It was clear that the members of the King of Prussia High School Glee Club hadn’t spent the very-early-morning hours watching the opening of our show, reading the papers, or cruising the Internet. If they had, they’d have seen news items, blogs, videos, and Twitters about my involvement in the unnatural deaths of two of my Worldwide Broadcasting Company associates. That might have made them at least a little less eager to shake my hand as I greeted them on the sidewalk in front of the Wake Up! window on the city. Instead most of the fresh-faced, high-spirited young Pennsylvanians were yahooing and screaming and laughing.
One of them, a cheery young female, somehow managed to bridle her enthusiasm long enough to inform our viewing audience how much they were enjoying their visit to New York City and how grateful they were to have been invited to participate in the All-American Sing-off that would take place at Carnegie Hall on Saturday night at seven p.m.
That gave me the opportunity to trot out one of my all-time faves, “Do you know how to get to Carnegie Hall?” When the young girl said no, the crew and I shouted in unison, “PRACTICE!” Gets ’em every time.
Near the gleeful glee clubbers was a quartet of Asian women wearing large, lumpy, but colorful costumes, their lovely faces partially covered by bright orange and yellow and green masks that included brown papier-mâché animal horns that curved down to their shoulders. “Chef Blessing,” one of them called out.
“Hi, ladies,” I said. “What’s the story on your wardrobe?”
“We’re in oxen costumes,” their apparent spokeswoman explained.
“You certainly are,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“I am Tina. With me are Lotus and Lucy. We here to remind everyone that this is the Chinese Year of the Ox and”—she reached down with black gloved hands to retrieve from the sidewalk a huge can labeled CHINA KITCHEN OXBLOOD SOUP—“for you,” she said, handing me the can, which, judging by its weight, may have contained a complete ox simmering in its own juices.
“We call this special soup seonjitguk.”
“Seonjitguk,” I thought I repeated.
“No, no,” she said. “Seonjitguk. Anyway, you try soup. It is delicious. And … it is a wonderful way to rid the body of the toxins from overindulgence.”
“Good to know,” I said. “Thank you.”
I was about to move on when she reached out and touched my arm. “Chef, we were concerned by your absences on Wake Up, America! We are so happy to see you back. You are our favorite. You are why we watch the show each morning.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. I could have added a special thankyou to Tina’s boss, Wally Wing, my lawyer, for concocting the whole Year of the Ox sham just to send the message to the WBC brass that I had been missed. But that would have been self-defeating. Instead I said, “Thank you, I’m very happy to be back.”
Which was the truth. Even though the start of the show had been a bit uncomfortable.
The local news lead-in at six-forty-five a.m. had been all about the fire, the charred victim, presumed to be WBC cameraman Phil Bruno, and the fact that two other employees of the network, Gin McCauley and myself, had reported the conflagration. The beautiful, unblinking, and inexperienced talking head had then added that Gin and I would be discussing the fire immediately after the newscast on Wake Up! It was, in effect, a promo plug tagged to a hard-news bulletin, a cheesy exploitation method that must have had legends like Ed Murrow and Chet Huntley doing flip-flops in their tombs.
It was the inspiration of our temporary executive producer, Trina Lomax. She had insisted that Wake Up! begin with Lance Tuttle seated in what I called the “restricted men’s-club set,” a faux-book-lined oiled-wood study. Using his most sincere delivery, Lance informed our viewers that a second member of the WBC family had died at the hands of a vicious killer.
It was an audacious statement. The body had not yet been officially identified as Phil’s. And even if it had been, the suggestion that a serial killer was setting us up like prospective victims in an Agatha Christie novel was nothing if not premature. And unsettling. Especially if one was to make the connection between a cat drawing at the scene of the fire and Felix the Cat, the hit man original gangster Henry Julian had warned me would be coming to New York to kill someone in the media.
“I’m now being joined by our good friends Gin McCauley and Bill Blessing, who were both on the scene last night when Phil was murdered and his elegant town house burned to the ground.”
Feeling a little light-headed, I followed Gin onto the set, where we sat, flanking Lance. A male model in butler’s livery, the living embodiment of The Daily Brew’s Billionaire Blend logo, suddenly appeared, filling china cups with our sponsor’s product. This was supposed to create the impression that we were having an off-the-cuff coffee klatch, unaware that the world was looking in, all in a nice tight three-shot.
“Guys, that must have been horrendous,” Lance said, “seeing those flames coming toward you and running for your lives from the building. And then having to stand by, helplessly, while our pal Phil Bruno burned to a crisp.”
My immediate thought was to smash this pompous ass in the face for referring to our friend like a slab of bacon. I replaced that thought with an urge to remind him that the DNA analysts were still a few days away from an official identification of the corpse. But I knew the rules of the game and so, like Gin, I kept up my end of the discussion by finding new ways of paraphrasing the fear and frustration I’d honestly felt.
The segment ended. During the ensuing three and a half minutes of commercials, Trina and Arnie gave us attaboys, Lance and Gin headed for the anchor desk, and, with the help of my assistant, Kiki, I got ready for my people-in-the street segment.
That segment, after nine minutes, was nearing its close.
I was talking with three gentlemen in formal kilts, representing the Jackson Hole, Wyoming, Scottish Festival to be held in three weeks. Two of the men carried bagpipes and seemed ready to wail. The third presented me with a basket containing an assortment of pastries. “I bet you were expecting haggis, Chef Blessing,” he said. “But we decided on something different. These are Forfar bridies.”
“Meat pies, right?”
“Right, chef. Mince meat, onions. Delicious. Just one of the delicacies we’ll be having at the festival. Along with bagpipe bands, dancing, athletics. Try a bridie.”
A mincemeat pie wasn’t exactly my idea of breakfast food, but what the hell, it beat haggis. I lifted one of the pastries from the basket, took a bite.
It stuck in my throat. Nothing to do with the bridie, which was no doubt delicious. I’d let my eyes drift past the Scotsmen to two grim figures standing across the street. Detectives Solomon and Butker. Staring at me with all the intensity of wolves zeroing in on their prey.
I coughed.
“You all right, chef?” the Wyoming Scott asked.
“Fine,” I said, turning to Kiki, who, ever alert, handed me the remains of her mug of Billionaire Blend.
I took a swallow, cleared my throat again, and asked the Scotsman, “Don’t suppose you have any single malt in that basket?”
“Just bridies,” he said. “But at the festival …”