A Good Story and Other Stories

Good Night! Good Night!

Pain.

Pain in his chest, and in his stomach, and in his leg. And a girl was singing to him, her voice too loud. And it was dark, with shifting blue-gray forms in the distance.

I’m Don Denton, he thought. I’ve hurt myself.

How? How have I hurt myself?

But the girl was singing too loudly, and it was impossible to think, and figure it out. And his terrific visual memory — so great a help to him as an actor — was of no help to him now. He felt himself falling away again, blacking out again, and with sudden terror he knew he wasn’t fading into sleep, he was fading into death.

He had to wake up. Open the eyes, force the eyes open, make the eyes open. Listen to that damn loud girl, listen to her, concentrate on the words of the song, force the mind to work.

It was dark, blue-gray dark, and his eyelids were terribly heavy. He forced them up, wanting to see, wondering why the singing girl and the blue-gray dark.

Oh. The television set. All the lights in the room were off, and the shades were drawn against the night-glow of the city. Only the television lit the room, with shifting blues.

As he watched, the girl stopped singing and bowed to thunderous applause. And then he saw himself, striding across the stage, smiling and clapping his hands together, and memory came flooding back.

He was Don Denton, and this was Wednesday night, between the hours of eight and nine, and on the television screen he was watching The Don Denton Variety Show, taped that afternoon.

The Don Denton Variety Show was, in television jargon, live-on-tape. The show that he was watching now was not a kinescope of a previously presented program, nor was it motion picture utilizing the cutting and editing techniques of film. Since it was neither, since it had been run through just as though it actually were going on the air at the time it had been performed, it was a “live” show, even though it had actually been recorded on videotape three hours before airtime. Union requirements and other factors made it and more feasible to do the show between five and six than between eight and nine.

At the end of the show, at nine o’clock, an announcer would rapidly mumble the information that the show had been prerecorded and that the audience reaction had been technically augmented — a euphemism for canned laughter and canned applause — and so honesty and integrity would be maintained.

Denton watched all his own shows, not because he was an egotist — though he was — but out of a professional need to study his own product, to be sure that it at least did not deteriorate and, if possible, to see how it could be improved.

Tonight, after finishing the show, he had had dinner at the Athens Room and then had come home, where he now was, to watch the show. He was alone in the apartment, of course; he never permitted anyone else to be in the place while he was watching one of his shows. He had come home, changed into slacks and sport shirt and slippers, made himself a drink, flicked on the television set, and settled himself in the chair with the specially-built right arm. The arm of this chair was a miniature desk, with two small drawers in the side and a flat wooden workspace on top, where he rested his notebook.

Across the room, the eight o’clock commercials had flickered across the television screen, and then the opening credits of The Don Denton Variety Show had come on. He had watched and listened in approval as his name was mentioned by the announcer and appeared on the screen three times each, and then the fanfare had blared forth, the camera had been trained on the empty curtain-faced stage, and through a part in the curtain had come the tiny image of himself, in response to a thunderous burst of applause from the tape recorder in the control booth.

He had frowned. Too much applause? The studio audience’s efforts were — jargon again — “technically augmented” in the control booth, and the augmentation tonight might have been just a little too enthusiastic. He had made a note of it.

The image of himself on the television screen had smiled and spoken and cracked a joke. Sitting in his chair at home, Don Denton had nodded approvingly. Then the image had introduced a girl singer, and Denton had turned over the pad to doodle awhile on its back. And then—

Yes. Now that memory came back, too, and he understood at last how he had been hurt. The apartment door, off there to his right, had suddenly opened, he remembered that now, and he...

He turned annoyed. The show was on, damn it, he was not to be disturbed. They all knew that, knew better than to come here between eight and nine on a Wednesday night.

The only light came from the hall, behind the intruder, so that he — or she — was silhouetted, features blacked out. It was January outside, and the intruder was encased in a bulky overcoat, so Denton couldn’t even tell whether it was a man or a woman.

He half-rose from the chair, frowning in anger. “What the hell do you—?”

Then there was a yellow-white flash from the center of the silhouetted figure, and the beginning of a thunderclap, and silence.

Until he heard the girl again, singing too loudly.

He’d been shot! Someone — who? — had come in here and shot him!

He sat slumped in the chair, trying to figure out where in his body the bullet might be and the extent of the damage. His legs ached, with a throbbing numbness. There was a clammy weight in his stomach, pressing him down, nauseating him. But the bullet wasn’t there, nor in his legs. Higher, it was higher, higher...

There!

Inside the chest, high on the right side, a burning core, a tiny center of heat and pain radiating out to the rest of his body. There it was, still within him, and he knew it was a bad wound, a terribly bad wound...

A crowd applauded, and he was startled. He focused his eyes again, saw himself again on the television screen, stepping back and to the side as the comic came out — “It’s a funny thing about these new cars...” — And just to the right of the television set was the telephone on its stand.

He had to get help. The bullet was still in his chest, it was a terribly bad wound, he had to get help. He had to stand; he had to walk across the room to the telephone; he had to call for help.

He moved his right arm, and the arm seemed far away, the hand a million miles away, pushing through thick water. He tried to lean forward, and the pain buffeted him, slapping him back into the seat. He gripped the chair arms with hands that were a million miles away; he slowly pulled himself forward, grimacing against the pain an the effort.

But his legs wouldn’t work. He was paralyzed below the waist, nothing but his arms and his head were still working. He was dying, good God, he was dying, death was creeping slowly through his body. He had to get help before death reached his heart.

He tugged himself forward, and the pain lashed him, and his mouth stretched open in what should have been a scream. But no sound at all came out, only the strained rush of air. He couldn’t make a sound.

The television set laughed with a thousand voices.

He looked again at the screen, the comic leering there. “Please,” he whispered.

“ ‘That’s all right,’ she says,” the comic answered. “ ‘I got an extra engine in the trunk.’ ”

The television set roared.

Bowing, bowing, on the screen, the comic winked at the dying man, laughed and waved and ran away.

Then the unwounded image of himself came back, tiny and colorless, but whole and sound, breathing and laughing, alive and sure. “That was great, Andy, great!” The image grinned up at him from the screen, asked him, “Wasn’t it?”

“Please,” he whispered.

“Who do you suppose we have next?” the image asked him, twinkling. “Who?”

Who? Who had done this? He had to know who had done this, who had shot him, who had tried to murder him.

He couldn’t think. A busy spider scurried across his brain, trailing gray threads of fuzzy silk, webbing him in, slurring his thoughts.

No! He had to know who!

A key. There was a clear thought. A key, it had to be someone with a key. Remembering, thinking back, he seemed to hear again the tiny click of a key, just before the door had swung open.

They had to have a key; he had locked the door; he remembered that. The door was always locked, this was New York, Manhattan, one always locked doors.

There were only four people in the world who had keys to this apartment, aside from Denton himself, only four people in the world.

Nancy, his wife, from whom he was separated but not divorced.

Herb Martin, the chief writer for The Don Denton Variety Show.

Morry Stoneman, Denton’s business manager.

Eddie Blake, the stooge-straight-man-second comic of the show.

It had to be one of the four. All four of them knew that he would be here, alone, watching the show at this hour. And they were the ones who had keys.

One of those four. He let the remembered faces and names of the four circle in his mind — Nancy and Herb and Morry and Eddie — while he tried to figure out which one of them would have tried to kill him.

And then he closed his eyes and almost gave himself up to death. Because it could have been any one of them. All four of them hated his guts, and so it could have been any one of them who had come here tonight to kill him.

Bitter, bitter, that was the most bitter moment of his life, to know that all four of the people closest to him hated him enough to want to see him dead.

His own voice said, “Oh, come now, Professor.”

He opened his eyes, terrified. He’d almost faded away there, he’d almost passed out, and to pass out was surely to die. He could no longer feel anything in his legs, below the knee, and his fingers were no longer really parts of him. Death, death creeping in from his extremities.

No. He had to stay alive. He had to fool them, all four of them. He had to somehow stay alive. Keep thinking, keep the mind active, fight away the darkness.

Think about the four of them. Which one of them had done this?

“Gott im Himmel,” cried a gruff voice, and the canned laughter on the TV set followed dutifully.

Denton strained to see the television screen. Eddie Blake was there now, doing that miserable Professor routine of his. Denton watched, and wondered. Could it have been him?

Eddie Blake stood in the doorway of the dressing room. “You wanted to see me, Don?”

Denton, sitting before the bulb-flanked mirror, removing his makeup, didn’t bother to look away from his own reflection. “Come on in, Eddie,” he said softly. “Close the door.”

“Right,” said Eddie. He stepped inside, shut the door, and stood there awkwardly, a tow-headed, hook-nosed, wide-mouthed little comic with a long thin frame and enough nervous mannerisms for twenty people.

Denton made him wait while he removed the rest of his makeup. It was a little after six, and the show had just been taped. Denton wasn’t happy with the way the show had gone, and the more he thought about it, the more irritated he got. He finally turned and studied Eddie with a discontented frown. Eddie was still in the Professor costume, still in makeup, his left hand fidgeting at his side. Once, years ago, he’d been in an automobile accident, and his right arm was now weak and nearly useless.

“You were lousy tonight, Eddie,” Denton said calmly. “I can’t remember when you’ve been worse.”

Eddie flushed, and his face worked, trying to hide the quick anger. He didn’t say a word.

Denton lit a cigarette, more slowly than necessary, and finally said, “You back on the sauce again, Eddie?”

“You know better than that, Don,” Eddie said indignantly.

“Maybe you just weren’t thinking about the show tonight,” Denton suggested. “Maybe you were saving yourself for that Boston date.”

“I did my best, Don,” Eddie insisted. “I worked my tail off.”

“This show comes first, Eddie,” Denton told him. He studied the comic coldly. “You ought to know that,” he said. “Where would you be without this show, Eddie?”

Eddie didn’t answer. He didn’t have to; they both knew what it was. The answer was nowhere. Eddie was basically a straight man, a stooge, a second banana, and he’d spent years either as an unsuccessful single or second man to a string of second-rates. It was The Don Denton Variety Show that had finally given him his break, gained him exposure to a large national audience, and allowed him to develop routines of his own like the Professor bit. One of the results was outside jobs like the Boston night-club gig coming up this weekend.

“This show comes first, Eddie,” Denton repeated. “You don’t do anything else anywhere until you’re doing your job on this show.”

“Don, I—”

“Now, in your contract, you know, I’ve got to approve any outside booking you take on.”

“Don, you aren’t going to—”

“I’ve been pretty lax about that,” Denton went on, smoothly overriding Eddie’s protests. “But now I see what the result is. You start doing second-rate work here, saving yourself for your other jobs.”

“Don, listen—”

“I think,” Denton said, “that you’d better cut out all other jobs until you get up to form here.” He nodded. “Okay, Eddie, that’s all. See you at rehearsal Friday morning.” He turned back to the mirror, started unbuttoning his shirt.

Behind him, Eddie fidgeted, ashen-faced. “Don,” he said. “Listen, Don, you don’t mean it.”

Denton didn’t bother answering.

“Don, look, you don’t have to do this, all you have to do is tell me—”

“I just told you,” said Denton.

“Don... listen, listen, what about Boston?”

“What about Boston?”

“I’ve got a date there this weekend, I—”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Don, for God’s sake—”

“You’ll be rehearsing all weekend. You won’t have time to go to Boston.”

“Don, the booking’s already been made!”

“So what?”

Eddie’s left hand darted and fidgeted, playing the buttons of his shirt like a clarinet. His eyes were wide and hopeless. “Don’t do this, Don,” he begged. “For God’s sake, don’t do this.”

“You’ve done it to yourself.”

“You dirty louse, you’re the one who was way off tonight! Just because you can’t get a laugh that doesn’t come off tape—”

“Stop right there.” Denton had risen now and stood glaring at the furious ineffectual comic. “Don’t you forget the contract, Eddie,” he said. “Don’t you ever forget it. It’s still got four and a half years to run. And I can always throw you off the show, cut off your pay, and still hold you to the contract. I can keep you from making a nickel, Eddie boy, and don’t you forget it. Unless you’d like to wash dishes for your dough.”

Eddie retreated to the door, obviously not trusting himself to stay in the dressing room any longer. “Don’t push it, Don,” he said, his voice trembling. “Don’t push it too far.”

“X plus Y,” said the heavily-accented voice on the television set, “iz somezing un-prro-nounz-able!”

Denton blinked, trying to keep his eyes in focus. His sight kept blurring. He stared at the grinning figure on the screen. Eddie Blake? Could it have been Eddie Blake?

There was a way Eddie might figure it. With Denton out of the way, the contract between them was no longer a problem. And who would be the most likely immediate replacement for Denton on the show? Why, Eddie Blake, of course, who already knew the show. Denton’s death, in Eddie’s eyes, might be the stepping-stone to top banana.

But Eddie Blake? That weak, ineffectual, fidgety little nothing?

There were new voices coming from the TV now. He stared, trying to make out the picture, and finally saw it was the commercial. A husband and wife, a happy and devoted couple, and the secret of their successful marriage was — of course — their brand of toilet paper.

Successful marriage. He thought of Nancy. And of the writer, Herb Martin.

“I want a divorce, Don.”

He paused in his eating. “No.”

The three of them were at the table together in the Athens Room, Denton and Nancy and Herb. Nancy had said, this afternoon, that she wanted to talk to him about something important, and he had told her it would have to wait until after the show. He didn’t want to be made upset by any domestic scenes just before airtime.

Herb now said, “I don’t see what good it does you, Don. You obviously don’t love Nancy, and she just as obviously doesn’t love you. You aren’t living together. So what’s the sense of it?”

Denton glared sourly at Herb and pointed his fork at Nancy. “She’s mine,” he said. “No matter what, she’s mine. It’ll take a better man than you, buddy, to take anything of mine away from me.”

“I can get a divorce without your consent,” Nancy said. She was a lovely girl, oval face framed by long blond hair. “I can go to Nevada—”

“If there’s any divorce,” Denton interrupted, “and there won’t be — but if there was one I’d be the plaintiff. And I wouldn’t even have to leave the state. Adultery will do very nicely. And the co-respondent just incidentally used to be a Commie.”

Herb said, “That’s getting old-hat, Don. How long you think you can use that threat?”　

“For as long as there’s a blacklist, baby,” Denton told him.

“Things are different now. The blacklist doesn’t mean what it used to.”

“You think so? You want to test that theory?”

“Nineteen thirty-eight—”

“Baby, it doesn’t matter when you were a Commie, you know that. Now, basically, I like you, Herb; I think you write some fine material. I’d hate to see you thrown out of the industry—”

“Why won’t you let us alone?” wailed Nancy, and diners at nearby tables looked curiously around.

Denton patted his lips with the napkin and got to his feet. “You’ve asked your question,” he said, “and I’ve given you the answer. I don’t see any point in discussing it any more than that, do you? Oh, and I know you won’t mind paying for your own dinners.”

“Do me a favor,” said Herb. “On your way home, get run over by a cab.”

“Oh, don’t joke with him, Herb,” said Nancy, her voice shrill. She was — as usual — on the verge of hysterical tears.

“Who’s joking?” said Herb grimly.

“All joking aside, friends,” his voice said, “Dan and Ann are one of the finest dance teams in the country.”

Slumped in the chair, Denton stared desperately at himself on the screen. That little self there on the screen, he could talk, he could move around, he could laugh and clap his palms together. He was alive, and content, not hurt.

Who? Who? Who? Herb or Nancy, or both of them together?

He tried to think back, tried to visualize that silhouetted figure again, tried to see in memory whether it had been a man or a woman. But he couldn’t tell; it had been only a bulky shape inside an overcoat, only a black shape outlined against the hall light. Inside the overcoat, it could have been as thin as Eddie, as shapely as Nancy, as muscular as Herb, as fat as Morry Stoneman.

Morry Stoneman?

Dan and Ann, one of the poorest dance teams in the country, were stumbling through their act before the cameras. Backstage, fat Morry Stoneman was dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief and saying, “They looked good, Don, honest to God they did. They got all kinds of rave notices on the coast—”

“They’re stumblebums,” Denton told him coldly. He glanced out at Dan and Ann. “And I do mean stumble.”

“You approved the act, Don. You gave it the okay.”

“On your say-so, Morry. Or is it my fault?”

Morry hesitated, dabbing his face with the handkerchief, looking everywhere but at Denton. “No, Don,” he said finally. “It isn’t your fault.”

“How much of a kickback, Morry?”

Morry’s face was a white round O of injured innocence. “Don, you don’t think—”

“How much are they giving you, Morry?”

The white round O collapsed, mumbled, “Five.”

“Okay, Morry. We’ll take that off your percentage.”

“They got rave notices on the coast, Don. I swear to God they did. I can show you the clips.”

Denton brushed that aside, said, “By the way, the five hundred doesn’t come off the IOUs, you know that.”

“That’s what I was thinking of.” Morry’s left hand held the handkerchief, dab-dab-dabbing at his forehead. His right hand clutched at Don Denton’s sleeve. “All I’m trying to do,” he said urgently, “was promote some extra cash so I can start paying back those IOUs. You want that money back, don’t you?”

“So you can thumb your nose and walk out on me? That’ll be the day, Morry.”

“Listen, would I walk out on you? Don, I—”

“That’s right,” said Denton. “You haven’t been trying to get next to that Lyle broad?”

Injured innocence again. “Who told you a dumb thing like that, Don? I wouldn’t—”

“You won’t,” Denton interrupted him. “The minute you quit me, those IOUs become payable. So you can just forget Lisa Lyle.”

Applause. It was time to go back and give Dan and Ann a big round of applause. Denton jabbed a thumb at the bowing, smiling dancers onstage. “Get them out of here,” he said. “I don’t want them around for the final bow.” Then he trotted onstage, ignoring Morry’s face.

He found the right camera and beamed at it. “For our last act tonight.”

“For our last act tonight,” the image on the screen told his dying likeness, “we have that wonderful new singer — she’s going to have her own show starting in March, you know — Lisa Lyle!”

Denton watched his black-and-white self, teeth gleaming, hands beating together. “She wants Morry,” he whispered at that unhearing image. “And Morry wants her.”

Morry? Was it Morry who’d shot him?

Who was it?

The space between himself and the television set seemed to blur and mist, as though a dim fog were rising there. He blinked, blinked, blinked, afraid it was death.

In the fog, he seemed to see the four who could have done this. Herb and Nancy, directly in front of him, arms around each other, studying him in somber triumph. Eddie Blake, off to the right, his left hand playing his shirt buttons with jittery fingers as he stared at Denton with tentative defiance. And Morry, behind the others and off to the left, stood stocky and unmoving, glaring with frustration and hate.

“Which one of you?” Denton whispered. Fighting back the pain in his chest, he strained forward at them, demanding, willing them to speak, having to know.

And they spoke. “When you are dead,” said Nancy, “I can marry Herb.”

“When you are dead,” said Eddie, “it will be The Eddie Blake Variety Show.”

“When you are dead,” said Herb, “so is that blacklist threat.”

“When you are dead,” said Morry, “so are those IOUs. I can make a mint with Lisa Lyle.”

“Which one of you? Which one of you?”

The fog shifted and swam; the figures faded. Straining, he could once more see that other figure, the black silhouette framed by the doorway, lit only from behind. He stared at the silhouette, needing to know, demanding to know which one it had been.

He searched the bulky, shapeless outline, looking for something that would tell him. The remembered outline of the head, the ears, the neck, then the collar of the coat, the—

The ears.

He squinted, trying to see, trying to remember, and yes, the ears were outlined plainly, and the four possibilities had just been reduced to three. For Nancy had long blonde hair, curling around her face, covering her ears. It hadn’t been Nancy.

Three. It was one of three now, Herb or Eddie or Morry. But which one?

Height. That would help, if he could visualize the figure well enough, if he could see it in relation to the door frame, the height... Eddie and Herb were both tall; Morry was short. Probably Eddie even seemed taller than he was because he was so thin. But really he was—

Denton pulled himself back. His mind was beginning to wander, and he recognized that as a danger sign. He couldn’t lose consciousness, he couldn’t lose awareness, not until he knew.

He stared at the outlined figure in the fog, and slowly he forced himself to visualize the door frame around it again, and slowly he saw it, and the figure was tall.

Tall.

Eddie or Herb. Eddie or Herb.

It was those two, now, one or the other. He tried to superimpose the figures of each of them on the figure of the silhouette, but the bulky coat ruined that. It was impossible, there was nothing left to distinguish it, make it any more one person than another.

And death was creeping closer, moving in like the fog, creeping across his shoulders and down among his ribs, up from his legs to touch his stomach with icy fingers. He had to know soon.

He tried to see it all again, in the mist between himself and the television set, seeing it like a run-through for the show, seeing every step. The door opening, the black figure standing there, the bright flash—

From the figure’s right side!

“Herb!” he shouted.

It couldn’t have been Eddie. Eddie was left-handed, and his impaired right hand would never have been able to lift the gun or squeeze the trigger, it had been Herb.

With his shout — his whispered shout — the fog faded completely away, the outlined figure was gone. Sight and sound returned, and he heard Lisa Lyle singing her song. It was the last number of the show. It must be almost nine o’clock; he’d been sitting here wounded now for almost an hour.

Lisa Lyle finished, and there was thunderous canned applause and he saw himself come striding into camera range. He saw that whole and walking, strong and smiling self come out and wave at the imaginary audience, wave at Don Denton dying in his chair.

He stared at that tiny image of himself. That was him! Him, at six o’clock, with two hours left, and that self could somehow change this, could somehow keep what had and was happening from being true.

Dream and reality, desire and fact, need and truth, shifted and mingled confusedly in his mind. He was barely real himself. He was dying faster now, becoming less and less real, and the image on the television screen was almost all that was left of him.

That image had to be warned. “It’s Herb!” Danton called. “It’s Herb!” Whispering it at that tiny blue-gray self across the room. Reality was going, like the lights of a city flicking out one by one, and darkness was spreading in. “Be careful! It’s Herb!”

“That’s about all the show there is, folks,” answered his image.

“Don’t go home!” he shrieked. “It’s Herb!”

“I certainly hope you’ve enjoyed yourself,” said the image, smiling at him.

“Stay away!” screamed Denton.

The image waved a careless hand, as though to tell Denton not to be silly, there was nothing wrong in the world, nothing at all. “We’ll be seeing you!”

He had to get away, he had to live, he had to warn himself not to come here tonight. There was that image, the real Don Denton, in the television set, and right beside him was the telephone.

“Help me!” shrieked Denton all at once. “Call! Call! Help me!” And it seemed to him as though it should be the easiest thing in the world, for that real image of himself to reach over and pick up the telephone and call for help.

But, instead, that image merely waved and cried, “Good night!” The blind and stupid image of himself, blowing a kiss at the dying man in the chair.

“Help me!” Denton screamed, but the words were buried by a bubbling-up of blood, filling his throat.

The image receded, down and down, growing smaller and ever smaller as the boom camera was raised toward the ceiling. “Love you! Love you!” cried the tiny doomed image to the dead man in the chair. “Good night! Good night!”