ClownFellas (26 page)

When Buggy got back to his apartment that night, he walked into Uncle Jojo sitting on his couch, drinking scotch from a glued-together bulldog mug.

“Jojo?” Buggy asked, pushing Mittens's life support machine into the room and closing the door behind him.

Uncle Jojo took didn't look at him, flipping through a copy of
Playjoy
magazine. He took a sip of scotch.

“How ya doin' there, Bugs?” Jojo finally said.

Buggy took a Tupperware container of roast beef out of the refrigerator and filled Mittens's bowl with meat before he responded.

“I'm doing good, Jojo. What brings you here at this hour?”

Jojo took another sip of scotch.

“Can't an old friend stop by for a visit from time to time?”

Buggy sat down in the recliner across from the underboss. “No disrespect, but you haven't paid me a social visit in twenty years. I didn't think you liked me very much.”

Jojo placed a pie on the table. He didn't look at it or acknowledge it, just slid it on the coffee table so that Buggy knew it was there. The capo couldn't tell if it was a normal pie or something explosive.

“What makes you say that?” Jojo asked. “We grew up with each other. You, me, and my brother used to run the neighborhood when we were kids.”

“That was a long time ago,” Buggy said.

Jojo shrugged, still absorbed in the magazine. He turned the page to the centerfold model—a green-haired clown girl who was smashing a watermelon with a mallet.

“I came to check up on how things are going with you,” Jojo said. “You've got only a week left and it doesn't appear as though you've made any progress. There's no new clubs open. No money coming in. You're beginning to worry me, old friend.”

“You don't have to worry, Jojo. I've got things under control.”

Jojo nodded his head. “That's good to hear, because if you didn't tell me so I'd swear you didn't have everything under control at all. In fact, you look so stressed right now that if I didn't know better I'd say you're minutes away from going into panic mode. And when a guy panics, he gets desperate. And desperate men do desperate things.”

Uncle Jojo pulled out a large knife, then cut a piece out of the pie on the coffee table. It was chocolate cream. He put the slice on a napkin.

Buggy was relieved it was just a normal pie, but knew that it was all just an intimidation tactic. He knew Jojo too well to think it was anything else.

As the underboss continued to carve up the pie, Buggy said, “I'm having a few setbacks at the moment, but it's nothing that I can't iron out. I've got something going. Something big.”

Jojo licked whipping cream from his fingers. “And what's that?”

“Next Friday, I'm putting on the biggest comedy show Little Bigtop's ever seen.”

Jojo handed Buggy the slice of pie. “Oh yeah, and what show is that?”

“It's going to be huge.” Buggy took the slice of pie, but didn't have a fork to eat it with so he just held it awkwardly in his hand. “I've booked the one and only Bobby Goldstein for a return show. I'm selling tickets for a thousand bucks a pop.”

“And people are actually buying them?”

“Yeah, they just went on sale today and a couple hundred are already sold.” Buggy decided it would be best not to tell him that they hadn't been sold at the thousand-dollar price. “This one show's going to bring in more money than all my other clubs combined, even if they were all still up and running.”

Uncle Jojo nodded. “Sounds like a good plan.”

Buggy forced a smile. “Thanks, Jojo. I think it's pretty good myself. After that night, I'll be able to pay everyone what they're owed and still have plenty left over to start up a bunch of new clubs. Everything will be back to normal. You'll see.”

Jojo licked his fingers again and nodded his head. “Yeah. I'll see.”

The underboss stood up, took his coat, and waddled toward the door. Before he left, he paused, rubbed his chin, and looked at the ceiling in deep thought.

“Did you say Bobby Goldstein?”

Buggy nodded. “Yeah. The one and only.”

“I used to love Bobby Goldstein,” Jojo said. “Put me down for twenty tickets. I want to take my whole crew out to see him.”

“Yes, of course,” Buggy said, surprised that the underboss would put up twenty grand of his own money to see the show.

Buggy thought that maybe the underboss wasn't the nasty prick he always made himself out to be. Who would have thought that he'd actually support Buggy in his time of need?

“And it'll be your treat, right?” Jojo said with a smile.

Buggy broke eye contact. “Yeah…of course.”

“Excellent.” Jojo slapped Buggy on the shoulder. “And you didn't think we were friends.”

Then the underboss left and Buggy threw the slice of chocolate cream pie across the room.

“That miserable excuse for a clown…,” Buggy grumbled.

Not only would he have the underboss and a crew of his soldiers there supervising the show, but he was going to miss out on twenty grand's worth of ticket sales. He couldn't spare twenty seats. He needed to sell each and every one of them if he wanted to meet his quota. There needed to be another way to make some extra money on the side.

He called up Winky Gagliano.

“I got another job for you to do,” Buggy said, before Winky even had a chance to say hello.

“What's that?”

“We need stuff to sell at the event. Posters. Coffee mugs. T-shirts. All with Bobby Goldstein's face on them. Maybe also get some bootleg DVDs of his old act. We'll charge out the ass for them and make a bundle. You think you can handle getting that stuff made?”

“Yeah, I know some guys,” Winky said. “How many shirts do you want?”

“Fifty in each size.”

“Sure thing.”

“Hey, did you find a doctor yet?”

“Yeah, I sent Slicey over there.”

“Slicey? What happened to Earl Berryman?”

“The vet was busy so I had to improvise.”

“But isn't Slicey the clown who runs the local organ black market?”

“Yeah, that's the guy. He's not a licensed surgeon, but he gives organ transplants all the time so he's got to know what he's doing. Plus, he said he'd do it for free. All he asked for was one of the comedian's kidneys.”

“What!” Buggy strangled his phone, pretending it was Winky's neck. “Tell me you didn't just say that.”

“It's only a kidney,” Winky said. “He doesn't need both of them to do the show.”

“What the hell's wrong with you? Get your ass over there and stop the operation or I'll cut your gumballs off.”

“But Slicey wants a kidney. What am I supposed to say to him?”

“Give him one of your own kidneys, you prick. This is all your fault, anyway.”

“I'm not giving him any kidneys…”

“Then we'll find another doctor. Just get over there and stop him.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

After Winky hung up, Buggy looked at Mittens and said, “I'm surrounded by morons.”

The bulldog looked up at him, his head resting inside the half-chewed bowl of roast beef, and said, “Erfff…”

When Buggy went to see Bobby Goldstein the next day, he brought him a sub sandwich and a six-pack of beer. The comedian cringed in pain as he opened one of the bottles. Then he took a long guzzle.

“I'm really sorry about that,” Buggy said, pointing at the bandage on his back. “I'm going to see what I can do to get your kidney back or at least make sure you're properly compensated.”

Winky hadn't gotten back to the club in time before Slicey removed the comedian's kidney. Once it was out, Winky decided to just let the black-market doctor go ahead and keep the organ, even though he should have had him put it right back. And worst of all, Slicey didn't even do that good of a job patching up the comedian. He still needed a cast for his leg.

The comedian didn't speak for a while. He just ate his sandwich as best he could within his restraints.

Buggy finally broke the silence. “I know you're probably not feeling up for it right now, but I'd like to hear your comedy routine. You still remember most of it, right?”

“No,” Goldstein said, speaking with his mouth full. “That was thirty years ago. How am I supposed to remember any of those dumb jokes now?”

“We bootlegged some of your old DVDs,” Buggy said. “I can get you a copy of one. Memorize it.”

“Don't bother,” Goldstein said. “I can't tell any of my old jokes. Why do you think I refused to do this gig?”

“You said you didn't want to do it because you didn't want to end up in jail.”

“Yeah, but you nearly persuaded me with your little speech. The only reason I had left to refuse was because my jokes are all dated. They wouldn't fly with audiences these days.”

“Don't worry about the jokes being dated. Good humor doesn't go out of style.”

“No, you don't understand. Most of my routine was political. I can't tell jokes about politics from thirty years ago. Nobody would care. Outside of old guys like us, they probably wouldn't even know what the heck I was talking about.”

Buggy thought about it for a minute. The comedian was right. Those kinds of jokes would bomb and bomb hard.

“Can you make up some new jokes?”

“I can try, but how much time do I have?”

“The show is on Friday. You'd have at least a few days to write it and a few more to rehearse.”

Bobby Goldstein just shook his head. “I don't know if it's possible. Even if I weren't so rusty, I still wouldn't be able to come up with a new routine by then.”

“Just do your best,” Buggy said. “We don't have a choice now.”

Goldstein just laughed. His situation was so ridiculous, he didn't know what else to do.

“Besides,” Buggy said. “All we need to do is sell tickets, and your name will sell tickets. If the show sucks that's too bad for them. There's no refunds.”

“Whatever you say,” Goldstein said.

But there wasn't a lot of hope in his eyes.

Snuffy called up Buggy Buttons with exciting news. After all the setbacks, Buggy was definitely in need of some good news.

“I did it,” Snuffy said, practically giggling with exhilaration.

“Did what?” Buggy was in his pajamas, running around the kitchen cooking chicken noodle soup and boiling honey lemon tea.

“I can't believe I did it, but I did it.”

“Spit it out already. I'm busy over here. Mittens has a cold.”

Mittens looked up at the clown from his doggy bed, a thermometer sticking out of his jowls and a hot-water bottle resting on his head.

“Erfff…,” the bulldog said.

“We're sold out,” Snuffy said. “Can you believe it?”

“You sold all the tickets?”

“Yeah. Every single one. We're going to have a full house.”

“And you sold them for a thousand dollars each, right? Every single one?”

“Yeah, every one.”

“What about those tickets you sold for cheap? Did you get those back?”

“Not all of them,” Snuffy said. “But it's okay. I printed up new tickets. Anyone who shows up with the old ones can be turned away.”

Buggy took the thermometer out of Mittens's jowls and frowned at the results. “Not bad, Snuffy. I have to say I'm a little surprised you pulled it off. How on earth did you do it?”

“Well, it wasn't easy at first,” Snuffy said. “I originally couldn't sell any tickets at the thousand-dollar price. Nobody was biting. I tried promoting the heck out of the show. I got all my guys spreading word of mouth on the street. But still no sales. Everyone said they'd love to see Bobby Goldstein live, but they all thought it was too expensive.”

“So how'd you work it out?”

“I offered everyone a money-back guarantee. I told them it would be the best show they've ever seen or they'd get their money back. Once I promised that, nobody hesitated. I went through all the tickets in forty-eight hours.”

Buggy dropped the thermometer on the floor. “Tell me you didn't really promise them that.”

“Yeah,” Snuffy said, not picking up on the angry tone in Buggy's voice. “I told them they'd agree that it was completely worth the thousand-dollar ticket price or they'd get a full refund. It was enough to sell even the most jaded comedy fan.”

“You idiot…” Buggy said. “We
never
give refunds. What do you think this is, a Walmart? The only reason anybody bought tickets from you is because they plan to get their money back after the show, whether they liked it or not. Basically, you just gave away all the tickets for free.”

“Not if it's a good show,” Snuffy said. “They can't get their money back if they like the show.”

“And how are we going to prove whether they liked the show or not?”

“If they laugh,” Snuffy said. “They can't complain if they laugh through the show. And this is Bobby Goldstein. There's no way they're not going to laugh at Bobby Goldstein.”

“You don't get it, Snuff. Bobby Goldstein's not that funny. He never was. People only want to see him because he's a legend. Our goal was to sell tickets, not guarantee a good show.”

“Well, you never told me that.”

“It should've been obvious. How long have you been working in this business, anyway? The goal is always to sell tickets first and put on a good show second.”

“Well, I think everyone's going to love Bobby Goldstein. I doubt anyone's going to ask for a refund at all.”

“Yeah, you would…”

Buggy hung up the phone and filled Mittens's bowl with hot chicken soup. He didn't know what he was going to do. Before he didn't care if Bobby Goldstein bombed, but now the comedian had to blow everyone away. If Bobby wasn't the funniest comic ever to perform in Little Bigtop, it was going to be Buggy's head.