Funnymen by Ted Heller Page A

. . . just get lost for a while.”
    She's a got a look on that face of hers like I'm trying to explain relativity to her. Huh?!
    â€œThere are people,” I say, “people who work for the Pompiere family in Jersey, and they're coming here to kill you. Lou Manganese is on his way as we speak, my contacts are telling me. They're going to cut you into two pieces and send one piece to your parents and the other to Harry so he knows they did the job.”
    And her teeth, those big buck teeth, I tell you, they were twitching! And she says, “But . . . but what about my career? ”
    I was almost bursting at the seams! I wanted to say, “Honey, a wax pear's got more charisma than you do.” But I said instead, “Dolly, sweetheart, this is your life we're talking about.” And I handed her an envelope and inside were two tickets. I said to her, still whispering solemnly, “Go to New York, Grand Central Station. And then go to Laramie, Wyoming. When you get to the Laramie depot you'll be met there by a man with an eye patch named Millard La Chance. He'll set you up there. He'll give you ten, maybe fifteen grand to start over. You'll be safe there. You have my guarantee. And when things have settled down, we'll send for you and you can return. But not until then.”
    She was sniffling a little.
    â€œDolly,” I said, “you better get moving. Time is of the essence like you got no idea.”
    I helped her pack. And all the time I'm looking out the window as if two hit men were about to drive up with Thompson submachine guns.
    We're in my car heading toward the bus station to get to New York.
    She asks me, “What's the name of this fella with the eye patch again?”
    â€œIt's Millard La Grange,” I said. “Right?”
    She said, “No. I think it was La Chance you said.”
    â€œOh yeah, right,” I said. “La Chance. That's it. Right.”
    For all I know, Dolly Phipps is still wandering around Laramie, fucking Wyoming, looking for some guy with an eye patch named Millard La Chance.

    â€¢ • •

    RAY FONTANA: I saw the Don Leslie band at the Ambassador, sure. And you could hear 'em Fridays on the radio, brought to you by Elgin watches. One time Vic put me on the comp list and I brought my wife, who was then just some girl I was seeing.
    The whole band wore white tuxedos. Don Leslie, though, he wore white tails. It was the kind of music where you expected champagne bubbles to float out of the tuba. This wasn't my kind of music and, to be honest, I felt out of place, me an Italian fisherman with all these swells and debutantes. But Vic looked like he belonged up there. He slicked back his hair so it wasn't hanging all over his face. And when that voice came out his mouth I looked around—I thought it was a joke. This isn't Vic singing! That's what I thought, that someone else was singing and he was just up there moving his mouth. But it was him.
    I don't know if it was his idea or Don Leslie's but Vic wasn't wearing white. He was the only one. The lady singer [Ruth Whitley] wore white too. But Vic had on this powder blue tux and matching shoes. And when I saw that, I remembered! The choir. When he was in that choir, he'd wear a different color too.

    GUY PUGLIA: Two hundred a week—this was the most dough Vic had ever made in his life by far. I remember I called 'em two hundred clams once and Vic says to me, “Please, they ain't clams.” You just couldn't bring up seafood to him . . . it was like a jinx.
    And he got a car too, his first car. A black Buick Century coupe. Used.
    But with all that dough we was still staying at the Monroe.
    Don Leslie, he tried to play father to him, but that Ozzie Nelson routine didn't go too far. First thing Leslie did was change Vic's name from Fontana to Fontaine, like in Joan Fontaine. He bought Vic clothing, told him about fine food. He's trying to tell Vic that you should have this winewith this