The Comedy is Finished

4

Koo Davis is in trouble, and he knows it, but he doesn’t know why. And he doesn’t know who, or how, or even where. Where the hell is this place? An underground room with a bar and a john and a cunt-level view of a swimming pool; the naked girl with the scars on her back spent half an hour paddling around in the water out there, after Koo was locked in. She swam and dove, the whole time pretending there wasn’t any window or anybody watching, and all in all Koo was very happy when she finally got her ass out of the pool and left him in peace. She has a fantastic body when you can’t see the scars, but she doesn’t turn him on. Just the opposite: having that cold bitch flaunt herself like that shows just how little he matters to these people. They kidnapped him, they probably figure to sell him back for a nice profit, but other than as merchandise they couldn’t care shit about him, and that makes Koo very nervous.

Why me? he asks himself, over and over, but he never comes up with an answer. Because he has a few bucks? But Jesus, a lot of people have a few bucks. Do they think he’s a millionaire or something? If they ask for too much money, and if they don’t believe the answer they get, what will they do?

Koo doesn’t like to think about that. Every time his thoughts bring him this far, he quickly switches to another of his questions; like, for instance, Where am I? Still somewhere in the Greater Los Angeles area, that’s for sure. He estimates he was no more than half an hour in that truck or whatever it was. From the turns, this way and that, when they took him away from Triple S, he’s come to the conclusion they drove first on the Hollywood Freeway and then either the Ventura Freeway west or the Pasadena Freeway east; probably Ventura, out across the Valley. Then at the very end they did some climbing, with a particularly steep part after one fairly long stop. So he’s most likely on an estate somewhere in the Hollywood Hills, on the north slope, overlooking the Valley. And not some cheapjack place either, not with this room next to the pool. Somebody spent money on this layout.

Why do they want to keep him from identifying this place, yet they don’t care if he sees their faces? And why the fuck would rich people play kidnapper? These clowns operate like they’re at home here, they’re not worried about the owners coming back and interrupting the operation, so they must—

Unless they killed the owners.

Time to switch to another question. Like: Who exactly do they deal with, these kidnappers, who do they put the arm on? The network? Chairman Williams and the vice-presidents, that crowd of Easter Island statues? You can’t get blood from stone faces; if Koo knew his businessmen—and he did—Williams wouldn’t pay more than three bucks to get his sister back from Charles Manson.

But who else was there? Lily? “Hello, we got your husband Koo here, you remember him. He’s for sale.” How much would Lily pay for a living Koo Davis?

Koo is something of a showbiz oddity, a man who’s been married to the same woman for forty-one years; but that isn’t quite the record it sounds. As he once explained to an interviewer (in an answer cut from the published interview at Koo’s insistence), “You want my formula for a happy marriage? Marry only once, leave town, and never go back.”

Which is almost the truth. When twenty-two-year-old Koo married seventeen-year-old Lily Palk, back there in nineteen thirty-six, how could he know he was going to be bigtime any minute? Naturally he had his dreams, every kid has dreams, but there was no reason to believe his dreams were any less bullshit than anybody else’s.

If an insecure punk kid marries a practical girl, and if three years later the punk is a radio star in New York while the practical girl is a housewife and mother in Syosset, Long Island, the prognosis for the marriage is unlikely to be good: “I won’t be home tonight, honey, I’m staying here in town.” As he commented one time to a gagwriter pal named Mel Wolfe, “I got to put that on a record. Then somebody in the office can call the frau and play it at her. ‘Hi, honey, I won’t be home tonight, I’m staying in town.’ Then a little pause and I say, ‘Well, I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to. Everything okay there?’ Then another little pause and I say, ‘That’s fine.’ One more pause and I say, ‘You, too. Have a good night, honey.’ And meantime I’m in Sardi’s.”

“Hey, listen,” Mel Wolfe said. “I got a terrific—Feed it to me. Do the record.”

“Yeah?” Grinning in anticipation, Koo said, “Hi, honey, I won’t be home tonight, I’m staying in town.”

In a shrill angry falsetto, Mel Wolfe replied, “I went to the doctor today, you bastard, and you gave me the clap!”

“Heh heh,” Koo said, and went on with his script: “Well, I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to. Everything okay there?”

“The house burned down this afternoon, you prick!”

“That’s fine.”

“You’ve got a woman there!”

“You, too,” Koo said, cracking up. “Have a good night, honey.” And eventually they used a cleaner version of the idea in the show.

For a while, Koo appended excuses to his calls home (“Meeting with the sponsor.” “Script trouble, gotta stay up with the writers.”), but soon he gave up even that much pretense, as his evenings “in town” grew to outnumber his evenings “at home.” He stayed at the Warwick on Sixth Avenue below Central Park, he traveled with a funny, bright, invigorating crowd, and it became more and more difficult to force himself to make appearances in that other life. By 1940 he was solemnly vowing to spend at least one night a week with the family, and most weeks he wasn’t making it.

The finish came in February of 1941. Koo joined a bon voyage party seeing off some Miami-bound friends at Penn Station, and awakened next morning to find himself still on the train, which was highballing south. “By God, I’m having my ham and eggs in Carolina.” Once in Miami, he had to make several explanatory phone calls to friends and business people back in New York, and every one of those conversations was sprinkled with hilarity, except the call to Syosset. “I won’t be home tonight, honey,” Koo started, intending a gag line on his present whereabouts, but before he could deliver it Lily said, “I know you won’t. You haven’t been here for three weeks.”

What surprised Koo, even more than the words, was the voice. Maybe the long-distance wire had a distorting effect, or maybe he was actually hearing Lily for the first time in years. In any case, she sure as hell didn’t sound like the girl he’d married. This Lily sounded like a head nurse: flat, tough, dispassionate, uncaring. Sitting there in his warm hotel room in hot Miami, listening to that cold voice, Koo shivered. He tried to go on with his gag—“A funny thing happened, uh, on the way...”—but at that point he simply ran down. You can’t swap swifties with a zombie.

“I can’t talk long,” Lily said. “Frank just woke up from his nap.” At that time, Barry was three and Frank one. Koo had offered to pay for nurses, nannies, but Lily had refused, insisting she would bring up her own children herself. What Koo didn’t understand at the time—what he still doesn’t entirely understand, though it doesn’t make any difference now—is that Lily was afraid of his life in New York. She was afraid of fame, afraid of glamour, afraid of the same bigtime that Koo reveled in.

But Koo couldn’t see that. All he saw was that Lily had turned herself into a drudge, and that she was unhappy, and that her unhappiness was dragging him down. Now, he couldn’t even mention Miami, not in the presence of that frigid misery. “I’ll call you later,” he said, all the fun gone from his voice. He sounded as bad as she did.

And that was the moment, when he heard his own voice pick up her flat deadness. His other phone calls had involved problems—a meeting rescheduled, a rehearsal cancelled, a newspaper interviewer given an apology—but they’d been solved, hadn’t they? And solved without spoiling the fun. Koo Davis was a free and happy man, so free and happy that he could suddenly be in Miami by mistake and the main result was only laughter. Koo loved laughter, not only audience laughter when he was performing but also his own laughter when something tickled him, laughter around him when he was with his pals. What did he need with this specter from the Grim Beyond?

The specter was saying, “Will you be home this weekend?” But she didn’t ask as though she cared about the answer. It was more as though he was another of the problems in her life, like Frank waking from his nap, or Barry’s bed-wetting.

“I don’t think so,” Koo said. Huddled on the edge of the bed in the Miami hotel room, phone pressed to the side of his face, free hand over his eyes, he looked like a clockwork toy waiting to be rewound.

“When will you be home?”

Koo could never resist a straight line. “Nineteen sixty-eight,” he said, and hung up.

And that was it. He was terrified, the instant the line was out of his mouth and the phone was out of his hand, but not for a second did he think of turning back. Once it was done, once he’d blurted out the words that made the change, he wanted nothing except to stay with the action already done. But still the change terrified him, so he promptly left that hotel room and got drunk with friends, stayed drunk until three days later, when the network sent people down to collect him and bring him back to New York for his next weekly show. He sobered up on the northbound train, but thought no more about his break with Lily until the next week, when she phoned him at the Warwick to ask if he wanted a divorce.

“A what?” He was palling around with one girl in particular at that time, a dancer named Denise (in fact, they’d just had an argument in this very room, about money), and at the word “divorce” an image came into his mind of Denise as a great hunting bird, an eagle or a hawk with talons, swooping down on him. If he were no longer safely tied by marriage, if he were a single man and available, what would not Denise do? “No divorce!” Koo said.

Lily said, “Koo, I want to know where I stand.”

“I’ll get back to you,” Koo promised, but in fact it was Koo’s lawyer who got back to her later that week, and by the time the legal details were worked out Koo himself was off on his first USO tour; the one with Honeydew Leontine. In the years since, there has never been any one woman with whom he’s wanted to spend the rest of his life, and what other reason for divorce is there except remarriage?

So Lily Palk Davis is still Koo’s wife, though the last time he saw her was 1965, when Frank was married. She was friendly enough then, the old rancor long since dead and buried, but what kind of answer are these clowns likely to get if it’s Lily they hit up for the ransom?

Or the boys. What Koo did wrong back there in 1941, and in the busy crowded events of his life it was easy not to notice the mistake at the time, when he split with Lily he also split with his sons. It was nearly three years before he saw either of them again, and that time was only because Barry got pneumonia and was in the hospital, maybe not to live. Koo was terrified during that crisis, moving into the hospital, cancelling all his work, gasping along with every struggling breath rattling through that skinny little body, and for the first time—almost the last time—really feeling that body as a part of himself; flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone, an extension of Koo Davis into the future, a part of him that walked and moved and lived when he wasn’t around.

But the feeling was too intense. There wasn’t any comedy in it, he couldn’t wrap himself around it. He wasn’t in charge of his emotions there, they were in charge of him. At night in the hospital, when sleep did come, it was accompanied by confused, roiling, blundering dreams, and by day he lived with nervousness and fear, a jittering clammy stumbling sense of his own helplessness. His stomach, never healthy, was in turmoil. When the crisis finally ended, when Barry at last came out of the hospital, followed by cartons of toys, comic books, stuffed animals and game sets, Koo hugged him and kissed him and put him away, and went right back to the world he knew, in which he could be comfortable and in control.

It wasn’t, in fact, until Barry was thirteen and Frank eleven that Koo made any intense effort to be a father. In his late thirties by then, successful in the movies and reaching out for his first success in television, secure at last in his long-term status as a star and becoming truly aware for the first time that he was aging, he was no longer the fast-talking hotshot radio comic of a dozen years ago, he found himself finally conscious of those two boys he’d helped to create just before he’d become the real Koo Davis. They were both in boarding school, Lily at that time living in Washington, an unpaid consultant on various welfare projects, and when Koo phoned her to ask if he could have the boys on one of their vacations she was sardonically amused—she wasn’t afraid of his comedy anymore—but she did agree; he could have the boys for two weeks in April.

And it was a disaster. Koo didn’t know children, and more importantly he didn’t know these children. He had the use of a mountain ranch in Colorado, complete with horses to ride, streams to fish, hills to climb, real life cowboys as ranch-hands, and even some of Koo’s showbiz pals dropping in for a day or two. But the whole thing went to hell in a handbasket, and by the end of the two weeks Koo was drinking all day long and shooting zingers at his own kids.

The almost constant rain didn’t help much, of course, but the real problem lay deeper than that. Children, particularly when just entering their teens, tend to become absorbed in one or two special interests, and to ignore everything else that life has to offer. At eleven years of age, Frank was utterly wrapped up in music: swing music, that being the very end of the big band era. Ralph Flanagan, Sauter-Finegan, Billy May: those were Frank’s heroes, and his dream in life was to be a big band arranger. Cowboys and mountains had no place in Frank’s life, and he spent the entire two weeks fretfully hunkered over the ranch’s only radio, a huge pre-war monster that could barely bring in Albuquerque. He clearly saw himself as a prisoner—an innocent prisoner at that—with Koo as the evil jailer.

As for thirteen-year-old Barry, his passion was even farther from trout streams and backpacking; he was a science-fiction fan, a voracious reader and a constant designer on graph paper of rockets and space stations, all prominently featuring the American Air Force star-in-a-circle. (This was before Sputnik dampened the science-fiction fans’ more chauvinistic sentiments.) Barry ran out of reading material the fourth day and graph paper the sixth. Also, Koo made the mistake of ordering him out of the house and onto a horse, during one break in the rain. It was probably sulky Barry’s fault that the normally placid horse eventually threw him into a rail fence and broke his arm. (“Two weeks from now,” a misguided pal told Koo, “you’ll think back on this and laugh.” Koo gave him a look: “Twenty years from now,” he said, “if anybody mentions this and laughs, I’ll kill him.”)

This disaster didn’t stop Koo from trying. He knew at last he’d made a mistake in shutting those kids out of his life, and he was determined to make up for it, so over the next several years he took the children from time to time on their vacations from school, and gradually learned to leave them alone with their enthusiasms. A kind of distant respect grew up on both sides, an aloof sort of tolerance. The boys were never warm toward Koo, but they liked him well enough, as though he were a long-term friend of the family; not of their generation, but basically all right. Koo, feeling the guilt of his earlier omission, circled cautiously around the boys, accepting whatever affection they could show him.

Did he love them? He never asked himself that question, wouldn’t have considered it in any way to the point. The point was to get them to love him; his own feelings didn’t matter. In truth he did love them, fiercely and with terror, but that love had only surfaced the once, during Barry’s pneumonia. He—and they—remained essentially unaware of it, and operated at a much cooler and less passionate level. The fact was, the missing years could not be reclaimed. Koo was not their father any longer; he had waited too long.

With the children’s maturity, the pressure eased. It was permissible, after all, to leave grown children to their own devices. Koo helped where he could, stood ready to answer any call, but didn’t push himself forward. Barry wanted Yale, and Koo got it for him. Frank wanted UCLA, and Koo arranged that. Frank’s ardor for music gradually shifted to an interest in movie music, then to movies, and finally to television; with Koo’s help, he was taken on by a network affiliate station in Chicago after graduation from UCLA, and now he’s a middle-management executive in the network’s home office in New York. Barry’s interests having swung much more wildly between future and past, he is now a partner in a highly profitable antique dealership in London, selling chandeliers, sideboards and firescreens to Arabs and Texans.

Koo’s learning about Barry’s homosexuality was, in fact, the only real trauma in his relationship with either of his children once they’d grown up. Barry, visiting Koo in L.A. with his “friend,” announced the fact of his inversion with a kind of unblinking defiant vulnerability that touched Koo almost as deeply as the pneumonia-racked skinny body had one day almost twenty years before. He didn’t want the boy to be queer, he didn’t want Barry to face the complications and the suffering and the loneliness that Koo felt convinced were the inevitable complements of homosexuality, but he didn’t dare say aloud even one word of what he thought. His reaction was instinctive and immediate and based on his ingrained perception of the relationship between himself and his children. What he thought of them or about them didn’t matter; it didn’t even matter who in fact they were; all that mattered was that somehow he must, in a permanent and clear cut way, win their love—as he had long since won the affection and the (granted much shallower) love of the American audience. “It’s up to you, Barry,” he said, at once, “but remember; if you and Len have any children, I want them brought up Catholic.”

What if—Koo isn’t sure he even dares to phrase this question, the answer means so much to him—what if, now... What if (all in a rush) these people go to Barry, or to Frank? “We’ve got your father. Mortgage your house, empty your bank accounts, convert everything you own to cash, give it all to us, and we’ll give your father back.” Back? Have they ever actually had Koo, have they ever really thought of themselves as having a father, who happens to be this fellow here, this Koo Davis?

What would they do? Barry and Frank, how would they react? Do they love Koo Davis? Do they love him enough to trade all their money for him?

Well, that isn’t even a sensible question, and Koo knows it, because he knows who’ll pay. He himself, he’ll pay; that’s who. These people grabbed him because he’s supposed to’ve piled up a lot of bucks over the years and they want some. The only question is who they’ll deal with on the outside, and the fear in Koo’s mind is not that Barry and Frank don’t love him enough to buy him back; the fear in his mind is that the boys don’t love him enough to deal: “Who? The old man? Why not talk to his agent? Her name is Lynsey Rayne, she’s the one closest to him. Hold on, I’ll give you the number.”

Oh, Jesus, Jesus, would they do that? Koo can’t bear the question, much less the answer. He can’t bear any questions, locked away here in this cavern under the waves—imprisoned king, in the cave beneath the sea. “I refuse to ask myself any more questions,” Koo says aloud, “on the grounds I may incriminate myself.”

The fact is, Lynsey Rayne really is closer to Koo than anybody else in his life. She used to be Max Berry’s assistant, and when Max retired Lynsey came to Koo and said, “I’m taking over Max’s client list.”

Koo was already looking around among established agents for a Max replacement, so all he said was, “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And there’s two reasons why I want you to stick with me.”

“Name them.”

“Number one, you’re easy. Everybody knows who you are, I don’t have to go out and sell you. I just sit in the office, say yes to one offer in ten, skim my percentage and live fat.”

Laughing, Koo said, “Now I got to hear the other one.”

“Max has been sick a long time,” she said. “I’ve been your agent for the last five years. Nobody knows you better than me.”

And she was right, wasn’t she? “Nobody knows you better than me.” Jesus Christ, when Koo casts around in his mind for his closest relation, his nearest and dearest, he comes up with his agent. Lynsey’s a terrific lady, one of the best—not one of the blondes to be trouped and shtupped—but is this any way to run a life? Your next of kin is your agent?

A distraction, a distraction. He paces his small soft-surfaced carpeted prison, trying to push all the bad thoughts, the horrible questions, right out of his mind. Death, love, money...

Hunger. How about that one? There’s something he can think about, because the fact of the matter is, Koo is getting damn hungry.

There’s a lot of food in his room, bread and cereal and milk and even what smells like bargain basement Scotch, but Koo won’t touch any of it. It’s the booze that makes him nervous about the rest. Why give him so much, and why throw in whiskey? Maybe it’s drugged, huh? They’ve left him alone a couple hours, so maybe they’re just waiting for the drug to take effect. Koo doesn’t know how or if he can help himself out of this jam, but one thing is sure: if he’s doped up, he can’t take advantage of any break that might come along.

As for his cell, his cage, his prison, Koo looks around and says out loud, “I been in worse places, and paid forty bucks a night.” It has become his habit in recent years to talk to himself, but only in the form of one-liners, asides, comments on the action of his life. This remark is unfortunate, though, because it leads his thoughts directly to the next question, which is: how much will this room cost? All or most of his assets? His life?

“Then there’s the view,” Koo says, hurriedly. “It overlooks the garden. Completely. And the weather’s been so wet recently.” Turning, pacing the small room, making fretful hand gestures, he says, “I wish I had a cigarette, and I don’t even smoke. I’d use it to point at things.”

Koo used to smoke. For nearly thirty years, one of his trademarks was the cigarette between the first two fingers of his left hand, used in casual gestures, mostly with gag lines where something was being dismissed. “I told him, Sergeant, I don’t want to be in the Army at all.” A silhouette drawing used in the logo of his weekly television show back in the fifties showed his profile and his waving left hand with the cigarette and a curl of smoke coming up around his face. But seven years ago his doctor told him to stop, giving him a lot of medical reasons that Koo refused to hear, and Koo stopped. Like that. He’s never been willing to think about death, about his own mortality or any of the grimmer steps along the path, the aches and pains, the accidents and illnesses and gradual wasting away that must come to every human being in time. He doesn’t want to think about all that shit, and he won’t think about all that shit, and there’s nothing more to be said about it. He’s got enough money to hire good doctors, so he hires good doctors, and he does what they tell him to do, and if they insist on telling him why he just nods and grins and doesn’t listen.

There’s no way out of this room. The door is securely locked, and it opens outward so there’s no way to get at the hinges. Shortly after he was left alone in here Koo did some poking at the fabric covering the wall, working low on the corner nearest the door, and behind the cloth he found Sheetrock and behind that concrete block. “No way am I gonna dig through concrete block,” he told himself, and searched no further.

The next question was the window. After the bitch with the scars vacated the pool, Koo spent a while studying that window, considering the possibility of maybe throwing a chair through it or something. Water would rush through the opening, but long before the room filled up the pool would have emptied below the window level. It would be like a James Bond flick; heave the chair, brace himself against the side wall until the water level in room and pool equalized, then swim to freedom!

Yeah; carrying an American flag and shooting Roman candles out his ass. “When I was twenty I couldn’t pull a stunt like that.” Also even when he was twenty the noise and racket involved in wrecking a swimming pool would attract a certain amount of attention. Also also, this window happens to be two thicknesses of very heavy-grade plate glass, and if he did throw a chair at it probably the chair would bounce off and crack open the Koo Davis skull. “I got trouble enough,” Koo reluctantly decided, and since then he’s had no further thought of escape. He’s stuck here with these meatheads until they decide to do something else.

Scrabble click. Koo looks over at the door, where the sound came from, the sound of a key in the lock, and he can’t help a little thrill of fear, that buzzing adrenalin surge like when you’ve just had a near miss on the freeway. “Company,” Koo says. “And me not dressed.”

The door opens and two of them come in. One is the sarcastic-looking fellow who was in here the last time, and the other is the sullen-faced bearded character who showed him the gun at the studio. The bitch with the scars isn’t along, for which Koo is grateful, but on the other hand neither is the worried-looking guy who apologized for Koo’s nosebleed. Koo misses that one, he was the only touch of common humanity in the whole mob. And speaking of mobs, just how many of these people are there?

The two young men come in, closing the door behind themselves. The bearded one puts a small cassette tape recorder on the nearest table, then stands silently with his back against the door and his arms folded over his chest, like a harem guard in a comedy, while the sarcastic-looking fellow says, “How you doing, Koo?”

“I got nothing to say, warden,” Koo snarls. “To you or the D.A.”

“That’s good,” the fellow says, then looks in mild surprise at the plastic container with the whiskey in it. “Not drinking? Wait a minute—not eating either?”

“I’m on a diet.”

The fellow frowns at Koo, apparently not understanding, then suddenly laughs and says, “You think we’re trying to poison you? Or drugs maybe, is that it?”

Koo doesn’t have a comic answer, and there’s no point giving a straight answer, so he just stands there.

The fellow shakes his head, amused but impatient. “What’s the percentage, Koo? We’ve already got you.” Then he goes to the counter beside the bar, lines up three plastic glasses, and pours a finger of whiskey in each. “Choose,” he says.

“I won’t drink it.”

“Just pick one, Koo.”

“How come you call me by my first name? You’re no traffic cop.”

“I’m sorry, Koo,” the fellow says, with his most sarcastic smile. “I’m just trying for a more relaxed atmosphere, that’s all. For instance, you can call me Peter, and this is Mark. Now we’re all friends, am I right?” He gestures at the three glasses. “So decide. Which one?”

“My mother says I can’t play with you guys anymore. I got to go home now.”

The bearded one—Mark—says, “Pick a glass.” There’s nothing comic in his manner at all. In fact, there’s the implication in his voice that if Koo doesn’t pick a glass, this guy is going to start using his fists again.

Shrugging, Koo says, “Okay. I say the pea is under the one on the left.”

“Fine,” says the sarcastic-looking fellow: Peter. He picks up the other two glasses and hands one to Mark. “Happy days,” he says, toasting Koo, and then they both drink the whiskey. “Not bad,” the leader says, and extends the third glass toward Koo, saying, “Sure you won’t join us?”

Oh, the hell with it. “I’ll hate myself in the morning,” Koo says, taking the glass, and he sips a little. It tastes nothing at all like Jack Daniel’s, Koo’s favorite whiskey, but it does spread an immediate warm alcohol glow through his body.

Peter has now taken some folded sheets of typewriter paper from his jacket pocket. “You’re going to make a recording for us now, Koo,” he says.

Koo had guessed that from the cassette recorder. He gives Peter what’s supposed to be a defiant look. “I am?”

Peter glances over his shoulder at the tough guy, Mark, then grins again at Koo. “Yes, you are,” he says. Holding out the sheets of paper toward Koo, he says, “You may want to look it over first. You’ll begin with some personal remarks of your own, some statement to convince your family and your close friends that it’s really you, and then you’ll follow up by reading this. Exactly as written, Koo.”

Koo takes the papers. There are three sheets, messily typewritten, with many pen and pencil alterations in various handwritings. It isn’t easy to read, but very soon the thrust of the message makes itself clear, and Koo looks up at these bastards and says, “You’re out of your fucking minds.”

“That’s okay, Koo,” Peter says, unruffled. “You don’t have to agree with it, you just read it. Like it was a movie script.”

“They’ll say no,” Koo tells him. “And then what happens?”

“Tough for you,” says Mark.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Oh, don’t be pessimistic,” Peter says. “You’re an important man, Koo, you’ve got a lot of important friends. I think they’ll come through for you, pal, I really do. That’s why I picked you.”

“They won’t do it,” Koo says.

Peter looks a bit troubled, a bit grim. “I hope you’re wrong, Koo. For your sake, I hope so.” Turning, he says, “Mark, get the machine ready.”

Koo can’t believe this is happening to him. “Killed,” he mutters. “Murdered to death by assholes.”