Miracle (38 page)

He passed the monitor without a second glance.

T
he hotel suite was a madhouse. Amy scrawled notes on a pad atop her clipboard and recalled scenes from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. Shifting on the floor, where she sat cross-legged, she glanced up at the two harried young men who were yelling at each other while Elliot stood to one side, waving his arms.

“It stinks. The concept stinks!” one bellowed. “There’s nothing funny about Iranian cabdrivers!”

“Not to
you
. You only think dick jokes are funny!”

Elliot bounced a soft-drink bottle off a full trash can and climbed atop a chair. “Shut up!” he yelled among the arguing writers, the red-faced producer, the muttering director, and the dozen other staff members. “We’ve got three hours until we tape! So
what
if a guest cancelled! This talk show is not going to be about the goddamn celebrity guests! We’re not doing a Carson or Letterman rip-off! This is consumer comedy! The comedy of the masses! Interactive comedy! If you people fall apart just because we have an extra ten minutes to fill, then you don’t belong on my payroll! Now shut up! Zip it! Let’s
think.
”

Elliot could afford to talk tough. He had his own production company now. He was executive producer of
Thornton After Hours
, and this was the premiere show. It had had the hottest press buildup of any non-network, syndicated program in years. A record number of stations across the country had bought it. It would tape at seven
P.M
., five
nights a week, and air at midnight, eastern standard time. Unlike any other talk show, it would frequently be taped outside of the studio with impromptu audiences, the weirder the better. Studio shows would be taped at a big independent station in L.A., where Elliot’s production company had rented offices.

Tonight, for better or worse,
Thornton After Hours
would make its home in the Gold Pavillion restaurant of the Alistar Hotel, one of San Francisco’s grandest. During the show the restaurant would serve dinner as usual, though the diners would be carefully selected guests: a dozen people who had appeared on
The Price Is Right
without winning anything, the stage crew from
General Hospital
, a clogging team of transvestites, and various pals of Elliot’s. Elliot’s plan was to incorporate the quirky audience into the show. Robin Williams had promised to drop by for a brief round of anarchy.

But the anarchy had begun already. Veins bulged above the collar of Elliot’s white golf shirt; his khaki trousers were stained from the cigarette ashes he kept dropping; barefooted, he curled and uncurled his toes, looking like a large yuppie bird trying to perch on the chair. “I need space,” he said suddenly, his voice strained. “Amy. Yo. Five minutes.”

She got up and followed him into the bedroom, where paperwork, cue cards, and luggage took all but approximately four square feet of space on the bed. She sat down on it and waited. Elliot slammed the door and leaned against it, his eyes shut. “I need a drink. A beer. One beer.”

“One.” She went to an enormous ice chest in a corner and returned with a can. “You’re doing great.”

“After the show tonight I’m going to get absolutely shit-faced.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll have the hotel install training wheels on a commode.” She knew that he’d been good beyond his limits lately; she knew that if she protested too much he’d rebel. They walked a thin line between his excesses and her control. It had taken her months to learn the boundaries of her influence, and there had been some
ugly confrontations during that time. But he trusted her judgment, and sooner or later he always admitted it.

He jerked the can’s pop top and chugged the beer in three swallows. Sighing, he handed her the can. “Thank you, Nurse Ratched.”

“You’re welcome. I’ve scheduled your lobotomy for tomorrow.” Amy faced him and began massaging his shoulders. “You know, everyone on the staff suspects that we have a quickie each time we come in here. It’s bad enough that some of them think I only got my job because I’m your main squeeze. Like a rock star’s chief road groupie.”

“That’s not true, and they know it. You work harder than anybody but me. Look, baby, you told me you wanted a job, and I gave you one. But if you hadn’t pulled your weight I’d have fired you by now. I’ve got too much at stake to play Sugar Daddy.” He chucked her under the chin. “Tough, ain’t I? But doesn’t that make you feel better?”

“Yeah. I don’t want special treatment. Not when it comes to being associate producer.”

“And assistant to Mr. Thornton,” he intoned, as if reading the show’s credits. His humor faded. He jammed his hands into his ruffled brown hair. “We’ve
got
to come up with some new material for tonight. Gimme one of your brainstorms, baby. Kick me right in the old imagination.”

She walked to a window, chewing her lip and toying with the scarf at the waist of her green jumpsuit. Excitement lit her thoughts. This was the fun part. This was what she loved most—Elliot asking her,
her
, for suggestions, and then using them in his act. And now that he was going to be on national television five nights a week, he would need her contributions even more. Even his team of comedy writers couldn’t help him the way she could when he was desperate.

For several seconds she watched the busy San Francisco streets far below, her mind humming with ideas. They always came so easily. “The Road Kill Café,” she said softly.

“Huh? What?” Elliot moved closer, listening.

“The Road Kill Café. It has a sign by the grill that says No Food Dead over an Hour. Hmmm, let’s see. Okay. The
chef’s motto: If it’s slow, it’s edible. He serves low-cholesterol specials: ‘We use only thirty-weight oil.’ And regional specials: Try our pressed armadillo!’ Mystery meals: ‘That sucker was mashed so flat even
we
couldn’t identify it.’ Food with an elegant touch: Try our special purée and pâté’—wait a minute, weren’t those the twin sisters on
The Patty Duke Show
?”

“Yes! Yes! I
like
it!” Elliot grabbed her for an exuberant kiss. Then he stepped back, rubbing his hands eagerly, lost in thought. “Take a couple of people and go find me some flat animals. The more disgusting, the better. I’ll start working on the bit with the guys. We’ll expand it. God, it’ll be so funny, doing it in a restaurant!”

“You want me to go out on a California highway at the beginning of rush hour and try to scoop up squashed carcasses? Why don’t I just paint Hit Me on my chest and play in traffic?”

“Baby,” he cajoled, looking anguished and tired. “Pulleeeeze.”

“I’ll delegate the job to a couple of guys from the crew. I don’t have time to go myself. I’ve still got to revise your interview notes and double-check the cue cards.”

“Baby, I want this bit to go over big. I know I can trust you to find funny dead animals. It’s important.” He grabbed his head and groaned. “Oh, God, I’m getting a killer headache.”

She stared at him in alarm. With his contorted expression and hunched posture he suddenly seemed on the verge of agony. “Honey, okay, I’ll do it. Sure I’ll do it. Now you just relax—”

“I love you. I love you so much. Now let’s get to work.” He wiped his forehead, slapped her on the butt, then strode to the door and flung it open. “I’ve got it!” he shouted to the waiting staff. “The Road Kill Café! Writers, into the kitchen with me. Pronto. I need food around me while I work on this!”

He began detailing the bit to them as they hustled away. Amy came out of the bedroom and looked at the rest of the staff, who studied her with a mixture of curiosity and
respect. She shrugged. “We had wild sex. It always helps him create.”

Amidst their smiles she turned away, frowning. There was no reason for the resentment she felt toward Elliot sometimes, and she scolded herself. She had an exciting life because of him, a terrific job, the respect of her coworkers in a tough business, and best of all, an inside ticket to a world she loved.

She flung a big leather pocketbook over her shoulder and gestured to a pair of fresh-faced production assistants. “Guys, we have a mission. Come with me.”

“Is it important?” one of them asked.

“Yeah. So important that Elliot will only trust it to me. There’ll be danger, suspense, and possibly a reprimand from the California Highway Patrol.” She shook her head at the inquiring looks everyone gave her. This was the life she had chosen. She wasn’t going to waste time examining a small humiliation here and there. “Hey, has anybody got an extra shovel?”

After the first few shows the reviewers overcame their amazement and began to write. Amy cut the headlines out and thumbtacked them to her office bulletin board.

She circled “Road Kill Cafe.”
Mine
, she thought everytime she looked at the headline, and pride would nearly swallow her.

Within two months Elliot became a household name. Everyone associated with the show was giddy with excitement.
The energy level was so high that Amy worked eighteen-hour days and couldn’t wait to get up each morning. Elliot corralled his binges and zoomed around on pure adrenaline.

“You know what we need, baby?” he asked one night. They were sprawled on a hotel bed, fully dressed, with cartons of shrimp chow mein perched on their stomachs.

Amy squinted at him. Fatigue weighed her down. She barely knew what she was eating. “Did I forget to order egg rolls?”

“We need a house. It’s time we stopped living in hotel rooms. Now that I’m off the road, it makes sense.”

“Sure. I’ll call some real estate agents. I can visit houses and narrow the choices down so that it’ll only take you a couple of hours to see the best ones. Then we can pick out one that we both like.”

“Hmmm. How soon can you do it?”

“While you’re playing in the celebrity softball game this Sunday afternoon, I guess.”

He continued to mumble about houses, but she fell asleep without hearing, with one hand resting in her chow mein.

The next day he bolted into her tiny office and slapped a piece of paper down. “I made a couple of calls and leased a place in Toluca Lake. Burbank! Forest Lawn! The Hollywood Bowl! The big studios! Can’t beat it for convenience, baby. And I hired a decorator to fill the place full of leased furniture, too.”

“Just like that? Over the phone? What if we hate the wallpaper, or the next-door neighbors raise goats in their backyard?”

“We lease something new!”

He breezed out, while she gritted her teeth in frustration. It was Elliot’s house, Elliot’s money, Elliot’s decision. Mary Beth called from Atlanta to chat. Her interview show was stronger than ever, and she wanted Elliot as a guest. Upon hearing the house news, Mary Beth grew quiet. Then, her tone ominous, she warned, “This is gonna be a turning point. You are about to become a full-fledged, live-in, significant other. This, sugar, is where the shit gets deep.”

She was right. Once the place was furnished they had only to move their suitcases, and they were settled. Amy parked her aging Escort in a three-car garage covered in rose vines. There was a heated pool with a lava-rock waterfall and a sauna; the house was an airy three-bedroom Spanish-style, decorated inside with oversized white couches, pottery lamps, and Navajo art. It had a gym, several wet bars, a state-of-the-art entertainment center, and a sunken marble tub in the master bath.

Elliot went out the afternoon after they moved and bought himself two big black Harley motorcycles and a black-leather jacket studded with silver. She thought he looked like Eddie Haskell doing a Hell’s Angel impression, but she didn’t say so. Everything felt so strange.