Black Sheep

By Bernie Orenstein

Whats a comedy writer like Peter Kline doing getting involved with syndicate bosses and crooked cops? Punch lines dont help much when youre walking around with millions of the Casinos money. On a wild trip that takes us from Atlantic City to the Cayman Islands we see that humor holds its own against the mob. With millions of dollars involved, Peter calls on his bizarre logic to find his way out of a situation he would have turned down if a writer had submitted the idea.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483692210

Bernie Orenstein

Bernie Orenstein is an Associate Professor of Television History at Long Island University who, in his previous life was the writer/producer of such television favorites as Sanford and Son, Love American Style, Kate and Allie, Cosby and many others. Born in Toronto, where he worked in early television, he moved to New York in the late ‘60s to write Candid Camera and then to Hollywood where his thirty-five year career in sitcoms began with That Girl, the Marlo Thomas hit. He now lives in Connecticut with his wife, actress Barbara Rhoades. His first novel, Fender Mason, was a comic look at thoroughbred racing. If you love great writing, and enjoy murder mysteries--this book is for you. M. E. Altieri Saratoga.com Fender Mason and his friends kept me company for three days on my Sanibel FL vacation. I really enjoyed the verbal sparring between Fender and Anita - smart, cute and not sit-commy. So, Mr. O, I am asking about book 2. Is there one in the works? Margie Peters Executive Producer Facts of Life

Book preview

ONE

All of us, eight men and six women, sat around the huge writers’ conference table. At the head was Barry Denoff, who had been brought in as the show-runner about a month after he started dating Michael Klaus, the network’s head of comedy.

Denoff, who was just a few pounds short of being chubby, had no likeable qualities that had yet been discovered. He was, at best, a mediocre writer, wore a hairpiece that would have been considered too far out for Halloween, called every male writer pal and addressed the six women on the staff as sweet stuff. Even though he was gay, he bored everyone with imaginary tales of female conquests. He thought burping on command was hilarious, and considered it even funnier when he issued a fart if a suggested joke was not to his liking. Because his sense of humor was confined to his bowels, every writer who pitched a joke prayed to hear a fart; it was testimony to a well-constructed laugh line.

Barry was a prick, but he was also the boss. He decided which lines stayed in the script and which went to joke heaven, to be resurrected on some other sitcom in the future. Five of the writers wanted to kill him, and the rest volunteered for the accomplice position.

I usually wavered between killing and accomplice-ing. Today I was leaning towards torturing; water-boarding, in this case, seemed apt.

Because I was one of the writers on the pilot episode, I’d been with the show from the beginning. My agent had fought to get me an excellent credit, and it was still up on the screen every week: Co-produced by Peter Kline. In the world of sitcoms, any credit with the word producer meant nothing more than you were one of the writers. It made all of us feel important and more likely to accept less money.

I was thrilled to be working, since there were not that many half-hour shows being shot in New York, and jobs were scarce, especially for 42 year old guys like me. Everybody wanted young. I don’t ever remember being young. I always had an old face, although in the last few years I’ve grown into it. The gray in my hair first showed up when I was in my twenties, and only when I turned forty did I feel comfortable with the idea that it was starting to look distinguished. I think I’m good looking, but I can’t remember anyone actually confirming that for me. You’re looking good was as close as I got.

The show was in its second season and only vaguely resembled the first episode, which was smart and funny and full of my material. About a month after Barry the Prick got the exec-producer job, we started having rating problems. Starting Friday, there was a two-week hiatus coming up, and there was some hope that the break would miraculously turn things around.

It’s the writing, Barry said. It sucks.

You’re the head writer, I said.

Fuck you, too, Peter, was his clever answer.

It was at this point that a network suit walked into the writers’ room and the look on his face suggested trouble. We were all in jeans and tees; Barry, as always, leaned toward beige corduroy, but the kid from the network was in a dark, three-button, funereal Hugo Boss suit. No seasonal changes for him.

The writers immediately began quietly playing the college game. What school did the suit graduate from? What was his major? Where was he from?

Vassar, Communications, somewhere on Long Island, was the first whispered guess.

Oberlin, Dance, Buffalo.

I liked the Oberlin guess, but leaned towards English Lit and somewhere in Canada.

UC Santa Barbara was a popular choice, as was the Culinary Institute of America. I was about to suggest Brown or Cornell, but before I could enter the game, Barry affirmed what everyone suspected. Turning to the network child, he said, Cancelled? Just last night Michael said he loved the shows this season.

It’s the audience, the suit said.

What about the audience? Barry pleaded, straightening his rug.

There isn’t one, explained the suit.

Does Michael know about this?

Your Mr. Klaus is no longer with the network. He returned the key to his office and was instructed to check into rehab in order to avoid legal action from the parents of a sixteen-year-old page. The network guy loved reporting this. From the writers came a smattering of applause.

Those around the table began pulling out their cell phones to call their agents. I stood and announced, Now that’s a great comic exchange: ‘what about the audience? . . . there isn’t one.’ If the gentleman from the network was on the staff, we’d all still have a job.

Fuck you, said Barry.

I can see where you’d want to do that, but the answer is no. And I’m going home to shoot myself.

I picked up my laptop and headed out the door.

As I drove home in the Mercedes that I had leased at the start of the season, I dismissed the suicide idea, but not without some serious consideration. After all, I had taken out a second mortgage on the house to put a down payment on a condo in Vermont, owed six thousand on my MasterCard, over two thousand on my AMEX, and Elaine, who obviously failed botany since she was certain that money grew on trees, was leaving the next Tuesday for Florida to golf with the girls.

There would be no point in mentioning to her that I just lost my job. She’d consider that as putting a damper on her trip, and besides, I hoped that my agent would find me another show to work on before her vacation was over.

TWO

The robbery was loosely planned. In just about any other part of the country it would have ended quickly, with the robbers bleeding on the icy pavement and the armed guards congratulating themselves, anticipating a generous gift from their employers.

Now, however, the only possible recipient of a cash gift would be the family of the guards, since it was the two overweight, uniformed employees of Davis Armored Transit who were the ones left bleeding on the sidewalk. They lay there as the robbers hauled the four bags full of bills, threw them into the back of a black 2005 Subaru wagon, and sped off down the county road towards US 1, heading south.

What was discerned was that Irwin Parker and Bruce van Hoph, both long-time Davis employees, were not paying much attention as they prepared to make their final pickup at Manitou Haven, the largest Indian casino in the state. A half hour earlier they had done the same at Cayuga Vista, the newest casino in the area. Both Indian mega-gambling halls had just raked in record Presidents’ Weekend takes.

On a normal weekend there would be just one bag that Parker and van Hoph collected from each location. Today, the Tuesday morning after the holiday, the take would probably be somewhere in the millions. Two bags full. But it was just paper to them.

The drive from Cayuga Vista took longer than usual because of the slick roads, and it was close to ten in the morning when the armored car pulled into the Manitou entrance driveway and made its way to the rear of the building. There were few cars in the casino employee parking lot as Parker stopped the armored truck close to the safety door that led to the counting room. As was his habit, he stepped outside the truck and stood at the rear doors while van Hoph went inside to make the pickup. It took only a few minutes before he returned, loaded down with two bags of bills. He looked casually at the almost-empty parking lot and moved with his load to the armored truck where Parker had unlocked the truck’s rear metal door.

From the side of the building, two men dressed in dealers’ uniforms under their down jackets (white shirts, black ties and striped pants,) were chatting away as dealers were prone to do while they sauntered across the lot. Name tags were visible and casino logos were apparent on their red and black jackets. The two armored-car guards paid them little attention.

The dealers appeared to be headed for the door that van Hoph had just come from, but veered off at the last moment, drew handguns, and shot both guards before they had a chance to react.

The shooters moved towards the door of the truck and hauled out the two bags from the first casino pick-up, then moved to the fallen van Hoph and grabbed the two bags he was carrying. At that moment the black Subaru wagon slid around the building and roared into the lot. The rear door of the wagon popped open, the money was thrown in, the two bogus dealers piled into the back seat, and the three men were gone as the guards were taking their last breath.

THREE

As usual, I had too much faith in my agent. It had been four days since the show was cancelled and he still hadn’t returned any of my calls. I knew it was a holiday weekend, but if I was a doctor he’d return my call, afraid that I had some terrible news about his blood test results; maybe if I was his accountant with some news about an audit that could mean five years in a minimum security Federal farm somewhere in the Midwest, he’d call. He’d call back pretty fast if I was the attorney of the seventeen year-old would-be actress he was screwing. But I wasn’t any of those. I was just his client, simply hoping he’d do his job and get me a show for the coming season.

The business has changed, and a few older writers I knew were moving back to the Coast where there were more shows in production. The recession had cut the number of shows being produced in half, and reality programs that were filling the airtime avoided Guild writers at all cost.

The thought of moving back to L.A made me shudder. I had gone out there right after college to look for writing assignments, and hated it from the moment I realized it really wasn’t a city, but rather a bunch of overcrowded freeways that connected overcrowded quasi-towns: Beverly Hills, Silverlakej, Boys Town, Burbank and the rest. I rented a room in Culver City near MGM, bought a used Vespa to get around and found an agent (brother-in-law of a friend of a friend) who kept forgetting my name, but miraculously got me connected with a sitcom that was on its last legs. I wrote a couple of episodes that were never produced since the show got cancelled the day after I finished my second script, but it qualified me for a Guild membership, and I managed to get by as a comedy writer for a few years.

The Vespa became a Fiat and the room in Culver City became an apartment in Sherman Oaks. I got a staff job on an animated version of What’s Happening!!, wrote a couple of pilots that never made it, worked on some special material for a young comedy team, and all in all, managed to make a pretty good living. But I hated L.A. and when I got a chance to work on an hour mystery/comedy show in New York, I sold the Fiat, closed up the Valley apartment and came east, hoping I never would have to go back.

All that was in the nineties and since then I’ve been working pretty steadily, going from one show to another and then moving from the city up to Connecticut, not because I wanted to, but because my new wife thought it would be good for the children that she never wanted and we never had.

Now I drive into New York every morning to work on a comedy show that needs comedy; but what half-hour, with canned laughter, doesn’t?

All that history was going through my mind as I loaded Elaine’s Tumi luggage into the car. Her pink golf bag with our club logo was the last thing to be jammed in. I yelled my third hurry up and closed the trunk.

You don’t have to yell.

She locked the front door of the house and came down the walk to the car carrying the small Gucci bag she would take on board the flight. As usual, she looked great. Dressed perfectly, as if she was going to fly south on her own private jet instead of JetBlue.

Watch it. There’s some ice on the walk.

Then come help me.

I moved to get her bag as she told me again how she hated the worn Gap jeans I was wearing, It’s quite possible that I wore them because I knew she hated them.

I wasn’t yelling, I was suggesting. Got everything? I said.

Of course, Peter; My MasterCard, Visa and American Express. There was no hint that she wasn’t being serious.

I think it’s great that your hiatus came right now, Elaine said.

Yeah, great. I liked it when I knew something she didn’t, even if it meant that we would be broke in about a week.

Elaine was making her yearly trip to Orlando with seven of her friends from the Saugatuck Golf and Country Club. It had become an annual pilgrimage, and the ladies were welcomed by the pro shops at Timicuan, Shingle Creek, Falcon’s Fire and the other Florida courses that sold them the newest Ecco shoes, Nike tops, and assorted golf wear that was available at home in Connecticut at half the price.

In past years, this had been a pleasant week for me—a chance to be alone for seven days. I would drive Elaine to the airport, meet up with the other husbands who were sending their wives off, find a skycap to check her bags, wish the girls a safe trip and wait until Elaine boarded the JetBlue flight. Making sure she was actually leaving? Maybe.

Her trips south always coincided with a hiatus on the show, but his year, there might be more time off than was necessary.

We drove to the Westchester County Airport, making very little conversation that didn’t include the improvement in her back swing. The other women were there waiting for the always-late Elaine. The husbands that drove them to the airport had already left, and I smiled a hello to all of them, eager to get back into my car.

Annette Kohl, the best golfer among the ladies, waved to me. I told Harry to call you if he got lonely, she said. There was no way Harry was going to get lonely; he’d be celebrating her departure as he drove out of the airport.

Jane, or Jan McIlwin—I forget which it was—nodded hello as she was trying to get one of those seats that had more leg room. I don’t think she was more than five feet tall; why the need for more legroom? Everyone in the departure area could hear her shrill voice arguing with the agent. Her husband, Walter, was another guy who wasn’t going to be lonely.

I don’t want it to sound like they were all awful women; they weren’t. Barbara Sheridan was adorable and nice, and Freda Lang was fun and easy going and, I think, interested in me. Not in a romantic sense, but because I was a writer; something she aspired to, and was always asking me questions about getting her short stories published. I didn’t have a clue about that, but I don’t think she believed me.

They were calling the flight over the loud speaker. I took a step towards Elaine.

The goodbyes were the same as they always were: a peck on the cheek while she never took her eyes off her bags.

Play good, I said.

Tip the boy who took my suitcase, she said.

As soon as her flight took off, I drove back home. I was thinking that if her plane crashed, her last words to me would be tip the boy.

I parked the car in front of the house, and dismissing the cold, early morning wind coming off Long Island Sound, stopped to straighten a red snow reflector. I wished I had worn boots as I walked carefully up the iced steps to the front door.

We bought the house soon after we got married and I was into my second year on a hit show that quickly got cancelled when the star was arrested for selling drugs to the pages at the network. Elaine loved the place because it was a plaque house, designated as such by the local historical society. The plaque next to the front door read Built by J. Harmon, 1793. I would have preferred something by Toll Brothers, 2008.

Inside, I ignored the snow on my shoes that left puddles on the pegged hardwood entrance, took off my jacket, and started up the stairs to get changed and begin packing for my yearly adventure.

This year’s plan mirrored the last three trips. Elaine flew south; I drove and would reach Florida by the time her week of golf was finished. We would visit some friends who had winter homes on the Gulf Coast and then drive north stopping along the way in Georgia (The Landings near Savannah, to stay with Bill Henderson and his wife), South Carolina (Kiawah, to stay a couple of days with my old college room mate) and then on to Connecticut.

The drive south was what I always looked forward to—being alone for a week or so; stopping anywhere I wanted to without consulting any fellow passenger; in a way, controlling my fate. The drive back north wasn’t nearly as pleasant, with Elaine wanting to stop at antique shops and searching for anywhere to eat besides a chain restaurant on the highway. Elaine wanted to hunt for starred restaurants; I loved the lunch at a Cracker Barrel.

Ready to start packing, I walked into our bedroom, met by Elaine’s portrait that hung over our bed. She had given me the painting a couple of years ago for my fortieth birthday. It was a remarkable likeness, almost a photograph; her blonde hair cut the way I liked it, her mouth was perfect, wonderful blue eyes that seemed to follow me as I moved to the bureau to start collecting my things. And most startling about it was that is was a nude. A small piece of silk thrown across her waist made it more sensuous than if there was nothing there. And her breasts were hers; small tattoo and all. She looked beautiful. No wonder I fell in love with a woman fifteen years younger than I was.

Then again, wasn’t it odd to give a nude painting of yourself to someone? Maybe not.

It was not something Janet would do, I was sure of that. I ought to call her. But why did I think she’d even want to talk to me?

FOUR

The road leading away from the casino was a narrow two-laner, but once on the main highway, the thieves figured on getting away from any law without much trouble. But they hadn’t planned on the weather. Before they had covered twenty miles, the snowfall increased in tempo, along with the howling wind, and they were moving into a near whiteout.

Can you see? I can’t see.

You don’t have to see. You’re not driving.

Slow down, for chrissakes.

Herman, the eldest brother, was the assigned driver. His two younger siblings, Cecil and Claude, were in charge of killing people, which they had done with cold perfection a few minutes before at the casino.

Take it easy, Herman, Claude said. No use ending up in a ditch and calling some tow guy to get us out.

Course, we could shoot him, too. Save the tow charge, and make it a perfect day, young Cecil said, laughing at the prospect.

Better turn your lights on, Herman, Claude said.

Stop giving me driving lessons, Herman growled as he switched on the headlights.

The Peeker brothers’ resume was impressive. Herman spent four years at the Polk Correctional facility in Butner, which boasted the first High Security Maximum Control unit in North Carolina. He was there because of a disagreement with a 7/11 shopkeeper from Bangladesh that resulted in the newly arrived immigrant’s loss of a hand, an ear and part of a nose.

The two younger Peekers had robbed, assaulted and, in two cases, killed for the pure thrill of the hunt. Cecil, the twenty-year old, was particularly adept at frivolous mayhem.

Claude, the middle brother, had graduated from a Tennessee Valley Community College before he found his true career: mugging, shooting, hitting, stealing and, once before today’s adventure, killing. His stay at Riverbend Maximum in Nashville only heightened his appetite for risk/reward endeavors. In spite of his small frame and missing left eye, he was the planner and motivator of the trio.

The three had purposefully ended up in the same Pennsylvania area that had welcomed the casinos, and Claude had worked at Cayuga Vista long enough to steal some uniforms and check the schedule of the armored car pick-ups.

Except for the snowfall, everything had worked out well so far in this, their move into the big time.

Ten minutes before it didn’t seem the storm could get worse. It did. Visibility kept deteriorating and the only thing Herman could see was the red blinking lights up ahead.

Police car, he told his brothers. They’re moving people off to the side to wait out the storm.

That’s no good, Claude said. I know half of those cops. Get off on this exit. We can move around them if we take 516.

It’s practically a gravel road.

"Do you want to stop and have a chat with the State guys? You’ve got