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“WHAT do you mean, ‘it won’t start’?”
“He’s right,” Claude affirmed. “When he brought it here, my first thought was for him to take it right back. But when he tried to crank the thing, it wouldn’t turn over.”
“Not to worry,” Myrna said, peeling off her gloves and stowing them in her bag. She picked up Bootsy with a kiss and handed him over to Lawrence, pecking him on the lips as well. “It can’t be anything too serious. Justin, pop the hood and bring me a tool kit. We’ll have her running again in no time.”
“Do you think she can fix it?” Claude asked when Justin hurried toward the bungalow’s garage.
“Myrna? She grew up above her dad’s repair shop in Detroit,” Lawrence said. “She can fix anything. Her Toyota has 400,000 miles on it, and she keeps it running like a champ.”
“A woman of many talents,” the older man said as he watched Myrna prop up the Caddy’s hood.
Lawrence stifled the grin threatening to emerge and concentrated on quieting the little dog in his arms. “Claude, I didn’t know you still lived in this area. In fact, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t even know you were still alive.”
“Well, son, I’ve been out of the entertainment business for a long time,” the older man replied. “I moved back from Sedona last June. My health hasn’t been so good, and I wanted to be closer to my family.”
“I certainly understand that.” Lawrence had noticed his boyhood idol favoring his left leg. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure. So long as it’s not about those damned Sedona vortexes,” Claude chuckled. “I’ve had a bellyful of that New Age crap.”
“No problem,” Lawrence grinned. “Why don’t we sit in the car and chat?” He opened the creaking door of the Caddy and waited for the other man to sit down.
“On your show, John Hutch played the zombie mailman who delivered your fan letters every week,” Lawrence continued, joining the older man on the Caddy’s plush rear seat. “What happened to him after 1971?”
“Wow... I haven’t thought about Hutch for thirty years. I believe he got a job in Sacramento working as a high-school teacher. But how do you know about him anyway?”
“Claude, I know you think all you guys are forgotten, but man, you’re a legend!”
“Don’t pull an old man’s leg, son. I’m flattered that you know I hosted Terror Time before it was your show, but who else remembers Harry Ghoulini these days?”
“More than you imagine,” Lawrence insisted. “Nostalgia is hot. Pop culture has become socially relevant. Middle-aged folks remember the programs they loved as children, and there’s a solid fan base for the old horror shows, Terror Time included. Harry Ghoulini vanished in the mid-1970s, so in fan circles you’ve become a mystery man. People at horror conventions pay good money for grainy copies of old videotapes of the handful of your episodes that were rerun in the early ʼ80s, and there are precious few of them. I’m here to tell you, I know a guy out in Berkeley who is writing a book on the history of television horror, and he’d give his right arm to interview you.”
“Seriously?”