entertainment to be found on all other talk shows-actors and actresses

plugging their latest movies, authors plugging their latest books,

musicians plugging their latest records, politicians plugging their

latest campaigns (as yet unannounced campaigns and thus unfettered by

the equal-time provisions of the election laws)-except that it presented

a greater number of mind readers and psychics and UFO 'experts' than did

most talk shows. Prine was a Believer. He was also damned good at his

job, so good there were rumors ABC wanted to pick him up for a

nationwide audience. He was not so witty as Johnny Carson or so homey

as Mike Douglas, but no one asked better or more probing questions than

he did.

most of the time he was serene, in lazy command of his show; and when

things were going well, he looked somewhat like a slimmed-down Santa

Claus: completely white hair, a round face and merry blue eyes.

He appeared to be incapable of rudeness. However, there were

occasions-no more often than once a night, sometimes only once a

week-when he would lash out at a guest, prove him a liar or in some

other way thoroughly embarrass and humiliate him with a series of

wickedly pointed questions. The attack never lasted more than three or

four minutes, but it was as brutal and as relentless as it was

surprising.

Manhattan at Midnight commanded a large and faithful audience primarily

because of this element Of surprise that magnified the ferocity of

Prine's interrogations. If he had subjected every guest to this abuse,

he would have been a bore; but his calculated style made him as

fascinating as a cobra. Those millions of people who spend most of

their leisure hours in front of a television set apparently enjoyed

secondhand violence more than they did any other form of entertainment.

They watched the police shows to see people beaten, robbed and murdered;

they watched Primarily for those unexpected moments when he bludgeoned a

guest with words that were nearly as devastating as clubs.

He had started twenty-five years earlier as a nightclub comic and

impressionist, doing old jokes and mimicking famous voices in cheap

lounges. He had come a long way.

The director signaled Prine. A red light shone on one camera.

Addressing his unseen audience, Prine said, 'I'm talking with Mr. Graham

Hams, a resident of Manhattan who calls himself a 'clairvoyant,' a seer

of visions. Is that the proper definition of the term, Mr. Hams?'

'It'll do,' Graham said. 'Although when you put it that way, it sounds

a bit religious. Which it isn't. I don't attribute my extrasensory

perception to God nor to any other supernatural force.'

'As you said earlier, you're convinced-that the clairvoyance is a result

of a head injury you received in a rather serious accident.

Subsequent to that, you began to have these visions. If that's God's

work, His methods are even more roundabout than we might have thought.'

Graham smiled. 'Precisely.'

Now, anyone who reads the newspapers knows that you've been asked to

assist the police in uncovering a clue to the identity of this man they

call the Butcher. But what about your last case, the murder of the

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