small-town boy with big dreams who could have had it all, but for a few wrong turns and bad breaks. His bio mentioned lots of big names in lists with his, but never actually said he’d worked with them. It stopped just short of saying he wrote for Milton Berle and Red Skelton when he was barely out of his nappies. It implied, though, that he had studied at the feet of the masters and could have been a contender.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Jane. “Makes more sense that Lucky would surround himself with young writers who believed the bio and wrote for the character he created.”
“True,” said Malcolm, nodding.
Jane felt the lightbulb switch on over her head “You wrote it. You created the bio. You’re—”
“Dr. Frankenstein, at your service.”
“I am so lost,” said Francis. “Lucky did horror movies, too?”
“May I buy you a drink, sir?” Malcolm asked, patting Francis on the shoulder. “It is Lucky Miller fans such as yourself that make my job so rewarding.”
5
Nellie emerged from the kitchen immediately after Malcolm’s cab arrived to take him back to the Lucky Miller Motel—actually the B-Back-Inn south of town, renamed in honor of Lucky Miller week.
“You believe that guy?” asked Nellie.
Jane shrugged. What was not to believe? She had watched him drink four shots of whiskey and who knows how many he had downed before that? Why would he claim to write the official fake bio of Lucky Miller? Not exactly like claiming screenwriting credit for Chinatown .
“Don’t you?” Jane countered.
“Few holes in the story, that’s all,” said Nellie with a shrug. “Besides, the guy’s a lush. And—” Nellie dragged out the syllable for effect—“he had an English accent.”
“Yeah, Nellie’s right. He did talk a little funny,” said Francis.
Nellie nodded and looked Jane in the eye.
“There’s something else that doesn’t add up,” said Nellie.
Don had finished giving Carl the instructions for the night, taken most of the cash out of the register, and told the bartender he could lock up early if there were no customers at eleven. Carl nodded, not a word waster, and dragged a bar stool behind the bar so he could perch comfortably and face the television between drawing beers and pouring shots.
Jane had offered to treat her parents to dinner out to celebrate the selling of her house, even though she wasn’t sure how much she felt like celebrating.
“Okay, Mom, I’ll bite. What doesn’t add up?” said Jane, grabbing her purse and keys. “Wait, I know.… Where’s the money coming from? If he wasn’t ever a success, how can he finance a comeback … or who’s interested in financing a comeback for a has-been who’s really a never-was?”
“Now you’re talking like a detective,” said Nellie, flicking off the light in the kitchen. “No sandwiches, Carl. Don’t make any food for anybody. I don’t want to have to clean up the kitchen in the morning,”
Carl nodded without taking his eyes off the television set. He had worked for Don and Nellie as their night bartender for over thirty years. He had heard the same instructions thousands of times. He had quit at least fifty times. Don had fired him at least twenty times. Nellie had fired him over one hundred times. No matter who fired who or who quit, Carl always showed up shuffling through the back door around six every evening.
Jane pulled up in front of Mack’s Café and suggested they get a hamburger and a milk shake. She had wanted another milk shake from Mack’s as soon as she finished the first one.
“What the hell, Janie? Mack hasn’t been open in twenty years,” said Don, pointing to the darkened interior of the storefront.
“It was open this afternoon … something for the Lucky Miller show. The sign said OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. It was filled with writers working and they had a waitress in there doing a fifties shtick. The milk shake was great. And it was Mack’s grandson running the
“How do you know all this?” asked Jane. “Makes more sense that Lucky would surround himself with young writers who believed the bio and wrote for the character he created.”
“True,” said Malcolm, nodding.
Jane felt the lightbulb switch on over her head “You wrote it. You created the bio. You’re—”
“Dr. Frankenstein, at your service.”
“I am so lost,” said Francis. “Lucky did horror movies, too?”
“May I buy you a drink, sir?” Malcolm asked, patting Francis on the shoulder. “It is Lucky Miller fans such as yourself that make my job so rewarding.”
5
Nellie emerged from the kitchen immediately after Malcolm’s cab arrived to take him back to the Lucky Miller Motel—actually the B-Back-Inn south of town, renamed in honor of Lucky Miller week.
“You believe that guy?” asked Nellie.
Jane shrugged. What was not to believe? She had watched him drink four shots of whiskey and who knows how many he had downed before that? Why would he claim to write the official fake bio of Lucky Miller? Not exactly like claiming screenwriting credit for Chinatown .
“Don’t you?” Jane countered.
“Few holes in the story, that’s all,” said Nellie with a shrug. “Besides, the guy’s a lush. And—” Nellie dragged out the syllable for effect—“he had an English accent.”
“Yeah, Nellie’s right. He did talk a little funny,” said Francis.
Nellie nodded and looked Jane in the eye.
“There’s something else that doesn’t add up,” said Nellie.
Don had finished giving Carl the instructions for the night, taken most of the cash out of the register, and told the bartender he could lock up early if there were no customers at eleven. Carl nodded, not a word waster, and dragged a bar stool behind the bar so he could perch comfortably and face the television between drawing beers and pouring shots.
Jane had offered to treat her parents to dinner out to celebrate the selling of her house, even though she wasn’t sure how much she felt like celebrating.
“Okay, Mom, I’ll bite. What doesn’t add up?” said Jane, grabbing her purse and keys. “Wait, I know.… Where’s the money coming from? If he wasn’t ever a success, how can he finance a comeback … or who’s interested in financing a comeback for a has-been who’s really a never-was?”
“Now you’re talking like a detective,” said Nellie, flicking off the light in the kitchen. “No sandwiches, Carl. Don’t make any food for anybody. I don’t want to have to clean up the kitchen in the morning,”
Carl nodded without taking his eyes off the television set. He had worked for Don and Nellie as their night bartender for over thirty years. He had heard the same instructions thousands of times. He had quit at least fifty times. Don had fired him at least twenty times. Nellie had fired him over one hundred times. No matter who fired who or who quit, Carl always showed up shuffling through the back door around six every evening.
Jane pulled up in front of Mack’s Café and suggested they get a hamburger and a milk shake. She had wanted another milk shake from Mack’s as soon as she finished the first one.
“What the hell, Janie? Mack hasn’t been open in twenty years,” said Don, pointing to the darkened interior of the storefront.
“It was open this afternoon … something for the Lucky Miller show. The sign said OPEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. It was filled with writers working and they had a waitress in there doing a fifties shtick. The milk shake was great. And it was Mack’s grandson running the
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