hysterical exhaustion forced an end to the festivities.
By the late news, polls came in that were strongly in Jack’s favor on the alleged rape, feature reporters dug up men who had been “exactly in Jack Landis’s shoes” at one time, and “woman in the street” interviews gave the strong impression that America’s women thought Candy should give Jack another chance.
On one late-night talk show, the host delivered a deliberately lame joke in his monologue, paused, and blubbered, “I have betrayed you,” to thunderous applause, while on another network, a serious news show offered psychologists’ views on “recovering from adultery,” two friends of Candy who thought that she and Jack-with time and prayer-would rebuild their marriage, and a gentleman from the Men’s Liberation Front who warned about vengeful women and rape charges.
On a late-late talk show, two actresses dressed as Polly and Candy identified themselves in the studio audience, then slugged it out in the aisle, and each subsequent guest desperately tried to give his or her new movie or book a “Jack hook.”
By the time this show aired on the West Coast, Polly was firmly entrenched as the other woman, the vengeful other woman, whose mendacity was proven by the very fact that she would not-as Jack had done-come out and tell the truth. She was, in the public opinion, afraid to show her face. “At least,” said one woman caller on a late-night radio show, “she has some sense of shame.”
By that time, Joey Foglio’s “Jack’s Confession” party was winding down in a hotel bedroom with three young ladies.
By that time, Candy had reached Jack at home, telling him she loved him and forgave him and that’s she’d be coming home tomorrow to start working out their problems.
By that time, Walter Withers was unconscious and therefore missed the camera crew that came as quietly as it could to the room across the hall.
25
The television woke Withers up.
His eyes popped open when he heard, “exclusive interview with Polly Paget.” He sat bolt upright on the floor and remembered within minutes exactly where he was.
A dozen or so miniature booze bottles lying empty on the floor provided the first clue. By the time he vomited the contents of those bottles into the john, he had it all pieced together.
Oh dear, Withers thought, I have succumbed.
But at least I have my toothbrush, he thought brightly, proceeding to scrub the previous evening from his cottony mouth until he remembered “exclusive interview with Polly Paget” and rushed to the television.
A sincere-looking young woman with a vaguely famous face was speaking softly but urgently to the camera. “Last night, I flew in great secrecy to a location I promised not to disclose for the purpose of interviewing Polly Paget. When ‘Morning’ returns, you will see that interview in its entirety.”
Withers watched a commercial extolling the benefits of fiber while he tried to work this out.
Who had called the media?
Didn’t I threaten to call the media?
Good God, did I?
He looked under the bed. The money was still there, so he decided that it couldn’t have been him.
The phone jangled.
“Are you watching this?” Scarpelli asked. Withers thought he detected a nasty edge to his voice.
“Ms. Paget is being interviewed on television,” Withers said.
“No kidding,” Scarpelli said. “I thought you were supposed to be watching their door.”
“I just didn’t think it was the time to make a move,” he answered. Because I was unconscious.
“Well, it better be time to make a move now,” Scarpelli said. “I want Polly Paget-right now-or my goddamn money back, or you’re in more trouble than you know about. You understand?”
“Yes, I think I do.”
“I don’t like being scammed.”
“No, of course you don’t.”
“I got friends in this town, you know what I mean?”
Withers had difficulty imagining Scarpelli having friends anywhere, never mind gangster friends in Vegas, but he kept it to himself.
“I’ll get you Polly Paget,” he said.
You don’t have to threaten me.
Jack Landis had Pedro bring him his breakfast in the den so he could eat and admire his performance as it was rerun on the morning news. He had pulled the thick drapes to ignore the mob of reporters out by the gate. Security wanted to chase them off, but Jack wanted them to get nice shots of Candy as she returned home-lots of footage of them hugging and shit. He already had the writers working on the big reunion show.
Things are going to change, he thought as he snipped the end of his cigar. I’ll eat crow for a little bit, then explain to Canned-Ice that this whole thing was her fault. Shit, she has lots of money, nice clothes, nice furniture… maybe I will take a belt to her just to drive the point home.
Teach any of these bitches to go up against Jackson Hood Landis…
He speared a strip of bacon, scooped a forkful of huevos rancheros under it, and turned on the television.
“I first met Jack Landis when I was a secretary in his New York office,” Polly was saying. “I thought he was handsome… and I guess he thought I was cute, and one thing led to another and-”
Oh shit, Jack thought.
“She looks great,” Ed Levine admitted as he watched the rented TV they had brought into Kitteredge’s office earlier for Jack’s performance.
“She seems to be a nice young lady, really,” Kitteredge agreed. “Fire Neal the next time you talk to him, would you, Ed? Sever all connections.”
“Yes, sir,” Ed answered, even though he knew it was easier said than done. No way was Joe Graham going to sever his connection with Neal.
But if this interview kept going the way it was going, Jack Landis would be toast by afternoon. “The Jack and Candy Family Hour” would be history, Candyland the world’s most expensive vacant lot, and there would be a whole lot of angry people in Providence, San Antonio, and New Orleans.
Ed’s stomach turned progressively more sour as he watched the whole carefully crafted deal go down the toilet.
Because Polly was killing them. In contrast to Jack’s bathetic posturing, Polly was coming across as soft, sincere, and… goddamn it
… truthful. Connie Kelly, one of America’s real sweethearts, sure believed Polly. She nodded as Polly answered, and lowered her voice, and there were tears in her eyes as she whispered, “Could you… if you can… tell us about the rape?”
The rape, Ed thought. Not the alleged rape, but the rape.
“Jack came over that night,” Polly began, “And I told him that I was ending our relationship.”
“So you told him, is that right?” Connie asked.
“Yes, and Jack got very angry and grabbed me…”
Polly’s description of the assault was devastating.
“We might as well turn this off,” Kitteredge said.
“There’ll be more,” Ed said. “Neal won’t stop at tit for tat. He’ll go one up.”
“But what does he have?” Kitteredge asked.
A piece of rye toast flew out of Jack’s mouth when Candy came on the screen, sat down next to Polly, and put her arm around her.
Standing over Jack’s shoulder, Jorge announced, “Look! It’s Mrs. Landis!”
“I know who it is,” Jack snapped. “Shit, I’m married to her, ain’t I?.
