The Broadway Comedy Murders

By Xlibris US

Broadway Comedy Murders

Hollywood comedy writer Springer McKays latest adventure finds him on Broadway, where his satirical play, Boob Tube, is in rehearsal with a bunch of wildly eccentric actorsBritish stage legend Lady Kate Ashley, egotistical sitcom star Wally Wheeler, highly neurotic Tony Awardwinner Nedda Norman, and action film star Kirby Gates, who has saved the world a million times. Retired junk dealer Sid Rosko is the producer. Five quirky young performers round out the cast.

When two surprisingly bizarre murders take place, the entire Boob Tube company is suspected, including our overly curious hero, Springer McKay, who finds himself in the role of detective. Laughs, sex, intriguetheyre all here on this screwball journey into murder, Broadway style.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499075144

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I’m a suspect in two murders.

There’s a threat on my life.

Comedy is serious business.

It all began when I wrote a play called Boob Tube, sent it to producers, got tons of rejections until I’m at the dentist with a frozen mouth and my phone jitters.

Hnuurnum…, I answered.

Springer McKay? a gruff voice wanted to know.

Yurmurnum…, I replied.

Sid Rosko, he said. Read your play, wanna produce it on Broadway.

Turmurmumnum! I exclaimed in triumph.

* * *

So here I am—Times Square. What was once a noisy, crowded street is now a noisy, crowded mall. There used to be theatres every which way, but we’re sadly down to a precious few. Hottest ticket is King Lear starring Adam Sandler.

I stopped and stood in reverence at the historic Summer Garden Theatre, soon to be The Bank of China Theatre. Finding the front entrance padlocked, I strolled down an alley and into the Stage Door where I was stopped by an old Black man perched on a stool. He had the brightest eyes I’d ever seen.

You don’t wanna come in here, he said.

Who says?

I am the doorman and I says.

I got an appointment with Sid Rosko.

About what?

Producing my play.

Is it a good play?

Spectacular.

Fat chance, he snuffed, "this theatre ain’t had a hit since I starred in—‘Doc Wheat and His Flyin’ Feet’!"

Doc did a buck and wing to illustrate. "I was big—a star!" he exclaimed. Ever hear of Fred Astaire?

Sure.

So have I, he giggled, then pushed his nose at mine and warned…

Watch your back. Theatre folk are free to be themselves and a lotta themselves are screwballs.

He pointed. The man’s upstairs.

* * *

The essence of mummified sweat pinched my nostrils as I trudged to the top floor of the cavernous theatre. I heard a man’s voice shout out—

Oh, Nelly!

With pumalike reflexes I burst into a sparsely-furnished office with dirty windows and a topless young woman giving a tubejob to a shrimpy bald guy.

Spotting me, the guy pushed the woman away, yelling—She started it! He pointed an accusing finger at her. How dare you take advantage of my good nature!

The woman scooped up her bills and her bra and was gone.

The shrimp zippered up. He had to be five feet tops, grizzly grey hair, chubby like his baby fat never left. Decked-out in a bright yellow suit he looked like a sunset with buttons.

He furrowed me a glare. What are you, some kind’a voyager?

I think you mean voyeur.

Who are you to tell me what you are?

I’m Springer McKay.

Sid Rosko, he stated, pumping my hand so hard I saw coins shoot from my nose.

How’d ya get a name like Springer, he asked.

I was named after the family dog.

Is that a joke?

My folks were fond of that mutt.

Yah, that’s a joke, Rosko laughed. So, you’re a big Hollywood writer, huh? Used to write that sitcom crap.

It didn’t used to be crap, I defended.

Rosko nodded his agreement, fired-up a long cigar and swaggered around the room chattering, "My beloved Selma and me, married forty-one years, and not once did I cheat on that woman. Then when she died and wasn’t there to tell me what to do I decided to live my fantasy. I’m a Broadway producer! Eat in top-notch restaurants. Wear flashy duds. Screw babes with big bazooms. That might sound corny, but sex will outlive us all."

Figuring that was nothing to quibble about, I asked, Just out of curiosity, have you ever produced a Broadway show?

Nah, said Rosko, made a fortune peddlin’ junk and the theatre can’t be much different. It’s a business and I know business. I’m a one man operation. No partners, can’t trust partners, had my throat cut so many times I put in a zipper.

Rosko waved to the mounds of scripts scattered around the office. You see this mess? Plays. Everyday I get plays. It’s like I never left the junk business. He plucked a manuscript from a pile, flipped it open and read—Act One, the dawn of man. Act Two, three minutes later.

Rosko tossed the script aside in disgust. "Y’see what I was up against? I was in a fix, didn’t know where to turn, so I flipped my lucky penny and it landed on your play…Boob Tube spoke to me."

"What did Boob Tube say?"

You tell me. I’m dyslexic.

You didn’t read it?

Yeah, but tell me what I read.

I launched into pitch mode. "Okay, Boob Tube. A comedy in two acts. Five men, four women. It’s about the Michaels family whose home is invaded by soap opera characters who spin their lives out of control. It’s funny, it’s sexy, it’ll never work in a theatre this big."

Sure it will, I got a discount on the rent.

There are two-thousand seats.

Think of the Raisinettes we’ll sell.

You got a better reason?

How about I’m the producer.

How about I’m the writer, I declared, and in the theatre the writer is king,

You’d be an unemployed king without me, said Rosko…"So, listen, I got big plans. Gonna milk this baby for all it’s worth. Billboards plastered over Times Square telling the public people are ravin’ about Boob Tube!"

How can people rave when we haven’t opened?

The public likes to be told what to think.

It gets people elected.

* * *

Rosko told me to wait for his call, so I spent the next few days staring at the stained bedspread in my one-room Executive Suite at the Royal Palms Hotel. Rooms rent by the hour. The stink of ammonia has me biting my knuckles.

I finally got Rosko on the phone. Where have you been?

Out, he said. I’m a busy man.

Give me a minute.

"One minute—go!"

About my hotel…

What about it?

It’s a whorehouse.

I’ll be right over.

My contract clearly states ‘first class accommodations’.

The Royal Palms sounds first class to me.

Look, this whole deal doesn’t seem on the level, I said. I’m heading back to Hollywood.

No! Rosko shouted…"I need you. I need Boob Tube. I’ll move in with the hookers if you’ll take my suite at the Plaza."

That could be arranged, I swiftly agreed. Now, about casting the play. I have some ideas…

The play’s already cast, said Rosko.

"What? You cast my play without me?"

Not to worry, I rounded-up some very expensive names from stage, screen and TV, even got that legendary Sir Rodney St. Clair to direct.

Well that shut me up. Sir Rodney St. Clair is one of the theatre’s most distinguished directors. I’ll never forget his production of Noah’s Ark in modern dress. Opens with Noah looking up and saying… Looks like global warmin’. It cracked me up! I thought it was a comedy. I was asked to leave.

Rosko powered on. In addition to the St. Clair coup, he got honored British actress Lady Kate Ashley to portray the lead role of Della Michaels.

Della’s husband, Mitch Michaels, will be performed by popular sitcom star Wally Wheeler.

Tony award winner Nedda Norman has been signed to play soap diva, Margo Slattery, with action film star Kirby Gates as Texas tycoon, Big Budd Slattery.

Five young actors round out the cast. Rehearsals start tomorrow.

The author has invited himself.

* * *

I treated myself to a lavish dinner at Sardi’s where the walls are covered with caricatures of Broadway notables.

Some day they’ll nail me to the wall.

CHAPTER TWO

I spent the night with my head in the toilet.

A turbo-charged latte’ propelled me to the Stage Door where I was greeted by Doc Wheat—You again?

First rehearsal, I told him.

I know that, he said. "Done zillions of rehearsals. I was a star!"

He leaned closer and warned, Trouble’s gonna flare like a bad rash.

Armed with that prickly prediction I made my way onstage where a variety of folks sat chatting around a long table.

Sid Rosko appeared, his face sour like an unburped baby. Walking beside him was a huge man who looked like he was weaned on a pickle.

You gotta be kiddin’, Rosko complained to Babe Murdock. I’m spendin’ a fortune on actors and scenery and now I gotta hire musicians? This ain’t no musical!

This theatre’s big enough to house a musical, Murdock replied. Union rule.

And what are these musicians gonna do?

Sit backstage and play cards like they always do, Murdock chuckled.

Rosko turned to me, said, What the hell have you got me into? and steamed off.

Murdock nudged me. Watch out for that St. Clair guy, he said. I stage managed for him before and he’s a friggin’ disaster.

A piercing voice reverberated from the back of the theatre—I thought they torched this barn years ago!

A tall, wiry figure, wearing an opera cape and a slouch hat, flltted down the aisle, lept onto the stage, stood before the actors and said, Welcome, thespians! I am your humble servant, Sir Rodney St. Clair, you may call me Sir Rod.

The actors broke into applause. Sir Rod bowed low, the red lining of his cape casting an orangey glow to his face, or maybe it was pancake makeup. He whipped off his hat to reveal shoulder-length black locks with a streak of white from forehead to back. He looked like a skunk.

Sir Rod turned his attention to me. "And you must be Mister McKay, the author. I adored your play, but I can fix it, we’ll cut the wedding scene."

I laughed at what I thought was a joke. No joke. Why would we cut the wedding scene?

The play is too long.

I’ll use shorter words.

I say the scene goes.

Some of my best jokes are in that scene.

Use them in another play.

I stood my ground. Look, I am a member of The Dramatist’s Guild which means you can’t change a word without my permission.

Sir Rod pursed his lips in a ‘V’. Well, listen to Miss God carry on. You evidently fail to grasp that the theatre is a collaborative medium. You are the author. I am the director. What was once yours now belongs to me.

This was no time to get into it, so I let him win round one.

Sir Rod turned back to the actors and declaimed—Actors, my actors, we are about to create a world of divine inspiration. We shall be an all-inclusive ensemble flowing in harmony to form a rapturously received result!

Sir Rod bowed again. The actors applauded. Please, please, he sort of begged, you are too kind, I love you all. I am your mentor, your muse, your Peter Pannish guide through Never Never Land.

Sir Rod and I headed for the chair I thought was my chair at the head of the table. We faced each other for a tense moment. This was no time to get into it, so I gave him round two and sat off to the side.

Now is the dawn of our journey, Sir Rod dramatically intoned, the read-through of our play. I see all of you have opened your manuscripts, please close them as we begin the reading.

Befuddled looks, including mine. I spoke up. How can we read the play without reading the play?

Oh, stop acting like an addle-brained child, scolded Sir Rod. These are not dolts and fools, these are professional actors, efficient artisans fully aware that the learning of lines is essential to the creative process—So, let the play begin!

No play…Just shuffling feet.

Sir Rod rose in indignation. "I am surrounded by dolts and fools. You have until tomorrow—letter perfect!" He rose, swirled his cape and charged up the aisle leaving panic in his wake.

Rosko rushed up to me—"You’re the king, do somethin’!"

I squirted to my chair at the head of