Agent Duck V

            I'd come to the conclusion that I was very good at some things, but ‘being an agent’ wasn’t one of them. I needed help. I asked around for Popeye, and was told that he’d been sick a long time. Another told me that he was in Madagascar. Another told me that he was in jail. I came to the conclusion that Popeye would be of no use to me, his being sick in a Madagascan jail. So, I went to another source to find an agent. The Yellow Pages in the reference section of the library.

           “Frankie! Darling!”

            I found Herman’s office on West fourteenth street, four stories up in an old brownstone, on the other side of a thick oak door with frosted glass. I knew that I had discovered, perhaps, the most flamboyant assassin ever. At least he didn’t wear a fedora inside. The walls of the office were beautiful, as was his desk and chair, albeit grimy. It was musty-dusty, and Herman didn’t seem to care. The lived-in patina was part of the entire ‘Herman’s Office’ experience. After his very familiar greeting, he rushed over, leaving an unlit cigar in an ashtray on his desk, and leaned down and tweaked the tip of my wing as he patted my shoulder. He motioned to a wooden kitchen chair for me to stand on.

            “Caught your act at the 7-11. Lightbulbs went off in my head. Footlights. Yelled, ‘Hey’, and you just yelled ‘hey’ back and beat hell outta there. Good exit…”

            He replayed the scene, exhibiting his shrug and downbeat expression at not roping me.

            “But, now you’re here! And, I can make you a ‘star’. You do a Tom Jones second to none.”

            “I’m looking for Barry.”

            Herman threw himself back in a vintage swivel office chair and fiddled with that unlit cigar that had somehow appeared in his hand. He flicked it toward me.

            “Forget Barry. Small fry.” He leaned forward with something to confide. “Scared of karaoke. Hasta get drunk first. I say, ‘Yer no W. C. Fields! Get off the stage and on the wagon!’”

            He was now in full throat, crossing his legs, exposing holes in the bottoms of his wingtips, bobbing and rocking in that chair. I was beginning to see that Herman was something, but not a good assassin. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to me. “Where’s yer little friend? The duck. There’s a feature-length act there. He can be the straight man, you, the big, dumb comic.”

            “The what?”

            Herman in his attempt to placate, held his cigar upright toward me for some reason.

            “Not sayin’ you’re dumb. You gotta be smart in this business. Vaudeville is the art of compromise.”

            “I’m looking for Barry. The scientist.”

            “I don’t care what characters he plays, he’s a hack. You got gravitas. Say… You ever act? I’ve seen you sing and dance. Top rate. You could be a triple-threat. I know of a studio close by…”

            “I need to find Barry.”

            Herman slumped in his chair, and stopped talking. He was disappointed. He shrugged.

            “I’m not Barry’s agent. I’m sure he doesn’t have one. You ask me, no agent would take him. I’m surprised to hear such talk. He does karaoke sometimes, and, meanwhile, you’re workin’ for peanuts.”

            Herman lit up again, and was full into doing whatever it was he did. Which was not killing people. At least not very quickly.

            “For peanuts! Literally!”

            Herman chuckled. Now, twice, he’d used a word I’d heard before, in the lab, but didn’t know the meaning of. Which was nothing new for me.

            “What is karaoke?”

            Herman got serious and leaned forward.

            “Now, listen to me, Frank. Listen to me…”

            “Are you listenin’?”

            “Yes! I’m listening!”

            “Stay away from karaoke. Strictly for the…well…not for you. You have talent.”

            “But, what is karaoke?”

            He couldn’t believe what I was asking. Herman wanted something from me, and I didn’t know what that was. But, he took the time to explain carefully.

            “Karaoke is where you get up on stage and have music played for you, lyrics fed to you, and you sing. With all your friends around, telling you how great you are…they’re shills! Ready-made shills. It’s a performance with, like, training wheels.”

            “Where is karaoke?”

            “Oh, they do it in bars and community centers. They have one at the ‘Top Hat’ here, one at the VFW. They have one Wednesdays, tonight, at ‘Joe’s’…”

            I hopped off the chair.

            “Don’t do it. Dooont do it, Frankie. It’s no way to develop talent.”

            “Thanks for your time, Herman.” I held out a wing.

            He didn’t take it.

            “You’ll be spoiled goods!”

            I turned to the door, and it was closed. It had a knob. I turned back to him, and he knew immediately what that meant. I had to come back into the fold. He spread his arms.

            “Frankiebaby. Sit back down. Think about your career.”

            I was. And the knob wasn’t that much of a challenge. I’d used one before. I leapt at the door, turned the knob with one foot and pushed myself away with the other. And, as I went out…

            “One refrain of ‘I’m A Believer’, and I wash my hands of you, you hear?”

            I flew down the stairwell. And I kept hearing Herman shout the word ‘star’. Waddling down the sidewalk, I could hear himat the fourth floor window.

            “They’ll make you feel like a star, but you won’t be a star!”

            I looked up as I waddled, and feared for him. He was half out the window, shouting. At least, now, he was wearing his fedora.

            “I coulda made you a star!”