons, tomorrow, one, g’bye,” and rang off.
Now, Corky stalked the sidewalk across from the restaurant. He had waited until he had seen the Postman go in—if he had arrived first, they never would have seated him, they would have spotted right off he didn’t belong in a nice place like that, they would have blown him right back to the street with their laughter.
But if the Postman was already there, he would be all right, could just walk right up to the reservations man and say, “Mr. Ben Greene is expecting me, I’m positive he is,” and they would nod and ask for him to follow and then once he got to the Postman’s table, no one would ever dare to throw him out, he was safe.
He opened the door to the restaurant, walked past the coat checking room, up the stairs to the reservations desk. Halfway up the stairs more accurately.
That was when the reservations man glanced at Corky’s throat—where he didn’t have a necktie.
Corky froze.
The reservations man went back to his lists.
Why do you do this to yourself? You should have worn a tie or called and asked if one was necessary. Either way. But you do not go to a place like this place improperly attired.
Unless you want to get thrown out.
Corky began to fidget. The reservations man looked up again, again at the bare throat.
I don’t want to get throw out. I don’t court failure. True.
“Were you looking for someone, sir?” the reservations man said from behind his small desk.
Corky nodded.
The reservations man gestured for him to come nearer.
Corky did.
“Who did you wish to see?”
I’m sorry about the necktie, Corky was about to say. It was just a mistake, I didn’t mean anything, Corky almost said. Instead he said, “Ben Greene,” and the reservations man said, “Of course, follow me,” and smiled—smiled—
See? You’re as good as any of ’em.
He walked across the room, passing all the wealthy people who belonged there.
As any of ’em!
The Postman was waiting in the corner. “Have I got news for you. Sit. Want a drink?”
“I figured you did when you called. No, nothing.”
“Have a cigar,” the Postman said, handing over an Individuale. “Four bucks each. I got a special deal, Dunhill’s loves me, I get ’em ten for forty.”
Corky put it into his inside blazer pocket. “For later. Thank you. What’s the good news?”
“I’m building the suspense, don’t interrupt.” He handed over another Individuale. “Take two, they’re big.”
Corky nodded, slid the second cigar beside the first.
“How’s your manager?” the Postman asked, with his usual sour smile; Fats always referred to him, both in public and anywhere else, as “Gangrene,” which the Postman felt a bit undignified for one of his years.
“Fats is imfuckingpossible as always,” Corky said, imitating Fats flawlessly.
“What’s that speck on your blazer?” the Postman asked, reaching across the table and Corky tried not to smile because there wasn’t much he could do about it, it was magic time.
The Postman’s hand burst into flame.
Corky did his best to look surprised.
“Pretty good, wouldn’t you say?” the Postman said. “Brand-new flash paper—improved—Tannen’s just got in a shipment.” Tannen’s was the best magic store probably anywhere, with a catalog hundreds of pages long. The Postman owned at least one of almost every trick they sold and spent as many hours per week as he could talking with the magicians who used the place as a clubhouse when they were in town.
“You really fooled me,” Corky said.
“You shouldda worn a necktie,” the Postman said, going into his right-hand suit pocket. “Here.” And he pulled out a blue silk scarf. “This’ll go nice with your blazer,” and he handed it out to Corky, but by the time Corky had gotten it, the Postman had run it through his hands and the scarf was now green. The Postman winked at Corky. “Pretty good, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yessir.” Then: “Do you think we could get to the good news now?”
“Show is over.” The Postman nodded, and he reached into his inside pocket. “No more magic, you got my word. Here’s the terms I’ve worked out—” He stopped suddenly, looking at his hand. “Why, what’s this I found? Look, Corky, it’s a sponge ball, I wonder how it got there? Looks like an ordinary sponge ball to me, what do you think?” He held it out for Corky to examine.
“Very ordinary,” Corky said.
“Let’s just see,” the Postman went on, a certain practiced note coming into his voice now. “I have a strange feeling this just might be one of those rare sponge balls recently discovered off the coast of Tibet —surely you’ve read about the mysterious disappearing Tibetan miracle balls.”
“I haven’t; nossir.”
“They disappear, Corky. If you squeeze them hard enough, they turn into atmosphere. Now I’m probably a little too old, my fingers probably lack the strength, but let’s just see.”
Corky watched as the Postman put the ball between his hands and exerted pressure.
“Amazing,” Corky said.
“Hold on, goddammit,” the Postman said, “it ain’t gone yet,” and he opened his hands, showing the tiny sponge ball. He started to squeeze again, making little grunt sounds as he did. “Now you can say ‘amazing,’ ” the Postman said, opening his hands, the ball gone. He winked at Corky. “Pretty good, wouldn’t you say?”
Corky nodded.
The Postman pulled off his thumb tip with the sponge ball inside, stuffed it into his pocket. Then he just looked at Corky for a long time, studying him.
“What’s wrong?” Corky said finally.
“I’m trying to freeze you like you are right now—you’d be doing the both of us a favor if you’d do it too. Remember who we are that’s sitting here.”
Corky waited.
“You’re a good kid, Cork. I’ve been a little bit around—I was Cain’s agent when he went in the ring against Abel—and I’ve seen it a thousand times out of a thousand: you hit it big, you turn shitheel. That’s an automatic. I’d love it if you’d beat the odds.”
“Maybe I won’t hit it big,” Corky said.
“Two years ago, you couldn’t get arrested; two years from now you’re gonna have it all. I conned CBS into giving you the pilot special. Which, as you might have guessed, is the reason I’ve called us all together.”
Very quickly Corky said, “What’s a pilot special?”
“How old are you?”
“Just over thirty.”
“How can you be so old and so stupid?—My Christ, when I was your age I’d already turned down Jean Harlow as a client.”
Corky put his hands in his lap, made sure they’d stay there.
“A pilot special,” the Postman went on, “is like what they give Rich Little last year. When they’re hot for somebody—and believe me, I didn’t con anybody at CBS, Goldstone wants you—they do a special that if it delivers, off you go. Bob Hope does a special, it’s part of a bigger contract. So many shows, so many years. With you, they’re kind of testing.”
“And it’s all set and everything?”
“It’s set, but it’s not set-set, if you follow me. There’s boiler plate to be slugged out, and they want to know what kind of publicity will you do free and we got to find ou
t what kind of publicity will they do free, and we got the medical exam to go through, and I’m willing to gamble on taking less for you if they’ll go a little higher on the total budget for the show, and on and on, agent bullshit. But the bottom line is, we want it we got it, what do you have to say? You want to kiss my hand, I don’t mind.”
Silence.
“May I quote you on that?” the Postman wondered.
Corky began to shake his head.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t think I want to take the medical exam,” Corky said.
The Postman shrugged. “Okay, I’ll try and see about getting it waived. Any special reason?”
“Just principle.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Okay. I don’t know if I can explain this but don’t get impatient For openers, how long have we known each other?”
“What, two years, little more? You were working that place in Los Angeles—”
“—the Stardust.”
The Postman nodded.
“You’ll never know how important that night was for me. You came ambling back, in that shy way you have, kind of indicating ‘don’t look now, folks, but God just walked in—’ ”
“I don’t do that,” the Postman said. “Do I do that?” He shrugged. “ ’Course, it’s not totally untrue, go on.”
“You came backstage and said who you were and did I know and I said of course I knew and you said you were about to give me the break of my life and sign me up as a client.” Corky looked at the old man a minute. “Do you remember what I answered?”
“Effing well I remember—you said I could represent you but you wouldn’t sign. I had to karate chop the agency into going along with that.”
“That was principle,” Corky said. “I knew what you could mean to me but I never would have signed—because if you’re happy with me and I’m happy with you, we don’t need to sign. Our word is all we have and that’s plenty. For me anyway.”
“But what’s with the medical exam? Why is that principle?”
“They’re saying there’s something wrong with me, don’t you see that? I say I’m fine, and they say, we don’t trust you, we want our doctors to go around looking inside. We’ll tell you if you’re fine.
“There isn’t anything wrong with you?”
“ ’Course not.”
The Postman looked at Corky for a while. “Are you serious about this principle thing?”
“Serious?”
“That’s right. Is it a dealbreaker?”
Corky shrugged. “I guess it is.”
The Postman raised his eyes to anyone up there. “Performers,” he said. “I should have been a cesspool cleaner like my mother wanted,” he said. Then he took a silver dollar out of his pocket and turned it into gold …
7
WHAT IS THIS PRINCIPLES BULLSHIT?
Doublespace.
Not that I’m upset but WHERE ALL OF A SUDDEN DO THESE FUCKING PRINCIPLES COME FROM?
Calm down.
Not so easy. When you consider that all we have busted our humps for is just a prayer for a shot at making it big. Why has all that sweat been spilled? I try going over and over the ecofuckingnomics of it with him.
He won’t listen.
“Corky,” I say to him. “Lets not waste our time contemplating the twenty-five thousand we’d get for doing the special. That’s just walking around money. Just contemplate what happens if the pilot special gets picked up. Gangrene could gouge us an easy fifty thou per show. Fifty thousand. Suppose we only do one season. Twenty shows. That’s a million, schmucko. Six zeros following the one.”
“This is just the kind of thing you’ll never understand.”
I go into my big pitch.
“What if we don’t bomb?” I begin. “Suppose we turn into Andy Williams or Ann-Margret. Give us a five-year run, let’s be conservative. Five million.—And Vegas?—I mean, a tv headliner only gets maybe a hundred and fifty per week.—Forever.—My God, Dean Martin was pulling his drunk act on the plebes out there since before Carlo Gambino had a police record and he’s still hot.—They’re faithful in Vegas.—They’re foul weather friends.—So,” I sum up to old buddy Cork; “so what we’ve got is enough to pay the bills a year or so no matter what, and if we charm the people enough, all we’ve got is a minimum six figures for life.”
“Sorry, it’s a matter of principle, I won’t take the medical exam.”
He won’t let some ancient hacksaw see if he’s still got a knee jerk.
“WHY?WHY?WHY?
“Please God,” I beg, “tell me.”
“Principles.”
“You’re not letting me in on something, admit it.”
“Don’t bug me, principles are principles.”
“Principles,” I scream, “are guys you got sent to see for smoking in the boys’ room.”
He laughs. “I wish I could be funny like you.”
“Is it the migraines?”
“For the millionth time—”
“—brain cancer?—you think they’re gonna find something just terrible inside?”
Silence.
“Is that it, Laddie?”
Silence.
“If there is something wrong, let’s for God’s sake find it now, while we can do something.”
“THERE’S NOTHING TO FIND, FATS, NOW LET ME ALONE.”
“THIS SHOW IS OUR FUTURE AND I WANT IT.”
Double silence.
Loooooooooooooooooooonnnnnnng one.
Then: Him: “Listen, I’m sure the Postman will get them to waive the medical.”
“Yeah? And if he doesn’t?”
He didn’t have the answer and neither do I. All I know is that if he doesn’t, there’s gonna be blood.
And not mine.
The Wisdom According to Fats Entry for: 1 October, 1975
Found at: Gracie Terrace
Penthouse One
20 October, 1975
The Contents of This
Entire Journal Will
Be Listed As:
POLICE EXHIBIT D
8
“I couldn’t budge ’em,” came the Postman’s voice.
Corky held tight to the phone.
“You still there, kid?”
“I thought you said Goldstone wanted me—”
“—he does but—”
“—did you explain about the principle?—”
“—this is company policy—”
“—it was company policy when I wouldn’t sign with you—”
“—this is legal—they’re not about to spend half a million on a special and then find out on taping day there’s a health problem—”
“—there’s no problem—”
“—Corky—”
“—you make them understand!—” Corky said, and he slammed down the phone. He started walking crazily around the desk. “You heard all that?”
“I’m not saying doodledyfucking doo,” Fats told him. “You dug this hole.”
“You’re with the Postman.”
“I know you gotta take that exam.”
“Well I won’t.”
“Then tell me what this is all about!”
Corky went to his left temple, started to rub.
“Don’t pull one of those migraines now goddammit—”
The phone rang again.
“Hello?—”
“Listen, I’m coming over—”
Harder at the temple. “No reason.”
“We got to talk.”
“About what?”
“Kid, are you afraid to take it?”
“No.”
“And you’re telling me everything?”
“I don’t know, what’s everything?”
“I’m coming right now—”
“—I won’t be here—”
“—Kid—listen to the Postman—”
“—mean it—you come and I’m gone—”
“—I’ll take the
goddam thing with you—how’s that for an offer—Christ, I’ve had cancer, I got emphysema, my varicose veins are in all the best medical texts—if I’m not afraid to take it, what have you got to worry about?”
“I’m—not—afraid.”
“Just wait right there.”
Corky heard the click. He put the phone down. “I’m going.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure—you coming or not?”
“You want me?”
“I’m not sure—you coming or not?”
“Tell me where you’re going.”
Quietly then: “… home?”
“You haven’t got a home.”
Quieter still: “… tell me something I don’t know …”
2. PREPARATION
MUTT
First picture: Joe and his girl standing on the beach. Bully with Muscles shouts across the sand—“Hey SKINNY! … yer ribs are showing!”
Corky Withers, nearing 10, examined the Charles Atlas ad over and over. No point to it, all wasted effort; he knew the thing by heart. Still, better safe than sorry.
Second picture: Joe and his girl still on the beach. Bully with Muscles standing with them now. Joe’s girl (worried): “Don’t let him hit you, Joe.” Joe (to Bully with Muscles): “Watch what you say, fella …” Bully with Muscles (shoving Joe in the face): “Shut up, you bag of bones!”
Corky lay on his back and studied the ceiling. What a terrible thing that must have been for Joe. Nothing you could do but stand there and take it. Sure, you could try and hit the big guy, but that’s what he wanted, the chance to make mincemeat out of you, leave you bloody on the sand, steal your girl, maybe kiss her if it got dark.
Corky got up and walked to the mirror. He took off his shirt and looked at his chest. There was no doubt about it: he was skinny and his ribs were showing. He made his arm stiffen and flexed it, forming as big a muscle as he could. Holding his right arm that way, he moved next to the mirror and examined the result: it didn’t seem possible but his bicep looked smaller flexed than normal. Corky skipped back to the bed and grabbed for his comic book.