Try Try Again Read online

  “This was just now, a few days ago,” said Jill, “so nothing very startling has happened yet. I was interviewed by The Post and the Falls Church News-Press, and aside from all those investment advisers got only a few crank calls including from my ex-husband Roger, all of whose calls I consider ‘crank.’”

  “What’s he trying to do?” asked Liv, with what might have been professional interest.

  “He’s trying to claim our divorce is invalid because of some misprint and we’re still legally married and he wants money.”

  “But Virginia’s not a community-property state,” said Liv. “He doesn’t get any of your money, even if you’re still married to him.”

  “I know,” said Jill, “but he could refuse me a divorce until I give him money to get lost, make a nuisance of himself.”

  Liv leaned forward with interest. “What occasioned the divorce?”

  Hub glanced at Liv as if recognizing the professional tone in her voice. From her look, so did Jill. “He was screwing another woman in our bed when I was at work,” said Jill.

  “Can you prove that?” said Liv.

  “He admitted it.”

  “Well, if you can get him to admit it in front of a witness, then you can divorce him without his concurrence.”

  “He did,” Jill said. “He was on the phone with me when my neighbor Ellie was there. Roger and I got pretty loud and Ellie heard it all. She told me so.”

  As dinner neared its end, Liv’s second Irish coffee was half drunk, as was she. But an idea came to her. Trying hard to appear sober, she said “You know, Charley wrote that letter and said he was ready to talk, if I could get protection for his daughter. That was just before he was killed in prison. I think Charley’s letter was prompted by that last shot. He must have heard that shot and thought it was fired by Gardner or Sullivan. But if it wasn’t either of them who shot, then…”

  “Someone else shot!” Jill exclaimed.

  “Who?” asked Hub.

  “I’d bet on George,” said Liv. “You know we’ve been talking about a conspiracy and that last shot is a strong indication – not just planning, but at the scene itself, or nearby. Someone – and that was probably this George – took a shot at Charley to shut him up after the assassination – and missed.”

  Hub looked thoughtful, then said, “How do we know that shot was aimed anywhere near Charley?”

  “Where else could it have been?” Liv said.

  “Well, lots of places,” said Hub. “Where are you going with this?”

  “That shot came from somewhere and the bullet went somewhere unless it was a blank, which I doubt,” said Liv. “It didn’t hit anyone in the crowd and it didn’t hit that big concrete wall behind the speaker’s platform. Plus, four or more shots were heard, but only three shots were actually witnessed. Doesn’t it make sense George would want to eliminate Charley, to keep him from talking?”

  “Sure,” said Jill, “but that isn’t evidence.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” said Liv. “But we’re all agreed that final shot – let’s call Charley’s startle when he heard about it ‘The Clue,’ that’s the key to this whole mess. Especially, why was The Clue in the season-one tape but deleted from season two?”

  The others nodded slowly. Hub started to speak but then didn’t.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Jill. The others were silent.

  Then Hub spoke. “Look,” he said, “it’s getting late and I need to orient you to what’s going to happen at the Awards Ceremony tomorrow. We can continue the sleuthing later if we want to. I guess we have a pretty strong case against ‘George,’ but the authorities haven’t been able to find a George who would fit or find anyone to ID him, and Charley, who could, is dead. So we need to sleep on this. I think our amateur sleuthing may be, perhaps regretfully, over – it would have made a great movie.”

  “Or a novel,” added Jill.

  “Now,” said Hub, “the Awards Ceremony is tomorrow evening, and we need to discuss some arrangements. You’ll both be seated in the celeb section, so be as crazy dressy and bare as you like, within reason of course.”

  Liv thought oh shit, all I have is black and severe, and that’s all I ever wear and that’s all I want to wear. But at least that’s in character – would Jill dress the same way? Liv hoped not. She took a deep gulp of her drink. Lawyer off the shoulder? Not hardly.

  “And then,” Hub continued, “when your name is called you’ll come to the podium and I’ll introduce you and you bow or wave or blow kisses or whatever. You can come up together if you like, or one at a time, Liv first, probably. But I have to know by first thing tomorrow which is which, or right now is better.”

  Liv and Jill looked at each other. What’s the protocol here? Better say “together” or Jill will think I’m unfriendly or ashamed of her or whatever. “Together,” Liv and Jill said in near-unison, the combined sound reaching Hub’s ears as “totogetherer.”

  “Fine,” he said. “‘Fine’ is a really great word, by the way. I picked it up from my wonderful friend Kiefer Sutherland in 24, and I like all sixteen ways you can say it, expressing anything from transcendent joy to utter disgust.”

  “So it’s together,” Hub said, “a great photo-op. You both wouldn’t want to – ah – dress in character – would you?

  Liv saw Jill smile. No, please God, not dressing alike, webV come to life. Yes, Jill might actually like that. But not me. Never.

  “Not really,” Liv said, but I’d rather not go on stage at all. Just a spot on me in my seat, if you must. You know last year I marched up there and that was enough.”

  “You were great, dear, lovely. Everybody…”

  “I don’t want to,” Liv said, firmly. “If I’m on stage I’ll appear with Jill, here, but to repeat, I’d rather not at all. Especially not as...” twins? Mother and daughter? But Liv didn’t finish her sentence.

  Jill wondered if she’d have the same attitude if she were – what? fifteen? twenty? years older. But now, sure, she’d love to get on stage in character, and be applauded and wave to people and throw a kiss and collect a check for three million dollars, one of those six-by-four-foot cardboard fake checks like those ads on the webV when some insurance company or clearinghouse or BegaBucks presents a giant simulated check to the bereaved widow or widower, or the lottery winner –

  In any case, her money was in the bank, and she was already fending off firms that promised to double her money etc, but asterisk asterisk.

  “OK,” shrugged Hub. “Jill, it will be just you on stage. Is that OK?”

  “Sure!” said Jill with innocent pleasure.

  After a few minutes of polite conversation, Hub called the limo service, and the two women left together.

  Back at the hotel, Jill buzzed Ellie and asked her if everything was OK. “OK?” Ellie emoted, “You should see all the stuff I bought! See you tomorrow; I’ll be dressed in some of it!”

  Jill wondered if Ellie had really splurged, and if so how she could pay for it. The perils of being rich, she thought, and once more she was concerned about how she should deal with Ellie: should she give her money? Would she or Ellie feel bad if it were too much, or not enough, or if she gave Ellie money at all? Troubled, she went to bed and tried not to think of Roger.

  Chapter 23: Two Years and Two Months After the Assassination

  December 1, the day of the Awards Ceremony, dawned to an unexpected chill in the L.A. air. Hub hadn’t slept well, thinking for hours about why that specific bit of the show, Charley’s startle, had been clipped out of season two. Was it just a coincidence that The Clue had been left on the cutting room floor? If it wasn’t a coincidence, then who was behind it? Well, I should just drop the whole thing, he thought. No, a second thought after a moment, I’ll keep asking questions.

  Hub phoned Frank Dickstein. He had to get Frankie alone at that ceremony, try to figure out if Frankie himself might be part of the plot, if there was a plot. No one else could have authorized the tweak right at th
e point of the show that contained The Clue. Sad if a shit like Frankie were corrupt. Sadder if he hadn’t cut Hub in on it. Hub’s sour thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

  “Hello. You’ve reached…”

  “Pick up, Frankie. It’s Hub. Won’t take a minute.”

  Hub heard a faint click as the voicemail service cut off and Frankie picked up.

  “How about a second?”

  Hub ignored the question. “At the ceremony, Frankie, I need to speak with you alone. Just for a little while.”

  “Without all my hangers-on and spongers and leeches? – Yeah, I’ve heard you call my associates that.”

  “Ah –“

  “But OK, for a great friend like you, ten minutes right after the ceremony. Catch me back stage.”

  “OK, Frankie, you’re on,” said Hub. “And you know I never said anyth…” A buzz of disconnect played in his ear. “Fuck that asshole,” he said out loud, and then amused himself at the thought. No, Frankie wouldn’t like that. But Hub might – if Frankie were twenty years younger.

  The Awards Ceremony was held in the ballroom of the hotel that evening at eight p.m., Wednesday, the same night of the week the show had aired. Jill walked in, puzzled as to what to do, and finally was seated by an usher.

  The MC was a face-lifted Personality, seemingly grateful for a chance to be in the spotlight again. He told a few jokes, brought a tear with some fictional reminiscence of his mother, and then introduced “the Noted and Wonderful Producer of ‘Try Try Again,’ Mr. Frank Dickstein! Let’s all hear it for Frankie!” An enormous sound filled the room, some of it live.

  Frankie made a few off-the-cuff comments, an art at which he was not very good but the audience laughed anyway. And then came the introduction of all those wonderful people and artists who’d made the show a success! They trooped across the stage one by one and hugged Frankie while keeping their faces toward the camera: the assistant producer; the second assistant producer; the sound engineer; the music director, who had nothing to do with the show since music wasn’t used on the show but protocol required him to be recognized anyway; and many others.

  The MC lip-synched a ballad, then introduced “Mr. Hubert Landon! Come on up here, Hub!” Hub did so.

  Hub accepted an award, and then introduced the people in the audience he needed to introduce. The spotlight shown briefly, among others, on - “Olivia – Liv - Saunders, our wonderful defense counsel!” The light hit her face and moved on, and others had their shining moment too.

  “And now, tah-dah,” Hub said, spreading his arms, “the five top winners of season two!” He named them, hurriedly. Jill and four others, three men and a woman, trooped to the stage and stood in a line, smiling nervously and waving a hand or two. The light flicked across the five faces and returned to Hub. She had come here for this? She was annoyed and knew that Ellie, seated in the darkness, had picked up on that. The five received their giant cardboard checks and returned to their seats. Hub had not said “Let’s give these great Agonauts a big hand, folks!” just motioned them to return to their seats.

  “And finally,” Hub announced, “a Congressman! A real live Congressman in the audience, ladies and gentlemen, who got his start, his big chance, on ‘Try Try Again,’ our very own show! I have the honor of introducing the Honorable Brent Nielsen, State’s Attorney for Grantwood County, Pennsylvania, and Congressman-Elect from the Seventeenth Congressional District of the Keystone Staaaaaaaate of Pennsylvaaaaaaaaaaaania!”

  The spotlight spotted Brent who rose from his seat, raised his arms, and did a “victorious boxer” over his head. Those who remembered the murder of Ezra Barnes must have found the gesture disturbing, as Barnes had made the same gesture just before he was shot. Brent beamed so brightly one might have thought he was looking at his own voters.

  Liv was startled; she’d known about Brent’s surprise victory, of course; had even intended to vote for him. But she never expected to see him here in Hollywood, mugging for the audience. Of course! she thought. Half the people in America knew who he was from two seasons of “Try Try Again.” He’d parlayed that exposure into Ezra Barnes’ old House seat by sending Barnes’ killer to prison. How things go around and come around!

  She had an instant of annoyance at the thought she could have taken advantage of the show’s publicity, too. But no; that wasn’t her style. Anyway, something would have gone wrong. It always did.

  There were several more events, musical and otherwise, even a comic who did impressions of several of the show’s figures, including Brent (animated), Liv (rigid), Judge DuCasse (very rigid), and two members of the jury who’d been caught dozing off in the middle of a sidebar.

  Frankie wrapped up the evening by promising viewers they would just love season three; and then the ceremony was over.

  As the audience was filing out, humming with importance and hurling air-kisses, Hub found Liv and then Jill and Ellie, herded them together in an alcove. “Look,” he said, “I’m going to catch Frankie and ask him a few questions about that ‘Clue’ we spotted. Hang around here a few minutes. I’ll be right back and we’ll have a late supper – on me!”

  Hub went backstage, where Frankie was holding forth. Anxious young men, and various other kinds of human beings, were besieging him with their proposals for new webV series or their place in one, shaking his right hand while thrusting prong-bound proposals into his left. Frankie was playing the great man, a kind of European monarch touching people to cure the King’s Evil. He beamed on everyone. His slightest sigh drew forth responding breaths. Hub could predict what would happen when Frankie left: he’d say “What a bunch of assholes!” and throw their scripts into the nearest recycling bin.

  Hub waited for some of the crowd to disperse, then waved to Frankie from the edge of the remaining mob.

  Yes, Hub thought, Frankie would consider it wise to speak with Hub, who was after all the director of Frankie’s greatest hit, “Try Try Again.” Not that he looked like he wanted to speak with Hub. That has-been? That one-hit wonder?

  Hub gave Frankie a big distasteful hug and stepped back. They exchanged flowery expressions of cautious worship.

  “So, Hub! A great day for you! Did you like our new millionaire? Think Jill can be on the screen?”

  Hub didn’t think so, but he said, “Great idea! Our new star is a Jillionaire!”

  Frankie laughed appreciatively, wondering who Hub had paid to think that one up.

  “All right! You know I haven’t been to bed yet, so I’d love to…”

  Hub bet Frankie had indeed been to bed; several times the previous night, probably. But he said “Just a quickie, Frankie,” suddenly realizing he was still thinking about Frankie’s legendary exploits.

  “You know those changes you made to the show, those cuts?” Hub continued. “I’d like to speak with your tech people about those, and I’d like them to cooperate with me.” An odd request from the show’s Director, he thought with some annoyance, but he knew he wouldn’t get anywhere without a blessing from the Holy Name of Dickstein.

  “Sure!” said Frankie, “Not much to tell, but go see Stan at WizWhiz. I’ll send him word to cooperate with you.” He motioned to an aide to make that happen. “But you know there was a woman named Stephanie Bloomberg here who was interested in those cuts. She said she wanted to finance my next film, but turns out she was a phony. A God-damn phony. Anyway, she talked to Stan and so he can tell you about her.”

  Frankie threw out a few more details about “Stephanie” and then turned away from Hub toward more interesting fare that was inhaling deeply and approaching him with arms and lips apart.

  Hub found Liv, Jill, and Ellie, and escorted them to his very large car. “How about Mexican?” Hub asked. “There’s a great little place over on Santa Monica Boulevard.” The women said that would be good, even though none of them really liked -Mex food, whether Tex- or not.

  Fifteen minutes later, the three were seated in a booth in the rear of the Peso Queso, next to a sig
n reading “dinero pequeño is our middle nombre.” Since it was a Wednesday, they were almost alone. They ordered food and drink. Jill and Hub had Negro Modelos. Ellie ordered a Dos Equis. Liv had a margarita, frozen, no salt, double.

  After dinner, Hub nodded toward Jill, who asked Ellie if she’d please excuse them because they had business to discuss. Ellie didn’t look happy about being ejected, but Hub phoned for a driver and Ellie was soon on her luxurious way back to the hotel.

  “There’s definitely something wrong,” Hub began. “Our show is involved in some kind of scam – I don’t know what it is, but if it blows up, my Hollywood days are toast.”

  He summarized Frankie’s conversation back stage. “That woman – actually the way he described her she reminded me of you, Liv, but older, claimed to want to fund Frankie’s next production, but right after that she visited WizWhiz and asked them about the season-two cuts; then no one saw her again. Frankie checked her out then, but there was no such person. A complete fraud. I’ll bet she was the reason The Clue was cut from the show. This shit just gets deeper, doesn’t it?”

  “And that’s another proof,” Liv said.

  “Proof of what?” Jill asked.

  “The conspiracy. Many people thought Charley didn’t act alone – he said as much to the police and to me, though I think I was the only one who really believed him. But now, we know that The Clue was threatening enough to someone that he – or she in this case – would risk becoming known to Frankie Dickstein and to WizWhiz. So, there is a ‘George,’ and now a ‘Stephanie,’ east coast and west coast. This whole thing is getting a lot bigger.”

  “So – what was so important?” Jill asked. “Not that Charley was threatened by an ‘Art’ or a ‘George’ into killing Barnes – we knew that.”

  “Well,” Liv said, “The Clue must reveal more than the bare fact that there was a conspiracy. It might give us a hint not just that there was such a conspiracy, but who was behind it, and perhaps why as well. Who this Art / George was. If not, the people behind the assassination wouldn’t care if anyone had seen The Clue or not. Since they do seem to care, that must mean there’s something to be found out. Something for us to find out, perhaps.”