Fiction Stories
Whodunit?—The First Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
More Whodunits—The Second Borgo Press Book of Crime and Mystery Stories
X is for Xmas: Christmas Mysteries
FUNNY STUFF, by Ron Goulart
Somebody else had died.
Seemed like lately we were discussing the obituary of one of our colleagues or contemporaries at just about every one of our weekly lunches. On this particular autumn afternoon, Zarley was the first one to bring up the death of Ben Segal.
“I absolutely loved Lucky Duck,” he added, bouncing enthusiastically in his chair. “I don’t mean the animated cartoons, which were okay, but the funny books. Segal wrote and drew most of those, and he was a blooming genius, just like Walt Kelly and Carl Barks.”
“The Times obit,” said Heinz, “said that Segal died a multi-millionaire. It was good to see that Lon Destry Productions didn’t screw him out of every penny.”
“He was a partner in Destry, wasn’t he?” I said.
“Segal owned forty percent of the whole damn studio,” said Mert Younger. He’s semi-retired and is usually the oldest member at our Monday gathering of cartoonists at the Inkwell restaurant in Westport.
Today, though, he’d brought a friend of his. Fellow of seventy or so named Mac Myers. Myers was lean and sunburned and had the sort of bright blue eyes Sinatra is supposed to.
“Fifty percent,” Myers corrected.
“Mac used to work at Destry,” explained Mert.
“Doing what?” Zarley wanted to know.
“After Ben Segal became a vice president,” answered Myers, “I took over the comic book and comic strip department.”
“Then you must’ve had a hand in Maxie Mouse Comics and Veronica Vulture and Bix Bunnyrabbit and all.”
“I did,” admitted Myers with a quiet smile.
Zarley said, “What I’d like to—”
“What I’d like to know,” cut in Heinz, “is how Segal, who started as a bullpen cartoonist, ended up owning half the Destry empire.”
Ty Banner hadn’t said anything for a while. He’d been watching the Saugatuck River out the window and poking at the olive in his second martini. “I could tell you about that,” he said to us, glancing over at Myers. “Destry’s been dead for years, and now that Segal’s gone, too, I guess there’s no reason why not.”
Myers smiled. “That’s right, Ty, you worked for us out there. Back over thirty years ago, wasn’t it?”
“I was a mere lad at the time.” Banner ran a hand over his handsome, though slightly puffy, cheek. “After I got out of the service, I headed for Los Angeles. I had two things I was interested in, acting and drawing, and L.A. seemed like a good place to try both.”
“Three interests,” said Heinz. “You forgot to mention ladies.”
“I did a little of that in Hollywood, too.” Banner sipped his drink. “At any rate, despite my charm and natural good looks I never managed to get more than a few days of work as an extra. My entire acting career consisted of three days in a B-movie called Pago Pago Princess.”
“I bet you looked terrific in a sarong,” said Heinz.
“I did for a fact. Even so, I decided I’d better start pursuing my art career. I was multitalented, but so far I was just multi-starving. I managed to land a job at Destry Studios, working in their comic book department. That’s where I met Ben Segal.”
Zarley, sitting far forward in his chair, asked, “Do you know some backstage scuttlebutt, Ty? Some dark secrets that’ve been buried in the dim past for—”
“I know how come Segal’s career made a great leap ahead,” he said.
“So tell us,” urged Zarley.
“You grew up, being the youth of the bunch, reading Segal’s comic books, Lucky Duck and all that crap,” said Banner. “You have an idealized version of the guy, based on his work. And he was a damn good cartoonist, nobody did better funny stuff than Ben. There was a warmth in his drawings that… Well, I don’t want to spoil that for you.”
Zarley blinked. “Are you trying to tell me Ben Segal wasn’t a nice guy?”
Old Myers chuckled and then turned it into a cough.
“He wasn’t exactly a prince of good fellows,” said Banner.
“Let’s hear the damn story anyway,” said Heinz. “I don’t care if Segal’s heart was as black as a hunk of charcoal, I like yarns where working stiffs put one over on management.”
“He did that.” Banner nodded at Myers. “You might be able to tell this better than I can.”
The old cartoonist gave a negative shake of his head. “Nope. You’re obviously a much better raconteur than me.”
“Is there going to be violence, bloodshed, and foul deeds?” inquired Zarley with another bounce on his chair.
Banner finished his drink and signaled our waiter to bring another. “Sort of,” he said. “At least there were some sneaky doings and…a girl died.”
“Tell us,” said Zarley impatiently.
* * * *
I was going to say that Hollywood was different in those days (began Banner), but I suppose it was really just about like it is now. Spiritually, anyway. The air was much better and a lot of the buildings from the twenties and thirties were still standing. The apartment house I was living in was just barely standing, though, a three story structure the color of peanut brittle, on a little tree-lined street off Hollywood Boulevard. Well, tree-lined if you take into account two terminally ill palm trees and something that blossomed with goofy yellow flowers every autumn. My suite, which was what my ancient landlady insisted on calling all the cubicles, was on the top floor in the rear. Most of the cracks in its plaster were inadequately hidden by a thin coat of peach-colored calcimine, and the bed was one of those that folded in and out of the wall, usually. From my bathroom window I could often see potential movie starlets sunbathing on a second story roof across the way.
Lon Destry Productions hadn’t moved out to Burbank yet. We worked in a huge sort of shed at the back of Destry’s animation studio facilities over on Gower in the heart of Hollywood. It was a real movie sort of studio, with imitation stone walls around it, the exact same shade as my suite walls, and huge wrought iron gates presided over by a uniformed guard named, so help me, Pop. I was impressed with myself all over again every time I drove my prewar Plymouth coupe through those gates and gave Pop one of my best Errol Flynn smiles.
Ben Segal was about ten years older than me and six inches shorter. An energetic little guy already going bald. He’d grown up in Yonkers or some such outpost of civilization, but in Hollywood he wore polo shirts and fawn-colored slacks and, when he had a hangover, which was often,
