Nocturnal Read Free Page B

life insurance and outdoor grills. But I couldn’t deny that the caller had sounded remarkably like him. Not at first, but towards the end of the call, when he chuckled low, and his voice dropped slightly. I couldn’t get the image of Ralph T Emerson talking into a cupped hand out of my head.
    I usually had a good memory for voices, but I hoped like hell I was mistaken, telling myself that a random shit stirrer or mentally unstable client of Ralph’s were still the more likely explanations.
    However, the following evening, my creeping suspicions were confirmed. The note on Ralph’s desk had disappeared, but my own desk was conspicuously bare. Ralph had obviously read my phone message and then disposed of it, not bothering to reply. My mind ticked over. If Ralph didn’t know anything about the mystery caller, surely he would’ve scribbled me a few lines as a courtesy. Surely.
    I imagined Ralph sitting at his desk, raising a contemptuous chuckle as he read over my note, not fooled for a second by my laid back tone. He’d detected the fear in my voice from the night before. He knew he was already inside my head.
    I put on my aviator shades and walked straight back out of the office, taking the elevator down to the parking level. If I stayed at my desk, I’d only end up stewing over Ralph T Emerson for the rest of the night, slowly driving myself crazy. I needed a distraction, and one of my favorite stand-up clients was performing across town. I wasn’t exactly in a laughing mood, but I did feel like a strong drink.
    There were about a dozen comics in San Francisco who regularly used my material. They covered a wide range of stand-up styles: observational cynics, flamboyant surrealists, aggressive ranters, even a ventriloquist with a sarcastic rabbit. My own particular talent, if you could call it that, was a knack for tailoring jokes to a client’s persona. Coming up with a clever one-liner was one thing, but unless a joke strengthened a comedian’s identity, giving them ownership of the material, it would never lift them above the glut of mildly amusing wannabees.
    The client I was driving over to see was a six-four, 250-pound ex linebacker who’d made a career out of acting pleasantly dumb. I met Bruno Vek at a sports bar during an abysmal Giants-Brewers game, one of many low points of the 2013 season. We were bored and trading Wisconsin jokes when he asked what I did for a living, which led to a long discussion about comedy, and an exchange of business cards. He called the next morning to commission a stand-up routine, and Bruno the genial meathead was born. More than a year later, Bruno was yet to crack the big-time, but he made enough from corporate events and hosting open-mike nights to make ends meet. By his reckoning, it sure beat security work.
    Apart from being a valued client, Bruno was also my best friend in the world. It was a dubious honor, as he liked to point out, since he could equally be described as my only friend in the world, or the only human being who talked to me without money changing hands. Nonetheless, when the chips were down, he was someone I could depend on.
    Tonight Bruno was hosting a rising stars show at part-time club in Fort Mason. The job didn’t pay much, but it was a perfect opportunity to try new material in front of an audience. If a joke bombed, it could easily be swept under the carpet by introducing the next comic.
    Bruno was beginning one of his link pieces when I entered the club – actually just a run-of-the-mill Irish bar with a makeshift wooden stage – and the dim lighting meant I could safely remove my sunglasses. It looked like a typical midweek crowd: a mix of college students attracted by the cheap cover, and tourists looking to cross “comedy club” off their San Francisco checklist. I ordered a Johnny Walker neat, took a seat near the back, and tried to engage my business brain.
    Bruno had just segued into the new Pandora routine I’d written for him – his