Part 57 (2/2)

by Charles Beaumont

It was one of those bars that strike you blind when you walk in out of the sunlight, but I didn't need eyes, I could see him, the way deaf people can hear trumpets. It was Shecky, all right. But it also wasn't Shecky.

He was alone.

I'd known him for eight years, worked with him, traveled with him, lived with him; I'd put him to bed at night and waked him up in the morning; but never, in all that time, never once had I seen him by himself--not even in a bathtub. He was plural. A mult.i.tude of one. And now, the day after his greatest triumph, he was alone, here, in a crummy little bar on Third Avenue.

There was nothing to say, so I said it. ”How are you, Sheck?”

He looked up and I could tell he was three-quarters gone. That meant he'd put away a dozen Martinis, maybe more. But he wasn't drunk. ”Sit down,” he said, softly, and that's when I stopped worrying and started getting scared. I'd never heard Shecky talk softly before. He'd always had a voice like the busy signal. Now he was practically whispering.

”Thanks for coming.” Another first: ”Thanks” from Shecky King, to me. I tried to swallow but suddenly my throat was dry, so I waved to the waiter and ordered a double scotch. Of course, my first thought was, he's going to dump me. I'd been expecting it for years. Even though I'd done a good job for him, I wasn't the biggest agent in the business, and to Shecky the biggest always meant the best. But this wasn't his style. I'd seen him dump people before and the way he did it, he made it seem like a favor.Always with Shecky the knife was a present, and he never delivered it personally. So I went to the second thought, but that didn't make any better sense. He was never sick a day in his life. He didn't have time. A broad? No good. The trouble didn't exist that his lawyers, or I, couldn't spring him out of in ten minutes.

I decided to wait. It took most of the drink.

”George,” he said, finally, ”I want you to lay some candor on me.” You know the way he talked.

”I want you to lay it on hard and fast. No thinking. Dig?”

”Dig,” I said, getting dryer in the throat.

He picked up one of the five full Martini gla.s.ses in front of him and finished it in one gulp.

”George,” he said, ”am I a success?”

The highest-paid, most acclaimed performer in show business, the man who had smashed records at every club he's played for five years, who had sold over two million copies of every alb.u.m he'd ever cut, who had won three Emmys and at least a hundred other awards, who had, in the opinion of the people _and_ the critics, reached the top in a dozen fields--this man, age thirty-six, was asking me if he was a success.

”Yes,” I said.

He killed another Martini. ”Candorsville?”

”The place.” I thought I was beginning to get it. Some critic somewhere had shot him down. But would he fall in here? No. Not it. Still, it was worth a try.

”Who says you aren't?”

”n.o.body. Yet.”

”Then what?”

He was quiet for a full minute, I could hardly recognize him sitting there, an ordinary person, an ordinary scared human being.

Then he said, ”George, I want you to do something for me.”

”Anything,” I said. That's what I was being paid for: anything.

”I want you to make an appointment for me.”

”Where at?”

”Eddie's.”

”Who's Eddie?”

He started sweating. ”A barber,” he said.

”What's wrong with Mario?”

”Nothing's wrong with Mario.”

It wasn't any of my business. Mario Cabianca had been Shecky's personal hair stylist for ten years, he was the best in the business, but I supposed he'd nicked The King or forgotten to laugh at a joke. It wasn't important. It certainly couldn't have anything to do with the problem, whatever it was. I relaxed a little.

”When for?” I asked.

”Now,” he said. ”Right away.”

”Well, you could use a shave.”

”Eddie doesn't shave people. He cuts hair. That's all.”

”You don't need a haircut.”

”George,” he said, so soft I could barely hear him, ”I never needed anything in all my life like I need this haircut.”

”Okay. What's his number?”

”He hasn't got one. You'll have to go in.”

Now he was beginning to shake. I've seen a lot of people tremble, but this was the first time I'd seen anybody shake.

”Sheck, are you germed up?”

”No.” The Martini sloshed all over his cashmere coat. By the time it got to his mouth only the olive was left. ”I'm fine. Just do this for me, George. Please. Do it now.””Okay, take it easy. What's his address?”

”I can't remember.” An ugly sound boiled out of his throat, I guess it was a laugh. ”Endsburg! I can't remember. But I can take you there.” He started to get up. His belly hit the edge of the table. The ashtrays and gla.s.ses tipped over. He looked at the mess, then at his hands, which were still shaking, and he said, ”Come on.”

”Sheck.” I put a hand on his shoulder, which n.o.body does. ”You want to tell me about it?”

”You wouldn't understand,” he said.

On the way out, I dropped a twenty in front of the bartender. ”Nice to have you, Mr. King,” he said, and it was like somebody had turned the volume up on the world. ”Me and my old lady, y'know, we wouldn't miss your show for anything.” ”Yeah,” a guy on the last stool said. ”G.o.d bless ya, buddy!”

We walked out into the sun. Shecky looked dead. His face was white and glistening with sweat.

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