Funny Business

It was black-tie comedy night at the Four Seasons Hotel and Dash Moody was due onstage in five minutes. Unfortunately for Dash, he’d just consumed three plates of Thai chicken and was burping volcanic clouds of curry into the electric atmosphere of the Pinnacle Ballroom. This often happened before a performance—the burping was a by-product of his stress eating—but tonight this was especially bad because Dash’s longtime nemesis, Oggie Phelps, was in the audience.

  Oggie was a hack, but for some reason the crowds loved him. His jokes were full of cliches, racial epithets, and stolen bits from long-ago greats like Bob Hope and Red Skelton. Oggie believed that a dead comedian’s material was fair game, and most audiences were too gullible to realize they were being duped.

  “I’m thinking you should cut that pregnancy joke,” said Dash’s manager, Wanda. “Too many women in the audience tonight.”

  Dash emitted another belch. “Nothing wrong with that joke. It always gets lots of laughs. Besides, it’s more of a cultural observation.”

  “Cut it,” she said, raising a stern eyebrow as she straightened his bow tie. “You want that prize money, right?”

  Overcome with another series of curry-flavored burps, Dash was momentarily unable to respond. Yes, he wanted that prize money, but he’d win it his way. He’d never gotten anywhere by playing things safe.

  Three thousand dollars would pay this month’s rent and maybe even part of his exorbitant cat food bill. But even more satisfying would be the look on Oggie’s face when Dash finally bested him.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Wanda asked.

  “Too much curry.”

  “How many times have I told you not to eat before a performance?” She shook her head in disgust. “Go ask Chef George if you can have some fennel seeds.”

  “Fennel seeds? What for?”

  “It’s an old folk remedy. Works like a charm, trust me. My nana used to chew on fennel after a meal. Swore by it.” Wanda pointed toward the kitchen. “Hurry.”

  “Why can’t you go ask for fennel seeds? Isn’t that the kind of thing a manager is supposed to do?”

  Wanda sighed. “I’m not your babysitter, Dash. Besides, I have to introduce you, remember?”

  How could he forget? He strode off to the kitchen, hiccupping now.

  The kitchen was buzzing with energy. Several chefs in black aprons worked the grill, while others plated chicken and colorful vegetables atop fluffy beds of jasmine rice. On the other side of the massive room, waiters were loading desserts onto a rolling cart. The cacophony of sweet and savory aromas did nothing for Dash’s already churning stomach.

  “Sir, you can’t be back here,” said one of the chefs. According to the gold nametag pinned to his apron, his name was George. “If there’s something you need, please ask your waiter.”

  “It’s an emergency,” Dash said. “Got any fennel?”

  Chef George frowned. “For what, exactly?”

  Dash belched his loudest yet, right on cue. “I’m performing tonight and, as you can see—”

  “Okay, okay, let me see what I can find,” said Chef George. He hustled off toward the big walk-in pantry, shaking his head.

  “To be clear,” Dash yelled after him, “I’m not drunk. I need fennel, not coffee.”

  Feeling self-conscious, Dash drummed his fingers against his treacherous belly and waited. As a ruthless voyeur of the human experience, he kept his ears pricked for promising conversations. New material for his act was everywhere, just waiting to be harvested.

  He watched as two food service employees plated slices of cheesecake and drizzled decadent-looking syrup in zig-zag patterns.

  “Keep that one separate from the others, okay?” said one of them, pointing.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Apparently we’ve got a guest who’s highly allergic to peanuts. Specifically requested fudge sauce, not the chocolate-peanut butter.”

  “These two plates are impossible to tell apart.”

  “Exactly. So keep that one separate, brainiac.”

  Dash drummed his fingers harder and closed his eyes. Between belches he ran lines in his head. This evening’s performance had to be perfect. Both his career and his bank account were riding on it.

  The rest of the comedians in tonight’s lineup weren’t very good. Over the years Dash had studied them all, analyzing their strengths and weaknesses, and Oggie Phelps was the only one he was truly worried about. The guy played to the lowest denominator, but sadly his act was pure comedy magic. Even though the material was predictably cornball, Oggie's delivery was flawless. And unlike Dash, Oggie had a gimmick. His shaggy eyebrows were a big hit. Every time he waggled them after a joke, the crowd went nuts.

  What Dash needed was a gimmick. Maybe he could start dressing as a woman, like Jonathan Winters did for his Maude Fricket persona. Or he could do that arrow-through-the-head gag or carry a banjo like Steve Martin used to do.

  “Here’s the fennel,” said Chef George, trotting back with a little baggie of brown seeds.

  Dash took the bag. “Thanks, man. You’re an angel of merrrcy,” he said, burping again.

  Chef George gave him a funny look before turning back to the kitchen.

  Dash popped a few seeds into his mouth and crunched robotically, eyes watering at the strong licorice flavor. He made a face and popped a few more. He’d never tasted anything so disgusting in his life.

  By some strange miracle, the fennel seeds worked. By the time the applause died down, Dash had stopped burping. He stood in the doorway, cradling a piece of stolen cheesecake, straightening his tie as Wanda introduced him to the crowd.

***

  Dash’s act went extremely well. Women slapped their thighs and cackled over his pregnancy joke, and although Dash didn’t have time to work up a costume, he improvised with a lampshade and got some excellent laughs near the end. As he left the stage, one of the judges actually winked at him.

  Dash was feeling fine.

  Backstage, Wanda threw her arms around him. “You knocked it out of the park, buddy boy. There’s no way you don’t win this.”

  “Maybe I’ll take a trip with the prize money,” he said. “I’ve heard Costa Rica is fabulous this time of year.”

  “Hey, don’t forget. Ten percent of that money is mine.”

  Sometimes Wanda could really put a damper on things. She was a great manager, though, always willing to go the extra mile for her clients. Dash had heard some crazy stories. Apparently once Wanda had purposefully locked another comedian in the bathroom so that her client could steal his spot onstage.

  “Well, maybe you can come too,” Dash said, feeling generous. “If I win. But there’s still Oggie to worry about, don’t forget.”

  “Did you see how much that guy was drinking?” she said. “I counted five drinks. I’ll be shocked if he’s capable of making it up to the stage without falling flat on his derriere.”

  They bumped fists in solidarity and went back to their table. The next act was Trish the Fish. She always wore a sequined costume and made lots of ocean-themed jokes. After that, two more comedians, one of them with a ridiculous ventriloquist act so dirty it belonged in a seedy Phoenix bar, not the Scottsdale Four Seasons.

  Now it all came down to Oggie. Would he butter up the audience with his hackneyed humor as usual, or would he choke? Dash crossed his fingers as Oggie’s manager went up to announce his act. The manager was a first-class motormouth. His introductions always turned into long-winded diatribes. He rattled on for ten minutes about the sad state of comedy and how Oggie Phelps was the one shining star in a constellation of losers.

  Dash kept one eye on Oggie, who didn’t appear the least bit flustered in the face of these undeserved accolades. He was sitting next to his girlfriend, still drinking like a fish and stuffing his face with cheesecake. Typical. Oggie was a notorious sweet tooth. There wasn’t a dessert he could say no to.

  Suddenly Oggie’s face went bright red. He dropped his fork, clutched his throat, and began to wheeze.

  Other than Dash, no one seemed to notice Oggie’s agitated state. Then, as his manager finished the introduction, applause broke out around the room. All attention swung to Oggie. Gasps of horror went up as people registered his obvious distress.

  It appeared that Oggie Phelps, their beloved buffoon, couldn’t breathe.

  He clawed at the air. Slid to the floor. Writhed on the patterned carpet like a tasered bug. His girlfriend straddled him in her short pink dress and attempted to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, except it was obvious she didn’t know the first thing about how to do it. It looked like she was trying to french-kiss him.

  By the time the paramedics arrived, Oggie’s face had swollen up like a bright red balloon.

***

  The next morning, Dash opened the Scottsdale Tribune over his scrambled eggs and read the headline from the Leisure section: LOCAL COMEDIAN DASH MOODY WINS FOUR SEASONS COMEDYFEST. He couldn’t suppress the grin that slowly spread across his face.

  One of Dash’s fifteen cats—Cora—made circle-eights around his legs as he read the article. He hummed. We’re in the money. The skies are sunny…

  He was still humming when the knock came ten minutes later. Dash folded the newspaper and positioned his coffee mug over the front-page headline: COMEDY GREAT OGGIE PHELPS DIES OF ANAPHYLAXIS DUE TO PEANUT EXPOSURE.

  As soon as the two serious-faced cops were in the door, one of them yanked Dash’s hands behind his back and snapped hard metal cuffs on his wrists.

  “Dash Moody, you’re under arrest for the murder of Oggie Phelps.”

  The cats grew agitated. They scampered to their corners and began to howl. Dash wondered if he could convince one of his neighbors to feed them until things got straightened out.

  “I don’t understand. What’s going on?” Dash asked as they escorted him downstairs to the patrol car.

  What would happen to his prize money now? Would they confiscate it?

  “One of the chefs at the Four Seasons last night saw you swipe a piece of cheesecake from the kitchen. And a guest from Oggie’s table saw you plant it smack-dab in front of Oggie right before you went on stage.”

  “I was just being nice. Oggie always loved cheesecake. How was I to know there were peanuts in the sauce? Or that he was allergic to them?”

  “The chef will testify you were in the kitchen when two food service employees carried on a discussion about the need for peanut-free cheesecake. And we have it on good authority that you and Oggie used to run a kids’ comedy camp together every summer. Everyone ate PBJs except Oggie, and everyone knew why.”

  Damn it. Dash had forgotten all about the comedy camp. He’d despised working with Oggie, whom the kids had adored. For some reason those Muppet-like eyebrows of his were extremely popular with the younger set.

  “Apparently some of your old students are adults now,” the cop said, pushing Dash into the back seat of the patrol car. “As soon as they heard the news this morning, they banded together to point the finger at you.”

  Was his stunning victory to end in such defeat? Dash sagged as the cop slammed the door.

  Riding toward the police station, sirens wailing, Dash couldn’t help but look on the bright side of things. He was pretty sure jail would provide lots of fresh material for his comedy act.

  Unfortunately, he suspected cheesecake would be off the menu for the foreseeable future.