to the president of IBC. And right now she felt beautiful… .
SIX
D ANTON MILLER tossed the trade papers aside. He couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing. He spun his chair around and faced the window. In one hour he was to have lunch with Gregory Austin. He had no inkling what it was about. No warning, just the goddam phone call and the impersonal voice of Gregory’s secretary.
So far the ratings were about the same. News was still in the cellar, but the new guy, Andy Parino, had just started cutting in from Miami a week ago. He had to admit it gave the show an extra dimension. Well, that was their problem. He had his own. The variety show was canceled. He was positive the Western Gregory had handpicked to replace it would bomb. And he was determined to come in with a mid-season saver. That’s why he had spent every night of the past week with two writers and a half-baked singer named Christie Lane.
Last week he had stumbled into the Copa to catch a well-known comic—Christie was merely the supporting act. At first Dan had paid no attention to this forty-year-old second-rater who looked like an old-time Coney Island singing waiter. Dan had never heard of the bum. But as he watched him, an idea began to form. Suddenly Dan turned to Sig Hyman and Howie Harris, the two writers who had accompanied him, and said, “He’s just right for what I want!” He knew they thought it was the whiskey talking. But the next morning he sent for them and told them he wanted to do a pilot with Christie Lane. They had stared at him with disbelief.
“Christie Lane! He’s a stumblebum, he’s over the hill,” Sig Hyman stated.
Then Howie jumped in: “He can’t even get a Saturday night at the Concord or Grossinger’s off-season. Did you read the Copa show notices in Variety ? Christie didn’t even get a mention. The Copa girls’ costumes did better than he did. He only plays New York as a filler-in when they’ve got a jumbo name. And those Irish ballads—” Howie rolled his eyes.
And Sig added the clincher: “Besides, he looks like my Uncle Charlie who lives in Astoria.”
“That’s just what I want!” Dan insisted. “Everyone has an Uncle Charlie they love.”
Sig shook his head. “I hate my Uncle Charlie.”
“Save the jokes for the script,” Dan answered. Sig was right about Christie’s looks. He looked like Mr. Average Man. He’d be perfect for a homey-type variety show. Sig and Howie gradually got the idea. They were top writers who had worked only for established stars. Three months ago Dan had given them each a year’s contract to help him develop new shows.
“We make Christie the host,” Dan had explained. “Form a stock company—girl singer, announcer, do sketches—and we make use of Christie’s singing voice. If you close your eyes the bum sounds like Perry Como.”
“I think he sounds more like Kate Smith,” Sig said.
Dan smiled. “I tell you the timing is right. Television runs in cycles. With all the violence of The Untouchables and its imitators, the time is ripe for a show the entire family can watch. Christie Lane is a second-rater. But no one in TV knows him, so he’ll be a new face. And we’ll use a big guest star each week to attract ratings. I tell you it can work!”
Like many performers, Christie Lane had started in burlesque. He could dance, sing, tell jokes, do sketches. He worked with Dan and the writers with hysterical eagerness. Dan guessed him to be about forty. He had sparse blond hair, a large homely face, and a medium frame that was beginning to show the hint of a potbelly. His ties were too loud, his lapels were too wide, the diamond ring on his pinky too big, the cuff links were the size of half-dollars, yet Dan sensed he could create a likable characterout of this oddly assorted but talented man. He was an indefatigable worker. Whatever town he played, he quickly scurried about and managed to pick up extra club dates on the side. He lived out of two wardrobe trunks and when
SIX
D ANTON MILLER tossed the trade papers aside. He couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing. He spun his chair around and faced the window. In one hour he was to have lunch with Gregory Austin. He had no inkling what it was about. No warning, just the goddam phone call and the impersonal voice of Gregory’s secretary.
So far the ratings were about the same. News was still in the cellar, but the new guy, Andy Parino, had just started cutting in from Miami a week ago. He had to admit it gave the show an extra dimension. Well, that was their problem. He had his own. The variety show was canceled. He was positive the Western Gregory had handpicked to replace it would bomb. And he was determined to come in with a mid-season saver. That’s why he had spent every night of the past week with two writers and a half-baked singer named Christie Lane.
Last week he had stumbled into the Copa to catch a well-known comic—Christie was merely the supporting act. At first Dan had paid no attention to this forty-year-old second-rater who looked like an old-time Coney Island singing waiter. Dan had never heard of the bum. But as he watched him, an idea began to form. Suddenly Dan turned to Sig Hyman and Howie Harris, the two writers who had accompanied him, and said, “He’s just right for what I want!” He knew they thought it was the whiskey talking. But the next morning he sent for them and told them he wanted to do a pilot with Christie Lane. They had stared at him with disbelief.
“Christie Lane! He’s a stumblebum, he’s over the hill,” Sig Hyman stated.
Then Howie jumped in: “He can’t even get a Saturday night at the Concord or Grossinger’s off-season. Did you read the Copa show notices in Variety ? Christie didn’t even get a mention. The Copa girls’ costumes did better than he did. He only plays New York as a filler-in when they’ve got a jumbo name. And those Irish ballads—” Howie rolled his eyes.
And Sig added the clincher: “Besides, he looks like my Uncle Charlie who lives in Astoria.”
“That’s just what I want!” Dan insisted. “Everyone has an Uncle Charlie they love.”
Sig shook his head. “I hate my Uncle Charlie.”
“Save the jokes for the script,” Dan answered. Sig was right about Christie’s looks. He looked like Mr. Average Man. He’d be perfect for a homey-type variety show. Sig and Howie gradually got the idea. They were top writers who had worked only for established stars. Three months ago Dan had given them each a year’s contract to help him develop new shows.
“We make Christie the host,” Dan had explained. “Form a stock company—girl singer, announcer, do sketches—and we make use of Christie’s singing voice. If you close your eyes the bum sounds like Perry Como.”
“I think he sounds more like Kate Smith,” Sig said.
Dan smiled. “I tell you the timing is right. Television runs in cycles. With all the violence of The Untouchables and its imitators, the time is ripe for a show the entire family can watch. Christie Lane is a second-rater. But no one in TV knows him, so he’ll be a new face. And we’ll use a big guest star each week to attract ratings. I tell you it can work!”
Like many performers, Christie Lane had started in burlesque. He could dance, sing, tell jokes, do sketches. He worked with Dan and the writers with hysterical eagerness. Dan guessed him to be about forty. He had sparse blond hair, a large homely face, and a medium frame that was beginning to show the hint of a potbelly. His ties were too loud, his lapels were too wide, the diamond ring on his pinky too big, the cuff links were the size of half-dollars, yet Dan sensed he could create a likable characterout of this oddly assorted but talented man. He was an indefatigable worker. Whatever town he played, he quickly scurried about and managed to pick up extra club dates on the side. He lived out of two wardrobe trunks and when
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