The workmen had just removed the protective plastic covers from the hundred or so audience seats. I tested one and found it surprisingly comfortable. I had about fifteen minutes more to kill before a scheduled luncheon meeting with the head writer, so I decided to give the seat even more of a test.
I leaned back and observed floor manager Lolita Snapps herd the camera operators around the stage area in preparation for tomorrow night’s show. Pfrank returned with the stagehands in full ninja garb and turned them over to Lolita. Chairs and couch were placed in position on the stage, and Lolita arranged a full-on demonstration of ninjas rolling furniture and fast-moving cameras narrowly avoiding collision.
A lot of choreography to work out with the maiden voyage of this leviathan a little more than twenty-four hours away.
“Not exactly like watching Kobe sink one for the Lakers, is it?” Gibby Lewis said, interrupting my reverie.
“But almost as graceful,” I said.
We moved on, via his white Porsche Boxter (topless, of course), to Nate ’n Al in Beverly Hills, where, after introducing me to assorted celebrities and power brokers, and suggesting I join him in ordering the extra-long hot dog with grilled onions (“That’s assuming you like hot dogs”), Gibby settled back in the booth. His baby face broke into a strange conspiratorial grin, and he asked, “So what are you doin’ here, bubbie?”
“Say again?”
“Why are you here in L.A.? Des says you’re some kind of network spy.”
“He told you that?”
Gibby nodded. “He said he wasn’t sure, so he invited you to stay out at his place as a kind of test, I guess. When you went for it, he figured you were the spy guy.”
“It didn’t occur to him that a guesthouse in Malibu, with a pool and the ocean, might strike me as an improvement over a hotel room?”
“What can I say? The Des man is paranoid, of course. We all are. But sometimes it’s not without reason. So … are you?”
“A spy?” I said. Me, the James Bond of WBC. I kinda liked the idea. “Is there something Des is trying to hide from New York?”
“That he didn’t tell me,” Gibby said. “Just that I should watch what I say around you.”
“But you’re doing the opposite,” I said.
Gibby sighed. “I write comedy. Just like Conan used to write comedy before Lorne took a chance with him. But I make the clubs and the comedy stores. I’m good. You’ll see tomorrow night. I’ll be doing warm-up for the show. If, God forbid, Des doesn’t work out, I figure it couldn’t hurt to be a guy who goes out of his way to cooperate with New York.”
“Noted,” I said. “I’ll be sure to include that information in my next dispatch.”
That bit of sarcasm seemed to please him. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the intro we put together for you. That and the acknowledgments at the end of the show are pretty much all of your planned material. It should be a snap. Both of them are voice-over, so you won’t even have to memorize it.”
The hot dogs arrived while I was reading the intro. They were very big and very tasty. Conversation more or less ceased until they were resting uncomfortably in our digestive tracts. Then I took another, harder look at the material and said, “ ‘The Celtic Lord of the Laughs.’ ‘Lord of the Laughs.’ ‘Lord of the Laughs.’ I suppose I can say that without tying my tongue in knots.”
“It’s pretty damn good, right? You get the reference?”
I stared at him. “I assume you’re comparing Des to Michael Flatley.”
“Who? No,” Gibby said. “We’re referencing the Lord of the Dance.”
“That would be Michael Flatley,” I said. “He created the show, choreographed it, danced it.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gibby said. “I didn’t realize the term applied to anybody specific. That’s good to know. What about the rest of the intro?”
“I don’t know what this means, the part about Des trying not to be starstruck,” I said.
“We wrote this killer opening bit to bring Des on,” Gibby said. “The stage is gonna look like the night sky. You know, dark. Some stars blinking in the far distance. Closer up, there’ll be foam stars about a yard wide hanging from the catwalk. Covered with glitter. Des is gonna make his entrance lowered from the catwalk, straddling a crescent moon and singing one of the standard moon songs.”
I blinked. “How high up will he be on takeoff?” I asked.
“Twenty-five, thirty feet. I don’t know. However high up the catwalk is. Oh, Jesus. I shouldn’t have said anything … It’s perfectly safe, Billy. It’s a great opening. Des loves it. He wants to do it. Please don’t fuck it up by scaring ’em on the East Coast.”
“When I make my evening report, you mean?”
He shrugged and looked sheepish.
“Gibby, I’m not a company spy. I’m a cohost on the network’s morning show. The reason I was sent here to be Des’s first guest announcer is because Howie Mandell wasn’t available. Howie isn’t a WBC spy, either. Maybe an NBC spy. Anyway, if Des wants to play man in the moon, more power to him. Okay?”
“I guess,” Gibby said, frowning.
He continued frowning while he paid the bill, which I made no offer to pick up. And his forehead remained creased during the drive back to the theater on Fountain.
I got out of the Boxter, but before he drove away, I asked, “What’s bothering you, Gibby? I told you I’m not a company spy.”
“That’s what’s botherin’ me, bubbie. If you really are just … on-air talent, then you sure as hell aren’t gonna be doing me any favors. You probably got your own bid in on the gig if Des can’t hack it.”
“Gibby, I’ve never known anyone quite as clueless as you. About everything. I live in New York. I love the city. I have my own restaurant. I like working on Wake Up, America! I can’t imagine what the network could offer me that would make me give up all that to come out here and try to host a late-night show written by somebody like you.”
He gave me his idea of a wise-guy sneer. “Yeah, you say that now …” he said. He put the sports car in gear and roared off.
Watching him grow smaller and smaller, I wondered how far Gibby would go to get his own show. Would he, for example, write an entrance that put the star of the show on a flimsy piece of scenery thirty feet in the air in the hope that something just might go wrong?
I suddenly realized comedy is a lot like sausage: Everybody likes it, but nobody really wants to see how it’s made.