do. I wished I could consult her mommy on this. Merilee was a pro. Lulu would listen to her. But I was on my own now. Alone. All I could do was hope she soon returned to her senses, such as they are.
Matthew and Johnny came strolling back. Johnny climbed onto his Fat Boy and started it up.
“Stay in touch, okay?” Matthew urged him. “You always have a home here, Johnny. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know that,” Johnny said, nodding his canary yellow head. “Thanks, man.” Then he sped off.
Matthew watched him go. “Problems with his love life,” he volunteered. “He’s been seriously involved with somebody lately, and he just found out the guy’s seeing somebody else on the side. He doesn’t know what to do now. I thought he should confront him. Get it out in the open.”
I nodded. Badger’s dad would have advised just that.
We got back on our own machines and rode on, Lulu trotting alongside.
“Does he often come to you with his personal problems?” I asked.
“Always has,” Matthew replied. “I’ve been directing Johnny since he was seven years old. He got so used to asking me what his character’s attitude should be that he kept right on asking me, even when the cameras weren’t rolling. I guess I’m kind of like a father to him. He’s pretty messed up, but he’s a good kid, really. And he had a terrible time of it when he was little. That mother of his is a horrible, greedy bitch. She never let him be a kid. When he first came in to read for The Boy Who Cried Wolf he didn’t even know how to throw a baseball or ride a bike. He’d never been to a regular school, never had any pals. He was the family breadwinner, and she drove him beyond belief. Screamed at him, beat him with a hairbrush if he muffed his lines. Got him so upset he’d vomit between takes. It was awful for the poor kid. She’s back in Canada now, thank God.”
“Who manages him now?” I asked.
“He’s with the Harmon Wright Agency,” Matthew replied.
I flinched at the name. Inwardly, apparently. He took no note of it.
“Joey Bam Bam is the guy who handles him,” he added.
“Joey Bam Bam?”
“Johnny’s very happy with him.”
We pedaled our way out of Homewood. An alley took us by some prop warehouses and then to a big garage, where Matthew stopped and got off his bike.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” he said. “Come on in.”
The sliding garage doors were locked. He used a key to unlock them, then slid one open and went in and flicked on a light. I followed him in.
A dozen or so cars were stored in there. The first one he led me to was a long, low drag racer with chrome pipes. Its body was fashioned out of a coffin, complete with purple velvet upholstery.
“Recognize it?” he asked, grinning at me eagerly.
I shook my head. “Should I?”
“It’s Grandpa Munster’s Dragula, Meat,” he exclaimed. “You know, from The Munsters —the TV series. George Barris designed it. He was the customizer of the sixties. I bought it at an auction. I’ve got a bunch of his. Here, here, this one’s my pride and joy …” He whipped the cover off a low-slung black convertible with tail fins. It looked somewhat like a 1955 Lincoln Futura dream car. “The Batmobile, Meat,” he proclaimed with great pride. “Not the fake one from that awful movie, either. This is the one from the TV show. The real Batmobile. Cost me plenty,” he confided, patting it lovingly. “But how can you put a price tag on something like this?”
“You can’t.”
“Most of these I got at auctions.” He pointed them out, one by one. “That ’28 Porter over there’s the talking car from My Mother the Car. Totally authentic, right down to the license plate: PZR 317.”
“Does it—?”
“No, it doesn’t talk. And believe me, you’re not the first person who’s asked that. There’s Maxwell Smart’s Sunbeam Alpine from Get Smart. The motorcycle and sidecar are Colonel Klink’s from Hogan’s Heroes
Matthew and Johnny came strolling back. Johnny climbed onto his Fat Boy and started it up.
“Stay in touch, okay?” Matthew urged him. “You always have a home here, Johnny. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know that,” Johnny said, nodding his canary yellow head. “Thanks, man.” Then he sped off.
Matthew watched him go. “Problems with his love life,” he volunteered. “He’s been seriously involved with somebody lately, and he just found out the guy’s seeing somebody else on the side. He doesn’t know what to do now. I thought he should confront him. Get it out in the open.”
I nodded. Badger’s dad would have advised just that.
We got back on our own machines and rode on, Lulu trotting alongside.
“Does he often come to you with his personal problems?” I asked.
“Always has,” Matthew replied. “I’ve been directing Johnny since he was seven years old. He got so used to asking me what his character’s attitude should be that he kept right on asking me, even when the cameras weren’t rolling. I guess I’m kind of like a father to him. He’s pretty messed up, but he’s a good kid, really. And he had a terrible time of it when he was little. That mother of his is a horrible, greedy bitch. She never let him be a kid. When he first came in to read for The Boy Who Cried Wolf he didn’t even know how to throw a baseball or ride a bike. He’d never been to a regular school, never had any pals. He was the family breadwinner, and she drove him beyond belief. Screamed at him, beat him with a hairbrush if he muffed his lines. Got him so upset he’d vomit between takes. It was awful for the poor kid. She’s back in Canada now, thank God.”
“Who manages him now?” I asked.
“He’s with the Harmon Wright Agency,” Matthew replied.
I flinched at the name. Inwardly, apparently. He took no note of it.
“Joey Bam Bam is the guy who handles him,” he added.
“Joey Bam Bam?”
“Johnny’s very happy with him.”
We pedaled our way out of Homewood. An alley took us by some prop warehouses and then to a big garage, where Matthew stopped and got off his bike.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” he said. “Come on in.”
The sliding garage doors were locked. He used a key to unlock them, then slid one open and went in and flicked on a light. I followed him in.
A dozen or so cars were stored in there. The first one he led me to was a long, low drag racer with chrome pipes. Its body was fashioned out of a coffin, complete with purple velvet upholstery.
“Recognize it?” he asked, grinning at me eagerly.
I shook my head. “Should I?”
“It’s Grandpa Munster’s Dragula, Meat,” he exclaimed. “You know, from The Munsters —the TV series. George Barris designed it. He was the customizer of the sixties. I bought it at an auction. I’ve got a bunch of his. Here, here, this one’s my pride and joy …” He whipped the cover off a low-slung black convertible with tail fins. It looked somewhat like a 1955 Lincoln Futura dream car. “The Batmobile, Meat,” he proclaimed with great pride. “Not the fake one from that awful movie, either. This is the one from the TV show. The real Batmobile. Cost me plenty,” he confided, patting it lovingly. “But how can you put a price tag on something like this?”
“You can’t.”
“Most of these I got at auctions.” He pointed them out, one by one. “That ’28 Porter over there’s the talking car from My Mother the Car. Totally authentic, right down to the license plate: PZR 317.”
“Does it—?”
“No, it doesn’t talk. And believe me, you’re not the first person who’s asked that. There’s Maxwell Smart’s Sunbeam Alpine from Get Smart. The motorcycle and sidecar are Colonel Klink’s from Hogan’s Heroes
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