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Wrote this in 1994, in the wake of my mother's sudden, tragic death. My grief was so severe that I ached to write something screamingly funny. I recently pulled out the manuscript so I could type it into Word and revise it further. Who knows, if I can edit the book to my satisfaction, I might even try to get an agent to represent me on the damned thing!
CHAPTER ONE
Brooklyn, New York
Early 1972
Bobby Leonetti put down the blow drier, looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, and combed his hair. His sister Allison knocked loudly on the door.
“Come on, Bobby! I have to piss.”
“Can’t you go downstairs?”
“No, ‘cause dad’s taking his weekly two-hour shit.”
“Well, the talent show’s tonight. I’ve got to look my best for it.”
“Bobby, do you want your big sister to explode in the fucking hallway? How’d you like to help dad and ma scrape me off the walls?”
Bobby sighed and unlocked the door.
“Thank you!” Allison stomped into the bathroom as Bobby left. She slammed the door behind her, followed a heartbeat later by a massive sigh of relief.
Bobby rapped on the door. “You done yet?”
“Hold your fucking horses!”
“Well, can you hurry up? The show’s going to start soon.”
“Kiddo, I really wish you wouldn’t enter that thing.”
“Come on, Allie. I’m nervous enough.”
She opened the door and looked with tenderness at her kid brother. At fourteen, Bobby was almost impossibly good-looking. His pixyish face had full pink lips, a pug nose, and elegant blue eyes. Bobby’s tan hair was thick, wavy, and just long enough to cover the tops of his ears. In no way did Bobby’s appearance betray his heritage.
His sister, meanwhile, was Italian to the core. At twenty, Allison had olive skin and long, straight black hair that went halfway down her back. On her nondescript face was a pair of dark eyes that radiated anger and discontent, behind a pair of black plastic glasses that forever slid down her nose. A thyroid condition also kept Allison on the heavy side.
As Bobby went back to his hair-combing, Allison patted him on the shoulder. “Well, good luck, kiddo. God knows you’ll need it.”
“Come back and say that when I win!”
As Allison drove home from the movies, she saw Bobby walking along Flatbush Avenue, and tooted the horn at him. Dejectedly, he got into the Volkswagen.
“You lost, didn’t you?” said Allison.
“They laughed at me! They only stopped because the principal came out and yelled at them.”
“Principal, huh? Those kids must have been embarrassed as hell!”
“It was the teachers.”
She held his hand. “I told you not to enter that show.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve got to face it, Bobby — you can’t sing.”
He took his hand back. “I can, too! One of these days, I’ll have a number one record.”
“Given what’s on the charts now, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Bobby glared at his sister and stormed out of the car.
Maria Leonetti sat in front of the television, trying to pay attention to “The Mod Squad.” Presently, Allison came in.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Nice to see you, too, ma!”
“Sorry. I was hoping it was Bobby.”
“He lost.”
“How do you know?”
Allison explained the scene in her car.
“My poor boy.” Maria’s face tightened. “Damn your father and his bowling night! He could’ve stayed home with the baby just this once.”
Allison said nothing.
“I better stay up and wait for Bobby.”
“Just do us all a favor—don’t encourage his singing.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to make my son feel better.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“I don’t know, ma. Maybe Allie’s right. Maybe I’m just not a singer.”
Maria, sitting on the couch with her son, patted his knee. “Those jerks don’t know talent when they see it.”
“You’re only saying that because I’m your son.”
“Hey, so what if they laughed at you? They laughed at Elvis,
too.”
“When did Elvis perform at Bensonhurst High?”
“That’s not what I mean, silly! Don’t be such a smart-ass.”
“So, you think I should keep on singing?”
“Only if that’s what you want to do. Remember, you don’t have to prove nothing to nobody.”
“Thanks, ma.” He kissed Maria’s cheek and went upstairs. As he passed Allison’s room, Bobby stuck his head in the door and said, “Guess what? Ma says I should keep singing. What do you think of that?”
A disgusted Allison closed the door in her brother’s face and turned on the radio. An African-American disc jockey announced, “You’re listening to the Heart and Soul of New York—1600, WWRL,” and played James Brown’s “Talking Loud and Saying Nothing.”
CHAPTER TWO
It was two evenings later. The Leonettis had just finished supper when the doorbell rang. Maria got it.
On the porch stood a dapper man of fifty-two. His complexion was oily and he had a clean-shaven face, dark brown eyes, and raven-colored hair with streaks of gray. His thick lips curled in a way that suggested extreme self-confidence. He wore an expensive powder blue suit with creases that could have sliced meat.
“Good evening, madam.” He spoke in a booming, self-assured baritone. “I wonder if your brother might be at home.”
“My brother? He died in Korea.”
“But you are Bobby Leonetti’s sister?”
“Honey, I’m his mother.”
“You’re joshing me! You don’t look a day over twenty-one.”
Maria giggled.
Her husband Vince came to the door. “Who the hell are you?”
The man produced a business card that read:
DOMINIC R. STRONZO
Manager
Specializing in the discovery, grooming,
and marketing of talented young singers.
“What the hell do you want with us?” said Vince. “Ain’t no talented young singers in this house.”
“Oh, I beg to differ, sir. You have an extremely talented offspring.”
Vince turned to his wife. “Allie say anything to you about wanting to sing?”
Stronzo asked, “May I come in?”
Pausing, Vince said, “Yeah, sure. We’re heating the outside here, anyway.”
Allison took one look at Stronzo and was filled with distrust.
Vince said, “Now, what’s this about my kid being a good singer?”
“Is Bobby at home?”
“He’s upstairs,” said Maria.
“Might he join us? This does, after all, concern him.”
“Yeah, sure.” Vince shouted, “Bobby! Get your ass down here.”
“Can it wait, dad? I’m combing my hair.”
“Goddammit, get down here now!”
Bobby appeared at the top of the stairs.
Vince grinned at Stronzo. “Kids. You gotta train ‘em right, ha?”
“Oh, most definitely.”
Bobby came downstairs. “Who’s this guy?”
Stronzo offered him a business card.
“Should I know you?”
“I’m hoping we’ll get to know each other quite well. I saw you at the talent show, Bobby.”
“Oh, god! Please don’t remind me of that. They laughed me off the stage.”
“And I felt badly for you, because it wasn’t your fault.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Not at all. Bobby, you have a lot of potential. In fact, with the proper guidance, you could be the next Donny Osmond.”
“How, just a goddamned minute!” Allison raged across the floor. “Who the hell are you to barge in here and fill my brother with these lies?”
“And you are...?”
A clearly embarrassed Maria said, “This is Allie. She’s our oldest.”
Stronzo extended his right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Allie.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“My apologies. You see, Allie, twenty yeas ago, I became a jukebox salesman. I traveled the country plying my trade and learned about the music business in the process. I learned what sold records, and I learned how make a singer into a star. In 1959, I managed my first client, Billy Clark.”
Allison’s face went sour.
Maria’s, however, lit up. “You managed Billy Clark?”
“Oh, you remember him?”
“Well, sure I do! He was the cutest thing! Soon as I saw him on ‘Bandstand,’ I went right out and bought ‘Diddly Doodly Wam Bop.’”
“One of my most painful childhood memories,” Allison said.
“You shut your mouth, young lady!”
Allison said to Stronzo, “So your specialty is foisting no-talents like my brother on people who don’t the Partridge Family from the Staple Singers.”
Bobby shouted, “No talent?” He quieted down, however, when Stronzo motioned to him.
“Allie, I’d never manage a singer I didn’t believe in one hundred per cent.”
“Fabian’s manager believed in him, too. So what’s your point?”
Bobby said, “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m trying to save you from disappointment.” To Stronzo, “So, whatever happened to Billy Clark?”
“I honestly don’t know. We lost touch years ago.”
“Yeah, well I know. His star shone for about year. After that, he became a junkie and landed in a dryout tank after a suicide attempt with a straight razor.”
Maria’s face contorted. “Allie, please! We just ate supper.”
“Yeah,” said Bobby. “And how do you know all that stuff, anyway?”
“It was all over the press, kiddo. It’s common these days to hear about rock singers on drugs, but it was pretty damned rare back in 1960.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” said Vince. “Bring the good old days before all them goddamned hippies!”
Maria said to Stronzo, “You know, my daughter’s right. I remember all that stuff about Billy Clark. How do we know that wouldn’t happen to Bobby?”
“Ma,” Bobby exclaimed. “I’d never take drugs. You taught me
better than that.”
Stronzo said, “I’m afraid Billy had no character. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that until it was too late. I was young and didn’t know nearly as much about certain things as I do now. But he was the only client of mine who ever took drugs. I absolutely will not sign a client who I know to be a drug user.”
Allison asked, “Was Billy Clark a drug user before he his singing career hit the skids?”
“I believe he was. He just managed to hide it from me.”
“Yeah, because you wanted him to. All right, so riddle me this, Batman: how much of parents’ cash do you want them invest in Bobby’s new ‘career’?”
“Not a cent.”
“Well, congratulations! You’ve actually shocked me.”
“Good,” said Bobby. “Now will you shut up and let this guy talk?”
It was agreed that after school the next day, Bobby would meet his parents at Stronzo’s office to sign the necessary papers. They invited Allison to attend the meeting, but she none too politely refused.
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