***TICKER***

by Eric Christensen

Eric would appreciate any comments you might have - you can email him at echrist851@yahoo.com or send me your feedback.

CHAPTER ONE - The pain of my success

I can't die now. I just signed a three picture deal with Disney. Can't my stuntman do the cancer while I handle the close-ups?  That's what I told Doc Heath when he gave me my death sentence. It's kidney cancer, by the way. Too far gone for a transplant. Not AIDS. Don't believe those bastards at the Enquirer. But you probably already know all about that little scene in the doc's office. It showed up on everything but landing radar when the news leaked. "E" television even hired actors to recreate it on their two-hour special. And everyone heard my second ex-wife -- the born again, "Solid Gold" dancer with the butt implants -- when she said God was paying me back for not increasing her alimony after I won the Oscar and upped my price to $18 million a picture. Well, fuck her, is all I can say. And the cross she rode in on. I don't know. I guess I've been Stan Merlino, "one of the biggest stars in the Hollywood firmament," (according to the only good critic in Variety) for so long, I'd forgotten there was still a human being inside the "actor." I lost track of the fact that it's only on screen I can kick the shit out of Nazi dictators and space monsters, and not break a sweat. Or fart on a movie set and have a dozen flunkies call it Shakespeare.  Live bulletproof like that for thirty years, and it hurts twice as hard to find out my whole life's about as real as Sigfreid and Roy.

*********

One of the first things I asked Doctor Heath was how I would go. He said it could happen a couple of different ways. I could waste away slowly, or stay strong for a while, and then go quickly. A year. Six months. Tomorrow. How I take care of myself -- if I do the chemo, the radiation, the diet, physical therapy, etc. -- could stretch it out. "It all boils down to how lucky you are," he added. "And I can't give you a prescription for that." I didn't like that answer at all. I've bet years of dirtyliving and clean debauchery that I'd go out in a painless, polished, prime-time flash - during the height of "sweeps" month, to boot. I don't want to buy it hanging onto an IV drip for dear life, looking like a damned halloween skeleton. Or doing a weak, little victory dance just because I hit the bedpan on the first try. I never would've guessed I'd go out with weeks of nothing but time and pain on my hands. That's the worst thing. Time to think about everything I ever did wrong or didn't do right in 76 years on the planet.  Pain I could handle. Hell, I'm the goddamned Babe Ruth of hangovers. I've drunk enough beer to have Budweiser name a clydesdale after me. And that doesn't even count all the other shit I've abused to kill the pain of my success.  Harvey, my agent, said I should join one of those cancer support groups. Or hire a head doctor from a hospice to show me one of those freaking disease of the week movies." Harvey knows damned well I won't go to another shrink. I've got five ex-wives. Do I need to pay someone else to tell me about my inner asshole? Besides, all any of the shrinks I've ever been to proved was that lawyers, hookers and Beverly Hills plumbers aren't the only people who charge $200 an hour with a straight face. And I spent fourteen seasons on TV in "The Hard Luck Kid."  The whole show was about the dumb things I did in real life.  Getting normal could fuck up my career, even now. I couldn't sit around one of those encounter groups and talk about bravely fighting off the grim reaper, or making plans for a classy, graceful exit. Hell, just the thought of people secretly taking notes about what I say like goddamned O.J. jurors is enough to make me run for the border. Okay, I'm a little paranoid. So sue me.  Driving home from the doctor's office, I decided to tough it out, not tell anyone about the cancer. Just bravely keep my final secret from the world. Leaving that way could be a display of character even my best friends would bet their organ donorcards I didn't have. By the time I reached my house in Malibu, I was actually getting off on the idea of a stunned, grief-stricken show business world grinding to a halt over little ol' me.  Then that bitch of a receptionist at the doctor's office sold the story to the National Enquirer for $25,000. Heath fired her, but she wound up doing a spread in Playboy and becoming a VJ on MTV. Fuck her, too. It wasn't all bad, though. I got over 100,000 sympathy cards the week the story broke. I even cried when I saw the first load of mail stacked outside my office. I forced Disney to hire extra help to handwrite personal notes from me to everyone who sent a card.

*********

I hate to admit it, but I did think about checking out early. Pulling an Ernest Hemingway. It would add a certain tragic cachet to my memory. I might even be one of those celebrities whose popularity grows after they die, like Elvis, Marilyn or James Dean. But, in the end, I decided against suicide. People would never again be able to think about me without remembering how I died. Everything I did -- my TV show, my movies, Broadway, all of it -- would be remembered as the work of a nutcase who ate a bullet, sucked on a tailpipe or swallowed a pharmacy rather than face the end like a man. So, I have to die the old fashioned way. Without a spotter.  In the spotlight. Nothing but time on my hands. There's that word again. I've got too much and not enough. Too much time to think and stew and feel my life fade away. And not enough to make sense of it all.

*********

It wasn't a week after I found out about the cancer that I decided to write this book. Harvey came over and we were sitting around my pool small talking and drinking, trying to avoid any mention of the big "C" or the grim reaper. When we ran out of gossip and bullshit, Harvey leaned forward in his lounge chair and gave me his "serious-as-a-heart-attack, deal closer agent face." "You need to do a book," he said. "Your fans should get to know the real you -- from you, not some sleazy gossip-hound who only talks about the women you've fucked or the drugs you took." "There's been enough books about me," I answered. "The one by my third ex told a hell of a lot more than anyone needed to know." "But nobody's talked about the real you. You're not the shmuck you pretend to be." "Who says I'm pretending," I asked. "I do. You never go back on your word. You give a shitloadof money to charity, and you've paid for operations for people you hardly knew. And, what was it, a couple, three years ago?  You wouldn't prosecute that secretary who stole10 grand from you." I sighed. "She was a kid, for chrissakes. Barely out of high school. Her boyfriend knocked her up and ran off. She was desperate."

"A real asshole would've cut her to ribbons, regardless."

"Every asshole's got a soft spot," I answered. "Where do you think the crap comes out of?"

Harvey gave me a one gun salute with his middle finger. "You're full of shit, and you know it. Whether you like it or not, Merlino, you're a decent guy.

"And that's as rare as real tits in this town."

I shook my head again. "The fans have heard everything they need to about me."

"But they've heard nada from the horse's mouth."

I still wasn't convinced. "I don't know my umlaut from a hole in the ground. How the hell am I going to write a book?"

"We'll get you a ghost. All you gotta do is talk into a tape. You even won't have to break a sweat."

Harvey looked down into his scotch. "Why should the only thing anyone reads after you're gone be from people who couldn't stand you?"

I got up and walked to the steps leading into the pool. The water felt cold, even in the afternoon sun. "I hate talking about myself. I don't even do interviews."

"Yeah," answered Harvey. "And maybe it's time you changed that. I can count on a couple of fingers the number of times you've told anyone -- even me -- about your feelings. About the things that really matter to you. What make you tick."

Harvey's words hit like a kick in the gut. What makes me tick. A face I'd buried in memory filled my mind's eye like a sunburst. I felt slightly sick and my body went cold. The face smiled, taunting me to remember. To face my past.

Ticker. For the first time since I found out about the cancer; for the first time ever, I knew there was something I had to do. I had no choice.

"I'll do it," I answered, almost in a whisper. "But I don't want a ghost writer. I need to do this myself. You can get someone to polish it up after I'm done."

"Sure." Harvey smiled. "I'll set up an auction for the rights. And I'll get a press release going. We can be ready in a few days."

I cut my arm across the water in front of me, splashing in Harvey's direction. "I'm not going to do a kiss and tell. I'll write about something that happened back before I became famous." Harvey drained his drink. "People want dirt, Stan.

That's what the publishers'll shell out the big dough for. They want as much gossip as you've got. And then they want you to make up some more."

"Fuck the money," I answered. "I'm going to write about someone I knew before I made it big. If I have to, I'll pay to publish it myself."

"So now you're trying to kill me too," he said. "Don't talk that way about my religion." Harvey always joked that he was an orthodox greeditarian. He got up, shook his head, sighed and walked toward the door.

"Write what you want. I'll find a buyer for it." He stopped at the threshold. "Just give me an outline or something I can pitch to the publishers as soon as you can."

Harvey left without waiting for an answer. A few seconds later I heard his car drive away. I ducked under the water and swam toward the house.  I could still see the face in my mind growing clearer, sharper. More real.

I climbed out and toweled off. There was a lot to do. And I don't know how much time I had left to do it in.

I had to find Ticker and make things right.

CHAPTER TWO - A glitz and shits kind of place.

It was 1969. A summer Saturday. A scotch and soda past midnight. An unmarked vice squad car was camped on the South side of Race Street, taking down the plate numbers of cars that

dropped off or picked up at the Marquee Club. Muddy, our doorman/bouncer, just smiled and waved at the cops everytime he let someone in. We called it a B.A.F.U. night -- Business As Fucking Usual. There were dozens of little clubs and strip joints like the Marquee in center city. A graveyard Mardi Gras went on every night on Race and Arch and Market Streets, east of City Hall. Most nights, from about 10 till 2 when the clubs closed, testosterone-induced desperation covered the area like ground fog in a swamp at the beginning of a horror movie. The Marquee Club was a large, red brick building held prisoner between a liquor store and an office supply shop. Yellow and white lights lined the outer frame, while a second ring of red bulbs bracketed the door. A brass nameplate beside the entrance announced "The Marquee Club - The Class Of Philadelphia," and "Gentlemen Must Be 21 Years Of Age To Enter." The Marquee was a glitz and shits kind of place. Nice as far as dives go, but no place you'd want to spend Thanksgiving with the family. The white collars from the Main Line and the other suburbs would hit the club looking for some action when their wives left town. And wiseguys from South Philly used it to unwind between court dates and mob jobs. We also got a better class of call girl. Most wouldn't put out for pocket change, and they didn't hand out cases of VD like business cards at a trade show.   Occasionally, we even got an amateur or two just out for a good time without a price tag. The club's marquee announced the premiere of "Hawaiian Lil and Her Wicked Wahini Revue." It was a lie. We just never bothered to change the sign. We always had a theme show going, thanks to Lil McDonough, the club's headliner. Lil was the only woman the owner, Dominic "Turkey Legs" Tartaglia, the don of the Tartaglia crime family, was faithful to besides his wife. I was the master of ceremonies, although my job was more important than it sounded. I kicked off the shows and introduced the girls before each number, and I also opened and closed five nights a week and made sure the bartenders didn't skim too much from the till. For that I got paid $300 a week under the table and all the free booze my liver could stand. It wasn't great, I admit, but it wasn't chopped liver for someone whose biggest break so far was playing the second half of a double-bill in the Poconos with Shecky Green. And hell, the roar of the body paint and the smell of the pasties is all the same, no matter what the address. At least, that's what I told myself.

*********

I was at my usual station at the end of the bar when Muddy escorted this little guy in and pointed in my direction. His suit was at least two presidents old, he was carrying an oversized duffel bag and his coke bottle eyeglasses caught the bar light like signal mirrors. You could tell he was young even though he was losing his sandy brown hair and had this chin that looked like a loaner while his own was in the shop. His deep-set eyes darted from side to side like hungry piranhas at feeding time. And his nose made Bob Hope's ski slope look like a button. He snaked his way through the sea of tables toward me. "You the boss here?" He shouted to be heard over the three-piece orchestra's version of the Hawaiian Wedding Song accompanying one of the girls as she threw paper flowers to the audience.

"Maybe," I answered. "Who wants to know?"

Don Dominic had a standing rule that no one said anything to anyone without a subpoena. "My name's Bernie Turkowski." The guy extended his hand.

It felt like an old mackerel. "Stan Merlino, I'm the M.C. What can I do for you?"

"I want to do my act here." He said it like a dare.

"Really, Sweetheart, what name do you dance under?"

He pushed his glasses up and gave me a twisted grin. "I'm a comedian. I make people laugh."

"I know what a comic does," I shot back. "I'm one myself. What do you think got me here."

"You have my deepest sympathy."

I watched him for a moment. He had this look on his face that made me want to slug him and feel sorry for him all at the same time.

"You picked the wrong place for an audition. We're strictly a skin bin."

His expression didn't change, but there was something in his eyes that fell, something that missed a step. "C'mon, Kid," I said, patting him on the arm, "why don't you sit down, I'll buy you a beer and you can enjoy the show." A $100 bill appeared out of no where and nearly landed in my drink. "It's yours," he said, "if the audience doesn't like me." He'd caught me off guard. I should've told him it was a good try, that he had giant, economy-sized stones for someone so small. But there was that grin. And those eyes swimming in the goldfish bowls on his nose. Dominic had left more than an hour before, and he didn't usually come back on a Saturday night. It was late, the crowd was small and most were barely sober enough to even tell the difference between a man and a woman on stage. And, as long as I'm being honest, there was something about Bernie that reminded me of myself when I started out back in '46. Besides, I thought, a fool and his money are soon parted, and I owed back alimony to the first former Mrs. Merlino. I swept the money into my pocket before he even realized it was gone. "I'll tell you what I"m going to do," I began, sounding like W.C. Fields. "You ever been on stage before?" He shrugged. "I did Groucho when I accepted my high school diploma. Nothing after that." "You got ten minutes. You go on after Luau Lulu. She's the next girl up. And keep it clean. This is a high class establishment." Bernie sat down and began fiddling with stuff in the duffel bag. He came out with a small Japanese tape recorder, one of the reel-to-reel jobbies they used to have before they invented cassettes. "Could you do me a favor," he asked. "What's that?" "I'd like you to tape my act. So I can remember it later on." I looked at him for a long moment. "Aren't you doing a set routine?" Nah," he answered. "I've got a few ideas, but I want to see how it goes." His tone suggested that he didn't realize there was any other way to do it. "You mean you're betting a C-note on an improv act? You don't have anything written down?" He just smiled as he handed me the recorder and showed me how to work the buttons. Then he turned back to his bag and continued rooting. The dancer finished, picked up her costume, scooped up the few dollars in tips she'd gotten and left. There were no big finales at the Marquee. I made my way to the stage and dragged the standup mike out to the runway. "That was wonderful! Poi-poi Paula and her erupting natural wonders! Two of the pleasures of the islands!" I waited a beat and waved to the side of the stage. "Now let's make some waves with Luau Lulu and her trained pineapples!" A stacked blond in a fake pineapple bikini top and leafy g- string strutted to the back of the runway. The orchestra struck up Blue Hawaii, and Lulu launched into an x-rated hula. Bernie was staring open-mouthed at the stage when I got back to the bar. "Who is she," he asked, barely breathing. "That's Luau Lulu." "What's her real name?" "Marcie Coulter. Been with us about a year. You like her?" He drew in a deep breath. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." "You want to meet her?" I got a mental image of Marcie, who really was a looker, with this near-sighted toothpick. I couldn't help but chuckle under my breath. "Yeah," Bernie said quietly, "But wait a while. After she sees my act." He's a cocky little sucker, I thought, I'll give him that. Marcie bumped and ground off the runway as I moved the mike back to the stage. "Ladies and Gentlemen," I said, "tonight you're in for a real treat. Fresh from the smash, sellout tour of Europe you read about in the New York Times, here's one of America's funniest comedians, Mr. Bernie Tickovski!" "That's Turkowski," he said in a stage whisper. It took me three more tries to get it right. The brass and percussion sections of the orchestra -- Dave and Wally -- struck a sour "ta- da!" as Bernie made his way to the mike. I expected a few minutes of Henny Youngman's greatest hits, a few stale knock-knocks and maybe a lame impression or two. The stuff every new comic does until he finds his "stage legs." In my case, I'd already been in the business 23 years and was still wobbling around stealing material. If he gets more than a few drunken gurgles from this crowd, I told myself, I'll give him back $20 and we'll both have gotten something for our troubles. No way was I ready for what happened next. Bernie stood at the microphone like a statue, not saying or doing a thing. Not even seeming to breathe. I thought he'd choked, but then he started fidgeting with himself, picking lint from here, adjusting there, just enough activity to let you know he was doing it on purpose. Soon, everyone who'd been talking and drinking quieted down and turned their attention to the little guy on the runway. And then he started to sing. Now, when I say sing, I mean the national anthem. "Oh saaaaay caaaan you seee" -- the whole bit. "Rockets red glare" and everything. And in the best Irish tenor I think I've ever heard. Well, nobody said a word. No one knew what the hell to do. After the first few lines, a drunk down front staggered to his feet and joined in. Soon another did the same. And another. In a few minutes, the whole place, half-naked strippers included, were singing their hearts outs. It looked like the start of some kind of sicko baseball game. When he finished, the crowd went crazy. Bernie didn't even look at the audience, it was as if they weren't there. Without missing a beat he reached into his bag and produced one of those life-sized blow-up sex dolls, the kind with the pointy boobs, an "O" shaped mouth and straggly fake hair. He started blowing up his plastic prom date, still not saying a word. Once or twice he stopped to catch his breath, and this wide, perverse grin would sweep across his face, like he could hardly wait to finish. It took a minute or so to get the doll inflated. Then he reached back into the bag and pulled out one of those oversized kids' combs they used to sell in the five and dime. He slicked his hair into a 50s-style ducktail. Out came a toy guitar. He struck a pose, hugged the doll with one arm and faced the audience. "C'mon, Baby," he growled, sounding like Elvis. "Let's rock and roll." The crowd went nuts watching this little drip dip and swivel across the stage, singing a cheap suit version of "Heartbreak Hotel" and dragging the blow-up doll with him. And you have to remember this was when Presley was still alive and at the height of his last comeback, long before all those impersonators polluted the environment. At one point, when he accidentally dropped the doll, he stopped singing and just stared down at the thing. His face started twitching like an escaped mental patient. He kicked the doll around the stage and began hitting it with the toy guitar. "Get up! Get up!" he yelled. "Anne Margaret wouldn't do this to me. Get up, or I'll turn your ass into Saran Wrap." All of a sudden he stopped and seemed to realize how nuts he looked. "Aw, to hell with her," he said, catching his breath. "I won't let any woman treat me that way." Grabbing the doll by the tits, he held it up to his mouth and bit the plug out of the front. Back in the Elvis voice, he snarled, "My mamma warned me about women like her." After kicking the limp doll behind him and straightening his hair, Bernie asked, "Have you ever wondered how chairs fall in love?" Back he went into his bag and out came a pair of upholstery arm covers with elastic loops underneath. He pulled these up his forearms. Big foam shoulder pads got put on over his suit. He then held up a hand lettered sign that said, "Passion Pit Furniture Emporium." Holding his arms out like armrests, Bernie started strutting around, making a big production of scoping the place out. Spotting a prospect stage left, he sidled over and said in a deep, recliner-like voice, "Hey Baby, you got a great set of rockers! Wanna make some footstools? I may be a recliner, but I ain't no Lazyboy."" He gave the audience this big grin and moved an imaginary lever on his thigh. His other leg came up like the world's biggest hard-on. He started rubbing the leg and shuddering; just enough to let the audience know what he's doing. "And I can keep it up for hours," he said. Well, the audience went ape shit. I'd never seen a comic anywhere, anytime run a crowd like Bernie Turkowski did that night. For more than 30 minutes he played with them; sometimes zinging one-liners like arrows in an indian attack; other times inching along, forcing them through hoops of craziness like trained seals in a circus ring. The place was so wild I didn't hear Don Dominic's right-hand thug, Carmine "Carbine Tony" Mellini, come up behind me. "What the fuck's going on here," he asked. "This kid came in and wanted a shot at doing a little standup," I answered. "The place was quiet so I gave him a chance. He's great." Carbine Tony stared at me. Tony's job was to look after Don Dominic's interests. He smelled anything rotten and you found yourself inspecting a cement mixer from the inside out. "The Don's not gonna like this. The crowd's laughing too much. They laugh, they ain't drinking and paying for table dances. This ain't some fucking tax shelter. Get him off." The girls got 60% of the $5.00 table dance charge, while the Don kept the rest. The dancers also hustled expensive drinks, from which the Don likewise got a cut  "You don't understand," I said. "Guys like this bring people into a club. He can help business." Tony put a paw on my shoulder and drew my face close to his. "I don't think you understand, Stan. You wanna debate, go to college. You wanna keep your lungs, get the little cocksucker off now." He smiled a big, gold toothed grin. Without answering, I headed for the stage and muscled Bernie away from the mike just as he was launching into a bit about screwing in space. "What a card this guy is," I said, "Is he a scream or what?" Bernie gave me a funny look and stood with his arms in the air, as they had been before I interrupted him. I could see he didn't know what was happening. "It's a shame this whacky guy can't stay with us all night," I announced. An evil hiss started from the back of the room but I cut it off at the pass. "But Bernie here has to catch the last plane to Vegas. No, no," I continued, waving at Bernie, "you told me Sinatra'd never forgive you for missing the opening tomorrow." In Philly, with its large Italian population, Old Blue Eyes was a minor god. Gathering his props, Bernie trundled down the steps at the end of the runway. With people cheering and patting him on the back, it was a couple minutes before we made it back to the end of the bar. "You were great, Kid," I yelled as the bartender pushed drinks in front of us. And then I said the line that would become the password for our entire friendship. "Was I really that good," he asked. I answered "You were ticking like a Swiss watch, Ticker." That's where the nickname came from. Ticker. Ticking like a Swiss watch. I gave it to him. It just seemed to fit. He waited a long moment. "So, when do I start?" Now I was the one who hesitated. "It's like I told you before. We're a skin bin, not a nightclub. But you got great stuff, and you'll make it anywhere you want." "I want to make it here. You just said the crowd loved me." "You had 'em eating out of the palm of your hand. We're just not in the market for a comic." The words stuck in the back of my throat. Here was the best comic I'd ever seen, and I was tossing him aside because some genetic throwback wasn't smart enough to recognize talent. Bernie looked at me like I'd just stabbed him and was getting ready to steal his shoes. He grabbed the tape recorder and stuffed it in the bag. "I want my $100 back. The bet was you'd keep it if the audience didn't like me. You lost." I actually had my hand in my pocket and was digging out his money when it happened. I had every intention of giving Bernie back his C-note, and slipping him an extra one from the register, just because I felt like such a shit turning him down. I really was going to do it. I just didn't get the chance. We had an early warning system for police raids. At the first sign of trouble, when Muddy the doorman would get wind from the grapevine of bouncers and doorfolk along Race Street that something was going down, he would press a little button at the door that flashed a light over the bar. We'd then make an announcement that uninvited company was coming, and anyone who wanted could use the back door, post haste. There was usually a fair percentage of outstanding warrants in the audience who especially appreciated this little customer service extra. This night, however, was different. Hearing all the laughter, Muddy had come inside to watch Bernie's act. That's where he was when the raid hit. A wave of blue uniforms poured through the front door like high tide. District Attorney Tommy Arlene, all five-foot-three- inches of him, muscled through to the front. "All right, he shouted into a bullhorn, "Nobody leaves. You're all under arrest. 'The Rat Patrol' has struck again!" Bernie's eyes were as cool as dry ice when he turned to me. He shook his head and spoke as if he was just thinking out loud. "Aw, balls. I better be going." Calm as a cadaver, he turned and headed toward the door. All he had to do, I thought, was get past the 5000 or so pounds of Philadelphia police in his path, sidestep the city's top lawyer and he'd be home free. Looking back on it, the cops didn't stand a freaking chance in the world.

CHAPTER THREE - Beefstew of blue shirts

I guess it was the same instinct that draws rubberneckers to

car wrecks and house fires, but I couldn't help pushing through

the beefstew of blue shirts to see what Ticker would do. I

cringed when I saw the kid reach out and shake the hand of a

large, plain clothes officer at the door.

"Good job," shouted Ticker over the noise. A patrolman,

carrying a topless Hawaiian Lil, pushed him into the detective's

arms. Regaining his balance, Ticker read the name off the

detective's badge pinned to his lapel.

"Very good, Detective Kline. I was wondering how long it'd

take to answer my call." Ticker looked at his watch. "Less than

ten minutes. For a force this size, I call that an excellent

response."

The detective looked hard at him in his oversized seersucker

and coke bottle glasses. Kline drew himself to his full height,

which was at least a foot taller than Ticker, and leaned in to

his new acquaintance.

"Who the fuck are you?" The cop spit the words out like

splinters from a chain saw.

"You did a great job responding. I doubt any squad in the

city could've done better. This'll look very good in my report."

Confusion crossed the detective's face. "What call? We're

raiding this place. You're under arrest."

It was Ticker's turn to give the officer a quizzical look.

"What I hope you're saying, Detective, is that all this is

because of my 'officer needs assistance' call."

"We didn't get an assistance call," Kline answered. "Who

the hell are you?"

Ticker ripped the clip-on bow tie from his shirt and threw

it on the floor. He started jumping up and down on it, just as

he had done to the blow-up doll during his act. "Why the hell do

they give us these cheap goddamned transmitters in the first

place? How's an undercover cop supposed to get any backup if he

can't use the goddamn transmitter to call for it? Do they want

us to use a fucking pay phone, for Chrissakes?"

He pushed up into the detective's face. "What the fuck is

going on here Kline? If you're not here because I called, what

the fuck are you doing at this shithole at one in the goddamned

morning."

I almost believed him myself. But with his coat hanger

body, there was no way the police would ever hire him. Hell, at

his size he'd be lucky to make it as a practice dummy for the

police academy football team.

Still, there was something about his sway and his style that

made both me and Kline a little nervous.

Ticker got even closer in the detective's face. "I'm Oswald

Turner, Sargeant Oswald Turner, Badge Number 4365, on the

Organized Crime Squad. I've been working undercover in this

place for a month. I was just getting ready to take it down.

Are you telling me someone else in the department decided to raid

the Marquee Club without checking with the O.C. Squad first?"

The Organized Crime Squad had been in the news a lot around

that time for some high profile Mafia busts in South Philly.

They were the cream of the city's police crop.

"The D.A. said he cleared it," Kline pointed at Arlene, who

was on stage wrestling with Teena, a six-foot black dancer who

was part of a sister act. The detective two-stepped in place.

"I didn't know we already had a man in here. What were you

working on?"

Ticker leaned back and crossed his arms. "You know damned

well O.C. cases are classified. You'd love to tell the

commissioner I broke policy so you could get my ass in a sling,

wouldn't you?"

"Arlene said he had the paperwork on this done three days

ago. It's a priority bust."

"You'd better hope he's right, Kline." Ticker said. "You'd

just better pray he dotted every 'I' and crossed every 'T.' I'm

going down to the Roundhouse to find out why the most important

organized crime investigation in the city's history has been

broken up for a goddamned vice raid." The Roundhouse was

Philly's police headquarters.

Kline gulped and shifted his weight from side to side like a

school boy in the principal's office. "You'd better talk to

Mr. Arlene. He planned this raid."

"Very fucking funny," Ticker answered. He fixed the

detective with a frozen stare through his inch-thick lenses.

"You think Arlene's gonna take the fall on this? Can't you take

responsibility for your own mistakes?"

Kline cleared his throat. "Forget I asked."

Arlene had noticed the exchange at the entrance and started

pushing his way through the crowd. I wanted to grab Ticker's arm

and tell him it was time to cut it off, but I knew that'd get him

clipped, too. So I just stood there and watched everything

unfold.

One of the things I later learned about Ticker Turkowski was

that he not only had Rolex timing, but he had this seventh or

eighth sense that usually told him exactly when to quit before he

overplayed a hand. I don't know how, but he almost seemed to

smell when his fat was about to drip into the fire.

Months later, when I asked him about this gift, he just

smiled and said, "I've got asshole radar. Comes from being

raised by the Apaches."

When Arlene was almost at the scene, Ticker reached over and

pulled the badge from Kline's coat.

"You'll get this back at the Internal Affairs hearing.

You'd just better hope I find everything I need down at the

Roundhouse." He was out the door before either Kline or I

realized it.

Arlene reached the detective a beat or two after Ticker was

gone. "Who was that," Arlene asked.

"That was Sargeant Turner of the Organized Crime Squad. He

was here working undercover when we arrived."

"Who?"

Arlene's puffy face screwed up into the same kind of

expression you find on shrunken heads.

"Sargeant Turner," the detective answered. "He's on the

Organized Crime Squad."

Arlene thought for a moment. "There's no Sargeant Turner on

the O.C.S."

"Are you sure?" You could see Kline regretted the question

almost as soon as he asked it.

Arlene's neck tightened and his jaw jutted out. "What do

you mean am I sure? I work with the Organized Crime Squad every

day. Don't you think I know who's on the thing?"

Kline seemed to shrink a foot before my eyes. "Aw shit,"

was all he could think to say.

Arlene tapped the detective's breast pocket. "And where's

your badge? I.D. is supposed to be displayed at all times during

a raid."

A couple of weeks before this, Arlene had taken his "Rat

Patrol" out on a raid and two new patrolmen arrested one of his

own assistant D.A.s who had forgotten his I.D. The local

newspapers had a field day about "keystone cops in the Keystone

State."

"Sargeant Turner took my badge. He said I'd get it back

once he checked out the paperwork for this raid."

Arlene folded his arms and nodded. "This the same Turner

you just met, the one from the O.C.S.?"

Kline buried his head in his chest. "Aw shit."

Arlene spoke with the patience one displays with a

slow-witted pet. "I'll ask this out of morbid curiosity. In the

process of letting Sargeant Turner, the hero of the Organized

Crime Squad take your badge, did you see his?"

"Aw shit," was the whispered reply.

"Patrolman Kline, I think you'd better head back to the

station. We'll sort this out there."

"That's Detective Kline, Mr. Arlene."

"Don't bet on it," Arlene said.

The whole thing was sheer poetry. Ticker had conned his way

past the detective and then used the guy's own badge to get past

the cops outside. Shakespeare himself couldn't have written a

better bit. And the damnedest thing was, it was all a capella,

without a net.

I realized at that moment, that very second when the cop at

the door was hooked and reeled in, that Ticker had gotten me with

the same fly-cast. I didn't know a blessed thing about him; not

an address, a telephone number, nothing. But he did what only a

few entertainers, a mere handful of the best in show business

ever did very well.

He left me wanting more.

CHAPTER FOUR - The 'so's your mother' of political insults.

Before I became famous I'd seen my share of drunk tanks and

holding cells. I worked most of my life till then in dives and

mob-operated strip joints. In that world, getting collared was a

badge of honor, a rite of passage into the native culture. Hell,

there was something wrong with you if you didn't have a rap

sheet.

I can't even begin to count the times I wound up in front of

a night court judge to be arraigned and have bail set. Most

often I was an "et. al." as they sometimes say police reports; an

extra in the crowd scene that got swept up in a take-down.

There were a bunch of us "et. als." in night court in City

Hall the night of that raid. There were tall "et. als." and

short "et. als.;" half-naked stripper "et. als," and poor, dumb

drunk "et. als." who ran out of luck when the music stopped.

A tide of "et. als." and other spectators rose as a wizened

skeleton inched up the steps to the throne behind the bench. The

bailiff creaked a hollow "be seated" and the American judicial

system kicked into overdrive against us.

"Your Honor," Arlene began, loud and clear for the reporters

in the audience. "I know this is only an arraignment, but I

would like to discuss the crimes for which these people stand

accused."

Tommy Arlene was a real piece of work. He made his name as

an assistant district attorney who wound up replacing the former

D.A. he'd prosecuted on a morals charge. He later won reelection

two times with the same public morals pitch.

The city's top legal eagle was in night court for a simple

arraignment because he was the leading candidate for mayor that

fall. He wanted us to help him with his campaign, a "holy

crusade" he called his personal "Rat Patrol." For weeks he'd

been leading raids on clubs and card games and any place where

people were having too much fun to suit him. He would use the

arraignments to make news. Most of the defense attorneys, clued

in to what he was doing, usually kept quiet and let him get his

headlines. Later on, more often than not, the charges were

dropped or buried long before the actual trials.

Arlene had already hit us twice before and we were used to

the routine. We'd get arrested and Don Dominic would call Hiam

Worthstein, the "family's" attorney. Hiam would do the two-faced

two-step in night court with Arlene, and we'd be sprung in time

for morning coffee at "Lucy's Eats," our favorite local hangout.

Hiam would get us out with a small fine, which the Don would pay.

"Every business' got overhead," he said. "Mine's these

contributions to that thumb-dick's campaign fund."

Yeah, it was a very cozy arrangement. Except on this

particular night. This time it was different.

Tonight, Hiam Worthstein was on vacation and we couldn't

reach anyone at his office. We were up the river without a

mouthpiece. After a three hour wait, we got a public defender

assigned to our case.

"I know these fuckin P.D.s," Carbine Tony said in the

holding tank. "Those bastards'll get you life for a fuckin

parkin ticket." Carbine Tony had good reason to worry. With his

record (18 arrests, five convictions, one mistrial, three prison

terms, 20 RBIs and seven stolen bases - he was also on the prison

softball team), he probably could've gotten hard time for jay

walking.

Tommy Arlene was in the middle of his sermon about "perverts

who rape the public morality by watching women take their clothes

off in public," and the "criminal degenerates who exploit the

weak of will." Our P.D. yawned an objection and everyone looked

toward the wizened scarecrow behind the bench.

"Is this going anywhere, Mr. Arlene," the judge croaked.

"Yes Sir," he said. "I'm trying to show why these

degenerates should not be granted bail."

"Well," the old guy muttered. "If you plan to make a point

anytime soon, I'll let you proceed."

Arlene gave a tight smile and turned back to the audience.

Our P.D. slumped back and resumed rifling through papers in his

briefcase.

The click-click echo started about halfway down the marble-

floored hall outside. The staccato grew louder until it reached

our courtroom.

Suddenly, the doors burst open and a lone figure stood in

the doorway. Every eye followed the pinstripe suit and scuffed

leather briefcase as their owner strutted confidently to the

defense table. The briefcase hit the table with a heavy bang.

"Turkowski for the defense, your Honor," Ticker said,

dramatically tearing his glasses from his face. "I've come to

represent these people."

"Who're you," asked the judge.

"I'm Bernard Turkowski, of the law firm of Uttley, Studge

and Turkowski, practitioners at the bar in Skippack, PA, for

nearly 40 years. I'm offering my services to these unfortunate

victims of a power-crazed office seeker."

Arlene's face reddened. The rest of the room drew in their

breath. "Who the fuck is that," Carbine Tony asked.

"Forget about it, Tony," I replied. I'd already seen enough

of Ticker to know that he, at least, was going somewhere with

this. "That's our new lawyer," I whispered. Carbine Tony

slumped back in his chair and resumed cleaning his fingernails.

Ticker had on a charcoal gray suit and dark tie. His hair

was slicked back with a part down the middle. He looked like a

cross between Perry Mason and Groucho Marx. I decided the odds

of him being a lawyer where about as good as they were of him

being the cop he said he was at the Marquee Club.

"Your Honor," Arlene said, approaching the bench. "I've

never heard of this man's law firm."

"Maybe you don't get out enough," Ticker answered. "We're a

force to be reckoned with in Skippack." Skippack was a little

town just left of lost in South-central Pennsylvania.

Arlene's lips pursed to a thin line. "What was the name of

that firm again?"

"Uttley, Studge and Turkowski. Pay our fee, we'll get you

free." That brought a titter from the "et. als."

"Your Honor," Arlene continued. "The defendants already

have counsel. It would delay these proceedings if new counsel -

who is not familiar with the case - stepped in now."

Arlene, who by this time was standing in the middle of the

room in front of the bench, got his first good look at Ticker.

"Don't I know you," he asked.

"No, Mr. District Attorney, you don't know me," he answered.

"And I'll bet you won't want to when we're done."

The threat hung in the air like a comic book word balloon.

The public defender, who had watched silently from his seat,

leaned forward. "Your Honor, I have no objection to

Mr. Turnwhatever here taking over this case. It's only a simple

arraignment. The police report will give him all the details."

The judge nodded and the P.D. stuffed his papers into his

case. In a flash he was back out the door and clicking his way

down the hall. The judge faced Ticker.

"Well, Mr. Turkowski, it looks like you have yourself a

case. Would you like to take a moment to familiarize yourself

with the paperwork?"

"Yes Sir, I would." Ticker picked up the police report and

read while he stood next to Arlene in the center of the

courtroom. Every so often, while he was reading, he would

snicker and give the D.A. an incredulous "harumph." Every

chuckle brought a similar response from the audience. After a

few minutes, Ticker offhandedly tossed the brief to the defense

table. "I think I'm ready, your Honor."

With a nod from the judge, Arlene gave our new mouthpiece a

sidelong glance and turned back to the audience. "As I was

saying, these, these individuals," he pointed at us, "are guilty

of a heinous moral crime. It is incumbent upon this court to

take a courageous stand and put them behind bars. I ask that

they be held over without bail and that an early trial date be

set."

Ticker was on his feet before Arlene finished. "Your Honor,

I'd like to counter by citing several precedents for denying the

District Attorney's request and setting my clients free. Burns

v. Arkansas comes immediately to mind, as does Topeka v.

Nunnelly, Smith v. Ottis, Cohen v. Boston, Yucca, Arizona v.

McCarthy and, perhaps most significantly, Navajo, Oklahoma v.

Pleasure, Inc., the latter in which innocent people such as my

clients were found to have had their civil rights violated by

both an illegal search and an improper arrest procedure.

"I think," he said with a self-satisfied smile "that these

precedents should substantiate the denial of the District

Attorney's motion."

We "et. als." applauded wildly. The D.A. stood at the

prosecution table while the judge gaveled for order. You could

see Arlene was debating whether to ask Ticker about the cases he

mentioned, or try to bluff and pretend he'd actually heard of

them. Knowing Ticker, either would've been a bad choice.

Arlene was a little flustered around the edges when he

replied. "My learned opponent can cite all the case law he

wants. The fact remains that these people are destroying the

moral fiber of our city. And I, for one, want them behind bars

where they won't be able to do any more damage."

Arlene spoke slow enough for the reporters to get everything

down. He had a mainspring look in his eyes, like he was just a

few clicks of the dial away from losing it if it didn't go his

way.

Ticker had his glasses off and, for the first time, I got a

good look at his eyes. They were like no color I'd ever seen. I

would later learn that they were like those mood rings that were

popular back in the early 1970s. They changed color. In night

court that steamy Philadelphia evening, Ticker's eyes where a

coldfire blue, like laser-guided missiles heading for a locked-in

target.

"Mr. Arlene," our mouthpiece began, "exactly what is it

these people do that's destroying the city's moral fiber?"

"They're promoting public nudity and profiting off the

weaknesses of others."

The corners of Ticker's mouth twitched upward ever so

slightly. "Oh, so, you object to naked women?" Ticker's voice

dripped with sarcastic innocence.

"No, no," the D.A. said warily, like a fighter on the

downbeat after a glancing blow. "I have nothing against naked

women per se. Nothing at all."

Ticker zeroed in. "So what you are saying is that you're in

favor of women being exploited as sex objects?" Remember this

all took place just when women's lib was heating up. Arlene

realized as soon as the words left Ticker's mouth that he was

being pushed into a corner. The audience snickered.

"That's not what I meant," answered Arlene. "I hate the

thought of women naked."

"So you're telling us you don't like women? Are you a

homosexual?" Ticker had Arlene in his teeth and was shaking him

like a puppy with a new rubber toy. Some of the reporters headed

for the doors to call in the story while everyone else in the

room guffawed.

"Damn it," Arlene said in a shrill voice, "that's not what I

said. I'm not a homosexual! I hate homosexuals. They turn my

stomach."

"So you're a bigot then? Do you hate blacks, too? What

about jews?"

"I am not a bigot," Arlene shouted. "I'll get you for this,

you filthy heathen!"

The judge, who'd been laughing along with the rest of us,

decided it was time for some gavel action. "Mr. Arlene, either

you clean up your act or I'll cite you for contempt and you'll

end up sharing a cell with the defendants."

Arlene stood motionless, calming himself. He ran a shaking,

puffy hand through his hair as a heavy flow of Nixon sweat broke

out on his forehead and upper lip.

"I'm sorry, your Honor, for my outburst. People who are

committed to protecting public decency as I am, sometimes

sacrifice decorum to make a point. I humbly apologize."

It wasn't a bad try, but there was still an undertow of

laughter from the peanut gallery. Ticker was back on his feet.

"Mr. District Attorney, you said you felt my clients profit

off of the weaknesses of others. What do you mean by that?"

"They tempt innocent, unsuspecting people and profit from

their weaker impulses. It's absolutely disgusting."

"What disgusts you, Sir, the thought of someone profiting?

Are you against profit? Mr. Arlene, are you now, or have you

ever been, a communist?"

The audience, as one, took in their breath. Back then,

calling someone a communist was the ultimate fighting words, the

"so's your mother" of political insults.

"That's absurd," Arlene answered, lips a quiver, "I,I,I..."

Ticker cut him off. "So you don't deny you are a

communist?" He shot a skinny finger in the D.A.'s face.

"Arlene, why don't you go back to Russia and leave these fine

Americans alone. We don't want your kind around here."

What happened next was like a slow motion fight scene in a

kung fu kick flick. Arlene's mouth moved but no sound came out.

His fingers flexed and unflexed at his sides. A half-breath

later he hunched down and launched himself at Ticker. Missing

his target, he belly-flopped on the defense table. He slithered

across the tabletop until he fell headfirst off the far end.

"I'llllllll kkkiiilllll yyyyooouuu," he shouted. The bailiffs

moved in and grabbed his hands and feet.

District Attorney Thomas Marshall Anthony Arlene kicked and

screamed as he was carried out of court. The proverbial stunned

silence filled the room when the doors were closed.

"Well," Ticker said in his best Jack Benny, "I thought he'd

never leave."

*********

"Are you really a lawyer," I asked as we walked out of City

Hall, free and clear.

"Nope," answered Ticker. "But I never, ever, missed an

episode of Perry Mason."

A black Cadillac pulled up from where it had been waiting

across the street. Carbine Tony pushed past us and grabbed the

car door. A large, graying, middle-aged man came out and walked

over. He wore a shiny leisure suit with white buck shoes.

Don Dominic Tartaglia had arrived.

"Stanley," the Don said in a voice that spoke of alcohol and

Fifth Amendment pledges, "What're you doing out?"

"The case was dismissed, Dominic, everything's jake," I

answered.

Carbine Tony chose that moment to join in. "You should'a

seen it, Boss, this kid here," Carbine Tony pointed at Ticker,

"made Tommy Arlene look like a smacked ass."

"That true," the Don asked.

"Yeah," I answered. "Ticker Turkowski here did one hell of

a job."

The Don fixed a hard gaze on my new friend. "My lawyer send

you over?"

"Not exactly, Sir," Ticker said. "I'm a comic. I was on

stage trying out for a job when the cops came in. Mr. Merlino

here gave me a shot. Helping out seemed like the least I could

do."

"He any good," Dominic asked. "As a comic, I mean."

Ticker gave me a hopeful glance. I waited before answering.

"One of the best I've ever seen."

"We got room in the show," the Don asked.

"I think I can make a spot for him."

The Don smiled at Ticker. "Dominic Tartaglia always pays

his debts. You got a job. A hundred a week and free booze."

A smile broke out across Ticker's face. For the first and

only time in all the time I knew Ticker, he was at a loss for a

comeback. All he could do was nod a couple of times and shake

Dominic's hand. The Don slapped him on the back and headed for

his car. He stopped and turned back to Ticker.

"You're on my team now, Kid. Don't fuck up." A second

later the car pulled away and the Don and Carbine Tony were gone.

I turned toward Ticker. "You have to be the craziest mother

in the world to try what you pulled back there in court, and the

luckiest to get away with it."

Ticker just gave me one of his shit-eating grins.

"I've got one question. You got away from the cops free and

clear. Why in God's name did you come in here? You could've

gotten yourself in a hell of a lot of trouble."

Ticker's goldfish eyes swam laps in his eyeglasses. The

grin widened. "I had to do it. You never gave me back my

C-note."

CHAPTER FIVE - Don't forget to tip your waitress.

Hey, Harvey, how's it going?

Okay, I guess...Doc Heath says I'm in great shape for

someone on enough drugs to knock Keith Richards on his ass.

Seriously...Heath says the chemo and radiation and shit are

doing some good. Personally, I don't know....I get a little

tired now and again, but I'm holding my own.

I know, cut out the holding my own shit or I'll go blind.

And don't forget to tip your waitress, she's working hard.

What? I sent you the right pages...about Ticker Turkowski.

I never said I was writing my memoirs. I told you I was gonna

tell a story about before I became famous. That's what I'm

doing.

...I don't care. I won't talk about the affair with

Stallone's ex-wife...Or the fist fight with Harrison Ford. I

don't care if I won. Just my life back in Philly. At the

Marquee. With Ticker.

...Is there a language barrier here? What did I just say?

No, Ticker and I weren't lovers. Never even kissed. 'Cept

that one time under the boardwalk in Atlantic City, when the

moonlight hit his eyes just right...

Nah, I'm just kidding. No slap and tickle with Ticker.

I won't tell you how it ends. I'll send you the sections as

I finish them. You can let me know how well I'm telling the

story

...You're gonna to have to trust me, that's all. I'm just

gonna write it and the world can like it or lump it.

...Harvey...Harvey...Don't tell me what Tim Allen or Jay

Leno did with their books. I'm not them. And I'll tell you

something else, they're not Stan Merlino, either. Allen would

chew his own arm off for the ratings I got on "Hard Luck Kid." I

buried him in the Neilsen's...Even that last season, when Bill

Clinton did the guest spot on his show.

...And Leno never won an Oscar or a Tony. So don't throw

them in my face.

Absolutely. Ticker Turkowski was real. Jesus God, was he

real. Every pimple and dandruff flake on the guy's ugly head.

Real as cancer.

...I've tried several times. I hired a string of private

detectives but they only came up with one decent lead between

'em. Ticker worked as a carpet salesman in Houston in the early

'70s. After that, zippo. It's like he fell off the face of the

earth.

Hell, maybe he did. A part of me hopes so. As bad as that

sounds.

I'm not sure I want to know that he's been out there all

these years, fat and happy, and the only reason I haven't heard

from him is he didn't want to see me. We were too close.

Yeah. I know it's not the smartest way to approach things.

Goddamn, Harvey! We were not lovers. Get your mind out of

my fucking asshole.

...Okay. No hard feelings. Yeah, I've been working a lot

on it since we first talked. I don't know when exactly, but I'm

making progress. I'll be done before the deadline. We might

even make the early bonus.

I remember. Money hath charms to soothe the savage agent.

You'll see, Harvey, trust me. Stop trying to weasel it out.

Oh, and Harvey, when you talk to the publishers again, make

sure it's set up so Ticker gets part of the money.

At least fifty-fifty, from my end. I know, I know, I

shouldn't talk that way in front of you. But I want Ticker to

get half of everything -- the hardback deal, the paperback

rights, script rights, everything. If we sell Ticker tampons, he

gets his taste. And none of that net profit bullshit Paramount

pulled on Art Buchwald. Ticker gets hard cash on the barrelhead.

You're right, he may not even be alive. If he isn't then I

want his people to get his share.

I owe him that much.

TICKER

a novel by

Eric Christensen

CHAPTER SIX - His name up in ink.

I caught Ticker playing peek-a-boo with the new sign outside

the entrance to the club. You know, covering and uncovering his

face, looking surprised every time he opened his eyes. When he

saw me he ran up and pulled me over to the entrance.

"Look at it, Stan. Isn't it fantastic?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"This," he said, pointing toward the poster case. "It's a

work of art."

"You're fulla shit," I said.

"No I'm not. I got my name up in ink. I'm a star."

The new sign was in black and white since the printer

charged extra for colors. The lettering was in simple blocks,

identical to what you'd find on an eviction notice.

It read:

***************************************

THE MARQUEE CLUB PROUDLY PRESENTS

TARZAN LIL

AND HER DANCING AMAZONS!!!

EVERYONE A NATURAL BEAUTY!!!!

APPEARING NIGHTLY

**************************

FEATURING

"D.A. KILLER" BERNIE TURKOWSKI

WITH STAN MERLINO, MASTER OF CEREMONIES

***************************************

"T'aint it wonderful, Stan?" He sounded like Scarlett

O'Hara. "Can you believe only two weeks here and I get star

billing."

I gave him a look. "You know hitting the sauce this early

means you got a problem."

"Bullshit. I'm high on life."

"Good choice. No munchies and you won't do time if they

catch you holding."

I'd never inhaled myself, you understand. I'd just heard

about recreational medicines from a calypso band I once opened

for in Havana, before Castro took over.

"This is it, Stan. Who knows how far I can go from here."

"You sure as hell won't go to jail. After what you did to

Tommy Arlene, nobody'd dare touch you."

There was a gleam in Ticker's eyes. "I know I'm going to

make it. And I'm going to take you with me."

I laughed. "I can see it now, you hitting it big and me

introducing strippers at the Palace."

I think I might have mentioned that Ticker was 21 years old

or so when he first came to the Marquee, and I was just past 40,

but we more or less just fell into being friends right from the

start. Best friends, as corny as that shit sounds. We were

punchline blood brothers, even though he had a big edge on me in

the talent department.

I looked at my watch. We were late for rehearsal. "Come

on, Mr. Star Billing," I said. "We'd better get in."

In the club, people were scurrying like army ants at a fire

drill. It was opening night for "our jungle nightmare," as

Ticker called it. (He went along with being introduced as

"Tarzan of the Jokemen," but he balked at wearing the loincloth.)

Lil was at the end of the runway firing orders. Ticker and I

headed for the bar.

"Haul your dead ass!" Lil was shouting at Muddy. He moved

at half-speed. On purpose. All the while he stared blankly at

Lil's knockers, just to bug her.

Everyone stared at Lil's beachfront property. Even the

chest doctor who built them called her snowcaps some of his best

work.

"What in holy shit is wrong with you," she bellowed.

"Didn't I tell you to move the fucking bush over there. You need

fucking sign language?"

The story behind Lil's amazon extravaganza is interesting.

Word got out about Tommy Arlene getting his tail torn off by

"that little degenerate," from the Marquee, as Arlene described

Ticker the next day at a news conference. For days afterward

reporters swamped the place. "Strip Joint Comic Breaks DA," read

the headline of the Philadelphia Daily News. Two TV stations

even interviewed him on the late news. We got better crowds than

any time since the Great Gang War of 1967.

(In case you don't remember, the Philly mob families went to

war for six months after "Grease Spot" Marzoni, one of "Hairy

Manny" Tolino's chief lieutenants, was found floating face down

in the ladies crapper at the Grecian Social Club in West Oak

Lane.)

Anyway, it was almost SRO at the Marquee after Ticker's

courtroom gambit. This prompted Lil to approach Don Dominic with

a delicately phrased proposition.

"I'm fucking ashamed of this piss-ant show," she said.

"Either you put some class in this fucking place, or I'm gonna

shake it somewhere else."

The Don always blanched when Lil made threats. And not just

because he was pussywhipped. No, Dominic Tartaglia sincerely

believed women should be put up on a pedestal - mostly to stop

'em from turning state's evidence.

So he got on the phone and ordered new costumes and sheet

music. Suddenly it was Broadway on Race Street.

There were girls everywhere. Some were milling about,

reading, others smoking, a few adjusting new costumes and

otherwise killing time between Lil's tirades. Occasionally, you

might see a girl practicing a dance step or two. A carpenter was

creeping around the crawl space in the ceiling looking for a

place to attach the vine Lil wanted to swing in on when she made

her entrance during the show.

Ticker looked around and waved his drink at all the

activity. "God's in His heaven, Stan, and all's right with the

world," he said.

"Hey shithead," Lil yelled at Ticker. "Get your ass up here

and rehearse. You've got 20 minutes in this show. And you'd

better not pull any more of your shit or I'll tear you a new

asshole. You got me?"

Ticker gulped the last of his drink and headed toward the

stage. Lil was still pissed because every night Ticker had

worked at the club he went long beyond his time. Hell, the crowd

wouldn't let him off if he tried to leave.

"And I don't want to hear anymore about my tits. These

babies earned me 25 grand last year, and I won't have some snot-

nose little shitass making fun of them. And no more jokes about

the show, either. This is a high class production, so keep your

fucking mouth shut about it."

"Fine, Lil," answered Ticker, "Would you mind if I just dry-

humped one of the palm trees?"

Lil looked like she was debating whether to ask Don Dominic

to give him a "Marquee Special." A "Marquee Special," was when

Don Dominic or one of his employees would stick a penknife in a

victim as deep as it would go, "and walk around a couple of

times." I knew one guy, Salvatore "Magic Toes" Cerelli, who got

one and almost survived - both halves of him.

Ticker stared back at her. "What about what the Don said

the other night? Am I going to close the show?"

The truth was that none of the girls wanted to follow him on

stage. "He get the bastards so worked up," said Teena, one of

the dancers, "he joke the tips right outta them."

"You bet your ass you're closing the show," Lil said. "I'm

not going to follow you with your blow-up fuck dolls and all of

your shit. But you got 20 minutes. One second longer and you're

cat food. You got me?"

Ticker moved to the mike. He started in on a new improv

routine. I fixed myself another drink -- a bloody mary, since it

was still morning -- and listened.

The bit had come out of an incident I'd witnessed a couple

of days before. He and I were out knocking around before work

when we stopped for some fudge at one of the little shops outside

of Reading Terminal. We went in this candy shop, took a number

and got in line. After a while the kid behind the counter calls

our number.

Ticker leans over the register. "Oh, Fudge Steward? What

kind of fudge would you recommend with waterfowl?"

The kid gives him a blank stare. "Huh?"

"I think I'd like a dry fudge, maybe a precocious peanut

butter. Or a domestic, full-bodied, butterscotch, perhaps."

"You want chocolate?" The kid was lost. I'm trying to keep

a straight face while Ticker keeps pushing.

Never mind," Ticker said. "I'll take a magnum of your

finest vanilla, without nuts. And let it breathe for precisely

five minutes before you put it in the bag."

Then he made the kid sign and date the register receipt.

"For tax purposes. You understand."

About half way through the bit, Marcie Coulter -- Luau Lulu

from the Hawaiian show -- appeared from behind the curtain and

crossed behind Ticker. Now, maybe half a dozen girls had done

the same thing and he hadn't said a word. Not a peep. But

Marcie comes out and he stops in mid-sentence and jumps off stage

behind her.

"What'cha doing, Marcie," he asked. His voice actually

cracked a bit.

"What?"

"I-I was just wondering what you were doing, that's all."

Marcie gave him a look like she'd caught him wiping his

hands on her coat. "I'm not doing anything. Why?"

"I, uh, I just thought you might be doing something."

"I'll be sure and let you know the next time I do anything,"

Marcie said.

Ticker stood there and stared at Marcie's back as she walked

away. After a couple of seconds he shook his head like he was

coming out of a trance and shouted to Lil that he was done. Then

he joined me at the bar.

Marcie was the only girl at the club that Ticker ever

noticed. From that first night when he followed her up on stage

for his try-out act, she was the only one he ever pumped me for

information about.

I could understand why. Before Ticker came along Marci and

I had dated a few times. Even slept together once or twice. By

that time, however, we'd reached the "just friends" stage.

The great thing was that we really were friends. Marcie had

an easy-to-like way about her; the kind of personality that

attracted friends like roach motels draw roaches.

Marcie, who sometimes danced under the names Misty, Stormy,

Tushy, Blondie and Inger the Stinger, was from old Beacon Hill-

Boston money. From the day she was born her family wanted her to

go to a stodgy New England prep school, marry a stodgy Harvard

lawyer, join a stodgy country club and raise two or three stodgy,

Republican children. Unfortunately, no one consulted Marcie

about the plan.

The way Marcie told it after our first session in bed, her

life really changed the night she and a date wandered into the

Pup Tent, a little college bar off the Commons in Boston. Marcie

was 18 years old and a freshman at Vassar home for the holidays.

She must've looked older because no one questioned her at the

door. Nobody said anything, either, when she downed a barrelful

of tequila sunrises.

Somewhere around the ninth round of Mexican sunshine Marcie

heard, as she called it, "the Word." And "the Word" was "Dance."

So she did. On her table. Then she heard three more words.

"Take It Off" -- from the audience. So she did that, too. She

was so good the cops let her do two curtain calls before they

hauled her away.

The next day, Marcie's parents wouldn't have been more

hurt if she'd run off and married a New Deal Democrat. They

talked about counseling and boarding schools and doctors, but

she'd shimmied down the drain pipe and thumbed her way 50 miles

south on US 1 before they could decide. Marcie never went back

home again. "I'm not much of a music lover," she told me "and I

couldn't stand any more choruses of the bullshit serenade."

I could tell from the way Marcie's eyes clouded up when she

told me her story she didn't really mean it. Maybe I'm just a

dime store psychologist, but I never believed Marcie was as tough

as she wanted people to think.

In the looks department, Marcie was in triple figures with a

bullet. She was a shade over six feet tall, had bleached blonde

hair in a beehive hairdo and a body that was packed tighter than

an interstate at rush hour. Marcie had what Ticker described as

"Guiness Tits," the kind that belong in the record books.

What was so surprising about the little exchange between

Ticker and Marcie that day was that Ticker spoke to her at all.

Up to that point, all he'd done was watch every move she made and

sit ringside with tips whenever she danced. But he hadn't yet

said a word directly to her.

After a minute or so of drinking in silence, Ticker asked

"do you think she likes me?"

"Who?"

"Annette Funicello. Who do you think? Do you think Marcie

likes me?"

"Well, let's see. She's beautiful, sophisticated. She has

poise, style and taste. She doesn't know you exist."

That pissed him off. "Marcie does have taste. She dumped

you, didn't she?"

"We're just friends."

Ticker waited a beat. "Is she seeing anyone now?"

"I don't know. Why, prey tell, do you ask?"

"I'm curious. I have a thirst for knowledge."

"Right." It hadn't taken me long to figure out that females

were Ticker's kryptonite, and I was rubbing salt into an open

wound, if you'll pardon the mixed metaphor.

"What would you say to asking Marcie out for me?" His voice

was so low I almost needed subtitles.

"Why don't you ask her out yourself?"

Ticker looked at me. There was a crossword puzzle of

emotions in his eyes.

"Don't tell you've never been on a date," I asked.

"Sure, I've been on lots of them." We both knew he was

lying. "But Marcie's different."

"How? She puts her pasties on one boob at a time. Just

like everyone else."

"Yeah, but she's different."

"Hell, You're different. The two of you ought to be a match

made in heaven. Ask her out yourself."

"I guess I'll have to, won't I." He turned and headed

toward the dressing rooms.

Somehow I just knew it wouldn't be the last time Ticker

brought up Marcie "Inger the Stinger" Coulter in conversation.

TO BE CONTINUED!