Find Me I'm Yours (17 page)

She just shook her head. “Sorry.”

He left. Something was definitely off. “Are you OK?” I asked Coco.

“Fine. Let's just work.”

Fine. On any other day, in any other week, of any other month, I would have focused my ass off for the chance to go on location. But I had more pressing matters—like finding someone with a name like some random ex–game show host before FREAKIN' 4:00! Time was a-wastin'. I put all my attention on my computer, first Googling ex–game show hosts.

What I Found While Googling Ex–Game Show Hosts

By Mags Marclay

1). A list that had all names alphabetically.

2). There were about a hundred JUST THROUGH THE A's and B's! Did that mean there were thirteen hundred??? How is that even possible that there have been that many TV game shows?

3). One died in a plane crash. Sad.

4). One committed suicide. Even sadder.

5). One, an animal activist, paid to have three elephants moved from the Toronto Zoo to a place called PAWS (Performing Animal Welfare Society) in California. “It will provide them with a large terrain to roam, lakes to bathe in, and barns equipped with heated stalls and therapeutic Jacuzzis.” Would he pay to move ME there?

I was totally baffled. I didn't know where to even begin. So I made two lists from the one main list.

1. FAMILIAR NAMES I'D HEARD BEFORE

Tom Bergeron

Chuck Barris

Dick Clark

Betty White

Groucho Marx

Carnie Wilson

2. SHOW TITLES THAT COULD BE A CLUE

I've Got a Secret

Beat the Clock

The Dating Game

Match Game

It Takes Two

The Newlywed Game

So? Yeah? NOW WHAT?! OK, Mr. WTF said HIS name is a letter away from an ex–game show host. So I crossed off the two HERS. Then I spent about three hours trying everything. Looking up more about the shows with names that could mean something and replacing letters with others. Groucho Parx, Dick Lark, Hugh Gowns. Nothing. And what the hell did “someone else pulls them much better than I do” mean, anyway? I Googled every name PLUS “strings” and found nothing that could be remotely relevant, or interesting, except that ex–game show host Wink Martindale said when he was a child, his first microphone was two paper cups attached to a
string
. Didn't he mean telephone? How is that a microphone, Wink? And what kind of name is Wink, Wink?

I suddenly remembered Mr. WTF on the tape saying, “far-FETCHED,” and “throw you a BONE.” Helllllloooo?!?! Maybe it was a reference to the animal activist! I searched more and found out that he's also a big advocate for spaying and neutering dogs. And his last name is—ready for this one? BARKER! SWEARS. Would he be all about cows if his last name were MOOER?

That had to be it. I looked further. What was completely surprising was to find that several people had Bob Barker tattoos!!! For reals?!? Go see them on this crazy site I found:

www.IHeartBobBarker.com

And there's Bob Barker fan art on the site, too! And also a great list of pet organizations and charities to give to if I had anything to give. Apparently Bob's a pop culture icon! But nothing on the site gave me any further clue. So I worked with that name, and here's just some of what I found:

Bob Marker: Independent Health, Wellness, and Fitness Professional

Bob Parker: A Republican candidate for Congress, Missouri's Eighth District

Bob Balker: Australian Ambassador to Cairo, Egypt

Bob Barter: President/Inspector at HomeRun Inspection Services Inc.

Finally, about an hour and hundreds of combinations later, I realized that instead of “his name is a letter away” meaning change or add a letter, it could mean TAKE A LETTER AWAY!

And that's when I found BOB BAKER!!!!!!!!! Who has… ready for this? A frickin' MARIONETTE THEATER!! In downtown Los Angeles!

BAM! DONE! Who's pulling the strings now?

DAY 7—AFTERNOON

It was easy to lie to Malcolm (“We need some shots of the inside of a food truck for the article, and I have an appointment with The Wien at 4:00.” I knew he'd get off on me saying any part of the word “wiener”), but it was hard to leave Coco, who was definitely in a funk.

“I figured out a clue and gotta go. You sure you'll be OK?”

“Fine.”

“Can we hang out tonight after I'm done?”

“Tonight's not good. But I'm OK. Go. Just don't get killed.”

“You and Blake love each other. I know you'll work it out. You better—you're my role models!” I kissed her goodbye and set out.

About a half hour later I found myself on the edge of downtown. There, nestled under a freeway overpass, was the maybe once glorious Bob Baker Marionette Theater. According to my research, it had been there since 1953, and the gravelly parking lot, surrounded by an automotive body shop, a taco stand, and a few run-down houses, didn't belie the date.

After I parked, I walked into a courtyard. There were groups of kids—probably a hundred six- to eight-year-olds wearing bright yellow T-shirts, and a hundred more in bright green. They couldn't have been more keyed up or more adorable. I looked around and saw nothing else but a crazy sign:

Uh, not really flowers, and not much room to sit—unless maybe you're a puppet.

There was also a ticket window, so I walked up to it. “Uh, yeah, I guess I'd like to see the show?”

“Do you have a reservation?” a man behind the window asked. He had a pointy nose that made him look like a puppet himself.

“I'm not sure. A friend may have made it for me.”

“Under what name?”

“Hmm… good question. I don't know.”

“Well, if you don't have a reservation, we can still squeeze you in. That'll be $15.00.”

Crap. If Mr. WTF thinks I'm independently wealthy, he's got another thing coming to him. And, since I now had exactly zero cents to my name till tomorrow's paycheck, what was I supposed to do? As I pondered, I looked around for Whitney. No sign of her and her towering busty frame in the hunt T-shirt. UH, HELLO?!?! DUH! OF COURSE!!!

“I'll be right back!” I said to Sir Pointy Nose.

I ran to the parking lot, pulled THE SHIRT out of my backpack, ducked between two cars, and put it on. Then I returned to the window and sure enough, the guy just handed me a now-free ticket. “Enjoy the show.”

The door opened and the children literally SQUEALED with excitement! Why do we stop expressing ourselves like that? When we're lucky enough to feel such pure joy, why shouldn't it burst out of us through any number of noises? I was just as excited, but if I squealed like the kids, I'd be carted off and prescribed drugs. We filed into the theater—a large room overflowing with tinsel, silver stars, kaleidoscope lights, sparkling chandeliers, tissue banners, and three mirrored disco balls. Burgundy velvet curtains with gold fringe at the bottom hung behind the stage area.

Other than the teachers or chaperones accompanying the children, I was the only adult. Could I really have outsmarted Whitney? The kids were seated on the carpet, the greens across from the yellows. The adults instructed them not to speak: “SHHHHH!” But that didn't stop them from humming and whistling, like kettles about to blow.

I took a seat in one of the few rows of chairs in the back. A little girl wearing glasses smiled at me. Kids wearing glasses always get me. They look like they've already lived through something, like there's substance there. I smiled back and a tear came to my eye. I wanted to take every single one of these children home with me. Really. I could make the Guinness Book of World Records—the woman with two hundred children. Of course, my future husband would have to be on board, and sending me here might be a mighty fine sign of just that.

The lights dimmed, the curtain opened. Cartoony music, heavy on the xylophone, came on. Lights flashed, and spotlight landed on center stage. Life-size puppets entered, dancing and gliding across the floor. It was a FIESTA-themed show, so there were señors and señoritas, toucans and mice, ostriches and flamenco-dancing flamingos, black-light glow-in-the dark flying ghosts and skeletons, and stripping señoritas—the kids' first taste of burlesque. One mouse's sombrero was too big and he sang about it as it kept falling over his face and he repeatedly pulled it back to his head. Another's skirt kept flying up as she did a dance with a large fan. The puppeteers were all dressed in black and faded into the background as these papier-mâché and wood beings came to life and moved close in to the children on the floor. The marionettes sat in their laps, kissed their cheeks, and made them screech with delight.

All of a sudden, one of the stripping señoritas sidled up to me.

She hid our faces behind her large fan and was so close I swear I smelled puppet breath. She leaned over and whispered in my ear with her Mexican fiesta-fueled accent. “Eet's big. Eet's giant.”

I must have looked baffled because she then said, “
Comprende?
”

I shrugged.

“Do you understand?” she said more emphatically, so I could only give her one answer to make sure she'd return to the show and two hundred children would stop staring at me. “I do!”

I do. I do. And that's exactly what I'll say to Mr. WTF after this! And then we'll go home and start making two hundred babies of our own. She flew back in line with the other painted dancing ladies, and I howled just like the kids.

“Eet's big. Eet's giant.” I repeated it several times so as not to forget, not that I ever would.

After the show, the audience was led into a room with long tables and served ice cream and cake. I ate my share quickly (I was not about to turn down free food!), determined there were no other clues to be found, and made my way out, waving goodbye to the kids. In the parking lot, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mags, it's Blake. Can I talk to Coco?”

“Why are you calling me for her?”

“She's not answering her phone and said you guys were back on the hunt. Put her on, OK?”

Fuck. Did Coco lie to Blake? Does that mean I had to, too?

“Oh, yeah, she just went across the street to check out a blind alley.” I don't know why I threw the word
blind
in—I guess I was trying to add detail so it wouldn't sound like a lie. “And her phone died a while ago on Melrose.” More detail. “And mine is seconds away from dying so if she's back before it does, I'll have her call you. Better go!”

I hung up. What the fuck was going on? Where was Coco? I called her myself—maybe she was just avoiding Blake? But no answer. Could she be with Mark? But why would she lie to her husband about that?

I called Mark and he didn't answer either. I was starting to get a bad feeling, especially remembering how Coco had reacted to the news of Mark and me sleeping together. Hmm… I could do a drive-by at Mark's if I knew where he lived. Well, if I could find freakin' Bob Baker, then Mark Kerry would be a breeze.