Chapter One
The Lucky Lounge 1956
“I couldn’t trust my wife, that’s why we got a divorce.” Sam E. took a drag of his Pall Mall. He blew a heavy smoke cloud into the dark room. “She didn’t come home one night. And the next day, when I asked her where she was, she said with her sister Phyllis. I knew she was lying.” He sipped from his scotch just long enough for the room to hush. “Because I spent the night with Phyllis.”
The crowd burst into laughter. Syd Tate, the drummer of The Syd Tate Quartet hit double rim shots on his snare, ending it with a smash to his crash cymbal. Sam E. glanced to the side of the floor stage and winked at a busty blonde standing behind the curtain wings. She puckered her lips at him.
“Any of you folks encounter a spaceship yet?” he asked. “According to the newsreels they’re all around us.” He wiggled his fingers above his shoulders, and said in a spooky voice, “Waaaoooooh.” The crowd chuckled. “A couple of spacemen went to a Mars nightclub, but they left because it had no atmosphere.” Syd Tate foot-thumped a ba-dawp on his bass drum.
“Seriously,” Sam E. said. “If an athlete gets athlete’s foot, what does an alien get? Missile toe?” He stepped from the floor stage center, to the front, where an elderly couple was seated. A cobalt spotlight trailed him like a coal car dogging a locomotive. “Where you folks from?”
“Texas,” the man said.
“Texas,” Sam E. repeated to the audience. “A Texas oil baron went to the dentist for a check-up. The dentist said, ‘Everything’s fine’. The baron said, ‘Drill anyway, I feel lucky’.” Laughter floated across the blue velvet walls.
“What brings you fine folks across the border to Las Vegas?” Sam E. puffed on his cigarette.
“We’re newlyweds!” the old man said.
Sam E. bugged his eyes and acted as if he had choked on his cigarette smoke. A shriek of laughter echoed from the back of the crowded club. “I was in a bar the other day with a fellow of your vintage,” he said to the man.
The elderly man smiled, as the spotlight lassoed the couple and settled back on Sam E.
“The old man was crying. I said, ‘What’s the matter, old timer?’” Sam E. glanced back at the busty blonde standing in the wings. She waved and licked her maraschino lips. His eyes widened briefly, and returned to the couple. “The man says, ‘I married a beautiful woman’.” Sam E. smiled at the elderly man’s wife. She smiled and leaned into her husband. “‘She’s twenty-eight years my junior, built like Gina Lollabrigida, and wants to make whoopee every night’. ‘Jeez’, I says to the old guy, ‘what are you crying for?’” Sam E. skimmed the crowded room, there was an electric hush, not even a rock glass was clinking. I got ’em, he thought. “And the old guy says to me, ‘I’m crying because I can’t remember where I live!’” The crowd crowed with laughter. The Syd Tate Quartet hit a soaring C chord. Sam E. thought, I hit it out of the park! He shook the elderly couple’s hands, and said, “Thanks for being great sports.” He grabbed a passing waiter. “Give these folks a drink, with my compliments.”
A series of spotlights, like scattering UFOs, darted across the cheering crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice over a PA, said,
“Mr. Sam E. Lakeside!”
The audience stood and the cheering renewed itself. Sam E. bowed and threw a kiss with his palm. He glanced one more time at the chesty blonde in the wings, but a diminutive, pointy-nosed
man in a blue-satin suit and a small-brimmed fedora was standing where she had been. Sam E. saluted the exuberant crowd with his scotch. As he strutted off stage, the PA voice said, “On behalf of The Lucky Lounge and Casino, thank-you and enjoy your stay.”
He walked into the wings toward Syd Tate, who was packing his drumsticks. As he did, he passed the diminutive man, who doffed his hat and smiled at Sam E.
“Have you seen Mitzi? She was just here,” Sam E. said to Syd.
“I wouldn’t know,” Syd replied. “Not since you took my dressing room.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Sure you didn’t.” Syd brusquely walked away.
“Sore sport,” Sam E. muttered to himself.
“Sam, it’s your agent,” a slim, thin-haired janitor, standing by the back-stage door, said. He handed Sam E. the receiver from a wall phone hanging next to him.
“Doc,” he said, “I just finished the show…Yeah, I killed ‘em… What do you mean I won’t be here next week?…But I like this place. Did they dump me?…The Steve Allen Show? You’re kidding me, right?…Yeeeaaaah!” He hopped in a small circle, tangling the cord around his shoulders. “Doc, I love you!” Unraveling the cord, he added, “Oh, and Marge too!” Before hanging up the receiver Sam E. grabbed the janitor by the shoulders and said, “I’m going to New York, Herkie, The Steve Allen Show!”
“I gathered that.”
“Have you seen Mitzi? I want to give her the good news.”
The janitor shrugged. “Maybe your dressing room.”
Sam E. zipped down the hall and into his dressing room. The small, messy room was empty except for the diminutive man in the fedora. He was leaning against the wall filing his nails. He stopped briefly to again tip his hat.
“Who the hell are you?” Sam E. walked up to the man. “And where’s Mitzi?”
“Sorry, friend, but I get to ask the questions.” The man slipped a spit-polish black .45 from his shoulder holster and shoved it against Sam E.’s forehead. “And my first question is, ‘Would you like to take a walk?’”
Die Laughing
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Louis K. Lowy/IFWG Publishing, Inc.
IFWG Publishing Inc.
ISBN-13: 978-0615518466 / ISBN-10: 061551846X
The crowd burst into laughter. Syd Tate, the drummer of The Syd Tate Quartet hit double rim shots on his snare, ending it with a smash to his crash cymbal. Sam E. glanced to the side of the floor stage and winked at a busty blonde standing behind the curtain wings. She puckered her lips at him.
“Any of you folks encounter a spaceship yet?” he asked. “According to the newsreels they’re all around us.” He wiggled his fingers above his shoulders, and said in a spooky voice, “Waaaoooooh.” The crowd chuckled. “A couple of spacemen went to a Mars nightclub, but they left because it had no atmosphere.” Syd Tate foot-thumped a ba-dawp on his bass drum.
“Seriously,” Sam E. said. “If an athlete gets athlete’s foot, what does an alien get? Missile toe?” He stepped from the floor stage center, to the front, where an elderly couple was seated. A cobalt spotlight trailed him like a coal car dogging a locomotive. “Where you folks from?”
“Texas,” the man said.
“Texas,” Sam E. repeated to the audience. “A Texas oil baron went to the dentist for a check-up. The dentist said, ‘Everything’s fine’. The baron said, ‘Drill anyway, I feel lucky’.” Laughter floated across the blue velvet walls.
“What brings you fine folks across the border to Las Vegas?” Sam E. puffed on his cigarette.
“We’re newlyweds!” the old man said.
Sam E. bugged his eyes and acted as if he had choked on his cigarette smoke. A shriek of laughter echoed from the back of the crowded club. “I was in a bar the other day with a fellow of your vintage,” he said to the man.
The elderly man smiled, as the spotlight lassoed the couple and settled back on Sam E.
“The old man was crying. I said, ‘What’s the matter, old timer?’” Sam E. glanced back at the busty blonde standing in the wings. She waved and licked her maraschino lips. His eyes widened briefly, and returned to the couple. “The man says, ‘I married a beautiful woman’.” Sam E. smiled at the elderly man’s wife. She smiled and leaned into her husband. “‘She’s twenty-eight years my junior, built like Gina Lollabrigida, and wants to make whoopee every night’. ‘Jeez’, I says to the old guy, ‘what are you crying for?’” Sam E. skimmed the crowded room, there was an electric hush, not even a rock glass was clinking. I got ’em, he thought. “And the old guy says to me, ‘I’m crying because I can’t remember where I live!’” The crowd crowed with laughter. The Syd Tate Quartet hit a soaring C chord. Sam E. thought, I hit it out of the park! He shook the elderly couple’s hands, and said, “Thanks for being great sports.” He grabbed a passing waiter. “Give these folks a drink, with my compliments.”
A series of spotlights, like scattering UFOs, darted across the cheering crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice over a PA, said,
“Mr. Sam E. Lakeside!”
The audience stood and the cheering renewed itself. Sam E. bowed and threw a kiss with his palm. He glanced one more time at the chesty blonde in the wings, but a diminutive, pointy-nosed
man in a blue-satin suit and a small-brimmed fedora was standing where she had been. Sam E. saluted the exuberant crowd with his scotch. As he strutted off stage, the PA voice said, “On behalf of The Lucky Lounge and Casino, thank-you and enjoy your stay.”
He walked into the wings toward Syd Tate, who was packing his drumsticks. As he did, he passed the diminutive man, who doffed his hat and smiled at Sam E.
“Have you seen Mitzi? She was just here,” Sam E. said to Syd.
“I wouldn’t know,” Syd replied. “Not since you took my dressing room.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
“Sure you didn’t.” Syd brusquely walked away.
“Sore sport,” Sam E. muttered to himself.
“Sam, it’s your agent,” a slim, thin-haired janitor, standing by the back-stage door, said. He handed Sam E. the receiver from a wall phone hanging next to him.
“Doc,” he said, “I just finished the show…Yeah, I killed ‘em… What do you mean I won’t be here next week?…But I like this place. Did they dump me?…The Steve Allen Show? You’re kidding me, right?…Yeeeaaaah!” He hopped in a small circle, tangling the cord around his shoulders. “Doc, I love you!” Unraveling the cord, he added, “Oh, and Marge too!” Before hanging up the receiver Sam E. grabbed the janitor by the shoulders and said, “I’m going to New York, Herkie, The Steve Allen Show!”
“I gathered that.”
“Have you seen Mitzi? I want to give her the good news.”
The janitor shrugged. “Maybe your dressing room.”
Sam E. zipped down the hall and into his dressing room. The small, messy room was empty except for the diminutive man in the fedora. He was leaning against the wall filing his nails. He stopped briefly to again tip his hat.
“Who the hell are you?” Sam E. walked up to the man. “And where’s Mitzi?”
“Sorry, friend, but I get to ask the questions.” The man slipped a spit-polish black .45 from his shoulder holster and shoved it against Sam E.’s forehead. “And my first question is, ‘Would you like to take a walk?’”
Die Laughing
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Louis K. Lowy/IFWG Publishing, Inc.
IFWG Publishing Inc.
ISBN-13: 978-0615518466 / ISBN-10: 061551846X
