ClownFellas (23 page)

Buggy let out a loud groan as he leaned back in his chair to pet Mittens behind the ear. He wondered if the young comedian had a point before he left the room, if he really was losing his sense of humor. Buggy couldn't even remember the last time he had a good laugh. Were the comedians who came to him looking for work really so bad or had Buggy just become jaded? He was getting old, at least ten years past the age of retirement, and the joke trade was wearing him to the bone. If it weren't for the exorbitant medical bills he had to pay to keep his terminally ill bulldog alive, he would've quit the business years ago.

“Come on, Mittens,” Buggy said. The dog hadn't moved from his spot all day.

“Erff…,” Mittens said, his lower canine teeth poking out over his jowls.

Buggy clapped his hands. “Come on, boy. Let's go. Let's get some lunch.”

“Errr…” Mittens closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

After ten minutes of coercing the dog out of its prone position, Buggy opened his office door and waved a bone at the entrance. Mittens groaned and pulled himself to his paws, lumbering slowly toward the old clown. He was connected to a life-support machine on wheels that made a squeaking noise as it dragged behind him. The dog didn't seem to notice the machine was even there.

As he arrived in the doorway, Mittens looked up at Buggy. “Erff…”

Buggy knew that look. Mittens was too lazy to walk and wanted to be carried.

“Come on, Mittens,” Buggy said. “You can't walk more than ten feet without giving up?”

“Erff…” Mittens sat down in the doorway and licked his jowls.

“Fine, you big lump.” Buggy picked the bulldog up in his arms. “But tomorrow you're going on an exercise regime. You're getting fat again.”

“Erff…,” Mittens said, then sneezed goobers of saliva against the side of Buggy's neck.

Buggy packed his bulldog into the backseat of his clown car and squeezed himself into his front seat—he had to pull the seat all the way up to make room for his dog's life support machine. One second after he started the engine, the streets filled with the roars of police sirens.

The feds didn't see Buggy inside his car as they raided the comedy club. They burst through the front door with enough guns that you'd think they were going after a terrorist cell. Buggy didn't wait around to see what happened to the members of his crew who were still inside. He hit the gas and got out of there as fast as he could go.

In his rearview mirror, Buggy saw Manny Malone, the son of a bitch who'd been trying to take down every one of Buggy's comedy clubs in Little Bigtop. This was the last large venue Buggy had left in town, and Manny had finally made his move on the place. The old clown was able to avoid the slammer for now, but he wondered if he wouldn't have been safer inside. After the fourth raid this month, he wasn't looking forward to facing the boss.

To say that Don Bozo was not happy would be putting it mildly. The boss clown was so angry that you could almost see the smoke billowing out the tops of his bushy eyebrows.

Uncle Jojo spoke for his brother. “Do you know how much money we're losing because of you, Buggy?”

All eyes were on Buttons. He was having a sit-down with the Bozo Family administration and a handful of the top capos. Besides the boss and underboss, there was Vinnie Blue Nose, Beano Moretti, Lorenzo Laffypants, Chunks Santoro, and Jimmy Bozo who was still covered in bandages from his run-in with the Juggler Brothers last month. All of them had stakes in the comedy business and didn't like that Buggy was messing it all up.

“You think I don't know?” Buggy asked. “Whose wallet do you think's getting hit the hardest over here?”

Jojo said, “It's your job to keep those clubs up and running. They're not up and running. So what are you going to do about it?”

Buggy was getting smaller and smaller in his seat. “It's not my fault, Jojo. It's Manny Malone. He's coming after me like he's got some kind of secret vendetta against me or something. You can't blame me for—”

Vinnie Blue Nose, the street boss, stopped Buggy before he embarrassed himself any further. “Excuses don't go over well with this crowd, Buggy. You know that. Only results matter.”

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“Why are you asking us?” Jojo said. “It's not our job to figure that out for you.”

“The only clubs I got left are a few dives with a max capacity of twenty or thirty people each. I'll never be able to meet my quota with low turnouts like that.”

“Then get some more clubs,” Jojo said. “This isn't rocket science here. You've got the clientele. You've got the comedians. You just need the space to bring them together. It shouldn't be this difficult.”

“I don't have comedians. Manny Malone put all the decent ones behind bars. And as for the space, discreet venues cost money. I can't afford to open enough new clubs. Are you going to front me that kind of candy?”

“What do you mean you can't afford it? You earn more than most of the men at this table. It should be no problem.”

“I got medical bills to take care of.”

“What medical bills?”

“For Mittens,” Buggy said, pointing at his bulldog. “He's not been doing well lately. He just had a new liver transplant last month and now his kidneys are beginning to fail. I can't keep up with these kinds of expenses.”

Jojo looked at his brother, than back at Buggy. “Are you freakin' kidding me?”

Mittens eyeballed Jojo and said, “Erff…” Then he rolled over, exposing his belly.

“Why don't you just put that damn thing to sleep already?” Jojo asked.

“I can't do that. He's my best friend and the closest thing to family I got. I don't know what I'd do without my Mittens.”

“How old is he anyway?” Jimmy Bozo asked. “I remember you taking that thing with you everywhere you went back when I was a kid.”

“He's only twenty-two. He was just a puppy back then.”

Beano covered his round nose with a hankie. “Why'd you even bring him in here anyway? You know I'm allergic to mutts.”

“I can't leave Mittens at home,” Buggy said, looking over at his dog. “He's sensitive. He gets nervous and starts chewing up the furniture.”

“Erfff…,” Mittens said, chewing on the wires that connected him to the life support machine.

“Enough about the bulldog,” Don Bozo said, finally speaking up after ten minutes of silent frustration.

Buggy didn't say another word about Mittens. He knew to shut his mouth when the boss was talking.

Don Bozo pointed his stubby finger at the old clown. “You need to fix this and you need to fix this soon. It's going to make us look weak if we can't bounce back after taking a hit from the feds like this.”

Buggy lowered his eyes. He'd never been in a bind this tight before. He didn't know how to handle it.

The boss continued, “I don't care how you get it done. Just get it done. And if you can't do it I'll find a clown who can.”

And with that the meeting was over. The boss stood up and left a balloon animal tiger in his wake.

“You have two weeks,” the boss said as he exited the doorway.

The other capos exited behind their boss, leaving Buggy alone with the balloon tiger. It growled and hopped toward him across the conference table. Although he could have popped it, Buggy decided to flee with his bulldog before it had the chance to attack. He knew what the boss meant by telling him he'd find a clown who could. When a clown lost the family the kind of money Buggy lost…By saying he had only two weeks, what the boss meant was that Buggy had that amount of time to set things right or he would find his head on the chopping block.

Outside The Show, Buggy ran into Vinnie Blue Nose, who was smoking a cotton candy cigarette by the side of the road.

“Hey Bugs, can I have a word?” Vinnie asked, calling him over and offering one of his cigarettes.

“No, thanks,” Buggy said. “I don't smoke. It doesn't agree with Mittens. I think he's allergic.”

The bulldog in Buggy's arms squinted at the pink smoke rising from Vinnie's cigarette and said, “Erfff…” Vinnie didn't put it out.

“The boss asked me to advise you on your current situation,” Blue Nose said. “He didn't want to appear as if he were playing favorites with you in front of the other clowns, you and him being old childhood friends and all. So let's keep this little powwow between you and me.”

A large chunk of stress melted off Buggy's face right there. Vinnie was half his age, but the clown had more business sense than the boss's other capos put together. If anyone could give him an idea to get him out of this jam, it would be Vinnie Blue Nose.

“Sure, Vinnie. I'm all ears for any ideas you got. To be honest, I have no idea how I'm going to get out of this mess.”

Vinnie shook his head. “I'm not here to bail you out, Bugs. You're going to have to make it work yourself. I'm just going to give you a suggestion that might put you in the right direction.”

Buggy didn't care. Any help from Vinnie at all would be welcomed. “What do you have in mind?”

“I only had half a cigarette to brainstorm a solution for you, so this is the best I got. I was thinking about what I'd do if I were in your situation.” Vinnie took another drag of pink smoke.

“Yeah?” Buggy asked, too impatient to wait for him to finish puffing on his death stick.

“You only have two weeks, so I'd forget about trying to get a bunch of clubs up and running for now. You just need to earn and earn big. So I'd put everything into a single show.”

Buggy nearly knocked over Mittens's life support machine when he heard the street boss's recommendation.

“Are you kidding me?” Buggy asked. “How the heck could I earn enough to make up for what I lost the family in just one show?”

“Make it a
big
show,” Vinnie said.

“But even if I had any good venues left, I'd need to sell five thousand tickets at least. There's no place big enough for that kind of show in all of Little Bigtop.”

“Then don't focus on selling a lot of tickets. Focus on selling tickets for a lot. Charge ten or twenty times the amount you normally charge.”

“How am I going to charge ten times the normal amount? Who the heck would pay that?”

“Just about anyone will, if you make it worth their time. Forget about your normal comedians. You need to do something new. You need to create a sensation. It needs to be a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

“And what would that be?”

“That's what you have to figure out. Think about what kind of show you'd pay a thousand bucks to go see. If it's not worth your money it's not going to be worth anyone else's. Once you've got a performance you're excited about, then spread the word around. It has to be the talk of the town, the kind of show that makes people feel stupid if they don't attend.”

“That's easier said than done, Vinnie. And I still don't have a venue.”

“Rent one. If it's just for one night it should be easy. Miss Tina has a venue space over at the Rainbow Gardens that might be suitable. Ask her.”

Buggy looked away from the street boss and shook his head. He didn't know how to respond. What he was suggesting seemed impossible.

“In any case, you should start brainstorming as soon as you can,” Vinnie said, tossing his cigarette in a garbage can. “The only way to earn big is to think big.”

“Yeah, thanks…” Buggy's voice went soft.

Then Vinnie patted the old guy on the back. “Don't worry about it. I'm sure you'll come up with something. Comedy is in your blood. You're a clown.”

Buggy watched Vinnie as he walked away in his nicely pressed turquoise suit and neatly cut dark-blue hair. Buggy had no idea where the heck the world grew clowns like Vinnie Blue Nose. The man seemed perfect in every way. Only a guy like Vinnie would dare to propose such an ambitious idea. And only a guy like him would be capable of pulling it off.

Buggy knew that if he was going to survive in the business he'd have to become more like that young blue-nosed clown. He was going to have to step up his game.

Buggy had no idea what he was going to do. There was no show that he would ever pay a thousand dollars to go see, even if he had all the resources in the world to put it together. He wondered if he should put on a sketch comedy show. They had always proven to be popular in the past. But there hadn't been a good sketch troupe in ages or else he would've already had them booked multiple times a week. He wondered if he could get a few of his best comedians out of jail. If he bribed the right people it was somewhat possible to get them out on work leave, or maybe to attend an arranged funeral, but that was a long shot and even with his best possible lineup it still probably wouldn't be worth a thousand dollars to anyone.

He was so lost in thought that he didn't hear the knock at the door when Cheeky Helga came for the weekly appointment. She had her own key so she let herself in and saw Buggy lying shirtless on his couch with Mittens the bulldog sleeping on top of his belly.

“Helga?” Buggy asked when she arrived. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She put a bottle of cheap wine on the coffee table and pulled out the cork. “What do you mean what am I doing here? It's Friday.”

Buggy tried to remove the bulldog from his belly, but Mittens growled in his sleep. The clown decided to leave the dog where he was.

“Already?” Buggy asked, scratching his head. “It seemed like you were here just a couple days ago.”

Helga was an old clown prostitute who'd visited Buggy on a weekly basis for the past thirty years. She was once the most beautiful clown in all of Little Bigtop and Buggy would have been willing to pay triple for her services, but those days were long gone. Her looks faded. Her weight got out of control. Outside Buggy, she didn't have any real customers left. And the only reason Buggy still paid her was because he felt sorry for the old gal. He'd known her for so long she was practically family.

“What's wrong, Bugs?” Cheeky asked. “You look down in the dumps.”

They called her Cheeky due to the enormous rump she had stuffed into her obscenely miniature clown skirt. Her cheeks were two giant white globes with bright-red targets tattooed on each one.

“That's 'cause I am, like you wouldn't believe,” Buggy responded. “I've got to put on a million-dollar show and I have no idea what I'm going to do for it.”

“Poor baby.” Helga forced her butt into the couch next to him and rubbed his shoulder. “You sound stressed out. Maybe I can help you relieve that tension.”

Buggy shook his head and pushed her back. “Sorry, Helga. Not tonight.”

Although Buggy had been paying her for sexual services for years, he rarely ever actually wanted to sleep with the aged woman. As if they'd been married for thirty years, he just didn't have much sexual interest in her anymore. Most of the time she just came to keep him company. She spent more time cleaning his apartment, washing his bulldog, and acting as his therapist than actually sleeping with him.

“Are you sure, baby?” she asked, continuing to rub his shoulder. “I'm here for you.”

“I'm just not in the mood right now. What I need is some ideas for a good show.”

“Then maybe I can help you with that,” she said.

“I don't know,” Buggy said. “It's got to be something really special. What show would you spend a thousand bucks on?”

Helga smirked her fat red lips. “A thousand bucks? I don't got that kind of money to throw away on a single show.”

“But what if you had the money?” Buggy asked.

Helga shrugged. “Even if I had the money to blow, I wouldn't pay it. You know me. I don't like those underground comedy shows you put on. None of it's funny.” She poured herself a glass of wine. “Comedy was far better before the act, back when it was legal. People like Bobby Goldstein.
That
guy was funny.”

When she said that, Buggy's eyes lit up.

“What was that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Bobby Goldstein…,” Buggy said, rolling Mittens off him so that he could sit up straight.

Goldstein was the most popular comic there was before prohibition. Not only that, but he was also the person who told the joke so scathing that it caused the banning of comedy in the first place.

“That's it…,” Buggy said. “That's who I need.”

“Who? Goldstein?”

“Yeah,” Buggy said. “He's perfect.”

“Are you serious? Is he even still alive?”

“Yeah, I believe so.” Buggy stood up, imagining what a massive show it would be. “Just think about it. A Bobby Goldstein comeback show. One night only. Who wouldn't want to go to that? He was the king of comedy.”

“Yeah, but that was thirty years ago. Most of your audience wasn't even alive back when he was popular. They don't know his jokes.”

“But that's even better,” Buggy said. “It's not his humor that will bring a crowd. It's the controversy. He's the most notorious comedian of all time. He's the one who got comedy outlawed. The young people who never heard his jokes will be even more interested than those who were fans, since they only heard his name through history class.”

“But would they really pay a thousand dollars a ticket?”

“Hell yeah, they will. If he's performing one night only for just a single return show. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime event. Who wouldn't want to go see that?”

Helga dunked her red nose into her glass of wine and took a long sip. “If you say so.”

A big smile crossed his face. He couldn't believe he'd come up with an idea that could actually work. “It's going to be perfect.”

Then he looked down at his bulldog, who was staring up at him with his tongue dangling out the side of his jowls.

He said, “Mittens, it's pure genius.”

Then he hugged his bulldog and kissed him on the top of his head.

“Erfff…,” Mittens said.

As Buggy gave all of his affection to his bulldog, Cheeky Helga frowned into her glass of wine.

“Glad to be of help,” she said.

Then she took another sip.