Sidney Sheldon - A Stranger in the Mirror

Toby sat there listening, fascinated by the fast flow of dialogue. He had never worked with real professionals before, and he enjoyed it. Particularly since he was the center of attention. It took O’Hanlon and Rainger three weeks to write an act for Toby. When they finally showed it to him, he was thrilled. It was good . He made a few suggestions, they added and threw out some lines, and Toby Temple was ready. Clifton Lawrence sent for him.

“You’re opening Saturday night at the Bowling Ball.”

Toby stared at him. He had had expectations of being booked into Ciro’s or the Trocadero. “What’s—what’s the Bowling Ball?”

“A little club on south Western Avenue.”

Toby’s face fell. “I never heard of it.”

“And they never heard of you. That’s the point, dear boy. If you should bomb there, no one will ever know it.”

Except Clifton Lawrence.

The Bowling Ball was a dump. There was no other word to describe it. It was a duplicate of ten thousand other sleazy little bars scattered throughout the country, a watering hole for losers. Toby had played there a thousand times, in a thousand cities. The patrons were mostly middle-aged males, blue-collar workers idulging in their ritual get-together with their buddies, ogling the tired waitresses in their tight skirts and low-cut blouses, exchanging dirty jokes over a shot of cheap whiskey or a glass of beer. The floor show took place in a small cleared area at the far end of the room, where three bored musicians played. A homosexual singer opened the show, followed by an acrobatic dancer in a leotard, and then a stripper who worked with a somnolent cobra.

Toby sat at a table in the back of the room with Clifton Lawrence and O’Hanlon and Rainger, watching the other acts, listening to the audience, trying to gauge its mood.

“Beer drinkers,” Toby said contemptuously.

Clifton started to retort, then looked at Toby’s face and checked himself. Toby was scared. Clifton knew that Toby had played places like this before, but this time was different. This was the test.

Clifton said gently, “If you can put the beer drinkers in your pocket, the champagne crowd will be a pushover. These people work hard all day, Toby. When they go out at night, they want their nickel’s worth. If you can make them laugh, you can make anyone laugh.”

At that moment, Toby heard the bored MC announce his name.

“Give ’em hell, tiger!” O’Hanlon said.

Toby was on.

He stood on the stage, on guard and tense, appraising the audience like a wary animal sniffing for danger in a forest.

An audience was a beast with a hundred heads, each one different; and he had to make the beast laugh. He took a deep breath. Love me , he prayed.

He went into his act.

And no one was listening to him. No one was laughing. Toby could feel the flop sweat begin to pop out on his forehead. The act was not working. He kept his smile pasted on and went on talking over the loud noise and conversation. He could not get their attention. They wanted the naked broads back. They had been exposed on too many Saturday nights to too many talentless, unfunny comedians. Toby kept talking, in the face of their indifference. He went on because there was nothing else he could do. He looked out and saw Clifton Lawrence and the boys, watching him with worried expressions.

Toby continued. There was no audience in the room, just people, talking to one another, discussing their problems and their lives. For all they cared, Toby Temple could have been a million miles away. Or dead. His throat was dry now with fear, and it was becoming hard to get the words out. From the corner of his eye, Toby saw the manager start toward the bandstand. He was going to begin the music, pull the plug on him. It was all over. Toby’s palms were wet and his bowels had turned to water. He could feel hot urine trickle down his leg. He was so nervous that he was beginning to mix up his words. He did not dare look at Clifton Lawrence or the writers. He was too filled with shame. The manager was at the bandstand, talking to the musicians. They glanced over at Toby and nodded. Toby went on, talking desperately, wanting it to be over, wanting to run away somewhere and hide.

A middle-aged woman seated at a table directly in front of Toby giggled at one of his jokes. Her companions stopped to listen. Toby kept talking, in a frenzy. The others at the table were listening now, laughing. And then the next table.

And the next. And, slowly, the talking began to die down. They were listening to him. The laughs were starting to come, long and regular, and they were getting bigger, and building. And building. The people in the room had become an audience. And he had them. He fucking had them! It no longer mattered that he was in a cheap saloon filled with beer-drinking slobs. What mattered was their laughter, and their love. It came out at Toby in waves. First he had them laughing, then he had them screaming. They had never heard anything like him, not in this crummy place, not anywhere. They applauded and they cheered and before they were through, they damned near tore the place apart. They were witnessing the birth of a phenomenon. Of course, they could not know that. But Clifton Lawrence and O’Hanlon and Rainger knew it. And Toby Temple knew it.

God had finally come through.

Reverend Damian shoved the blazing torch into Josephine’s face and screamed, “O God Almighty, burn away the evil in this sinful child,” and the congregation roared “Amen!” And Josephine could feel the flame licking at her face and the Reverend Damian yelled out, “Help this sinner exorcise the Devil, O God. We will pray him out, we will burn him out, we will drown him out,” and hands grabbed Josephine, and her face was suddenly plunged into a wooden tub of cold water, and she was held under while voices chanted into the night air, beseeching the Almighty One for His help, and Josephine struggled to get loose, fighting for breath, and when they finally pulled her out, half-conscious, the Reverend Damian declared. “We thank you, sweet Jesus, for your mercy. She is saved! She is saved!” And there was great rejoicing, and everyone was raised in spirit. Except Josephine, whose headaches became worse .

10

“I’ve gotten you a booking in Las Vegas,” Clifton Lawrence told Toby. “I’ve arranged for Dick Landry to work on your act. He’s the best nightclub director in the business.”

“Fantastic! Which hotel? The Flamingo? The Thunderbird?”

“The Oasis.”

“The Oasis ?” Toby looked at Cliff to see if he was joking. “I never—”

“I know.” Cliff smiled. “You never heard of it. Fair enough. They never heard of you. They’re really not booking you—they’re booking me. They’re taking my word that you’re good.”

“Don’t worry,” Toby promised. “I will be.”

Toby broke the news to Alice Tanner about his Las Vegas booking just before he was to leave. “I know you’re going to be a big star,” she said. “It’s your time. They’ll adore you, darling.” She hugged him and said, “When do we leave, and what do I wear to the opening night of a young comic genius?”

Toby shook his head ruefully. “I wish I could take you, Alice. The trouble is I’ll be working night and day thinking up a lot of new material.”

She tried to conceal her disappointment. “I understand.” She held him tighter. “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know yet. You see, it’s kind of an open booking.”

She felt a small stab of worry, but she knew that she was being silly. “Call me the moment you can,” she said.

Toby kissed her and danced out the door.

It was as though Las Vegas, Nevada, had been created for the sole pleasure of Toby Temple. He felt it the moment he saw the town. It had a marvelous kinetic energy that he responded to, a pulsating power that matched the power burning inside him. Toby flew in with O’Hanlon and Rainger, and when they arrived at the airport, a limousine from the Oasis Hotel was waiting for them. It was Toby’s first taste of the wonderful world that was soon to be his. He enjoyed leaning back in the huge black car and having the chauffeur ask, “Did you have a nice flight, Mr. Temple?”