CHAPTER NINE
A week after its release, “Take Good Care Of My Baby” debuted at number one on WANK’s local chart. A week after that, Bobby Dreamland broke nationally. His single entered the Billboard Hot 100 at number seventy-three, while Hi! I’m Bobby Dreamland also debuted on the album chart. Stronzo called his old friend Kenny Kendall to get Bobby on the man’s TV show.
There was further excitement in the Leonetti house when Stronzo announced that he and Bobby were going to California for the lad’s first television appearance. Maria sighed, “I wish we could go, Vince. We ain’t had a trip since our honeymoon in Jersey.”
Stronzo offered his “compassion” smile. “I’m afraid it’s a business trip. The label’s only paying for Bobby and me to go.”
Vince said, “We understand, Dominic. You’re doing what’s right for my son.”
“I certainly am, Vince. I certainly am.”
Bobby spent his first day in Los Angeles rehearsing on the set of “The Kenny Kendall Show.” He looked around in we as the show’s producer gave Bobby the grand tour.
“This is so cool! You know, I watch ‘Kenny Kendall’ every day. I was watching the show when he still did it from Baltimore. I can’t believe I’m really going to be on it.”
The producer smiled. “Well, you are, buddy. And I hope you kick some butt.”
“Do I really have to lip-synch, though? Can’t I just do the songs live?”
The producer chuckled. “If I had a buck for everyone who’s asked me that… You see, Bobby, you’re going to be on live TV. We can’t afford any screw-ups. It’s just a lot safer to have you lip-synch. And besides, it saves us from hiring musicians. If we don’t pay those vampires union scale, they screw with us big time.”
“Oh. Well, I was just wondering. So, when do I meet Kenny Kendall?”
“Tomorrow.”
“No sooner?”
“Nope,” said the producer. “Kenny insists in spontaneity, so he never meets a guest until right before the show starts. Just memorize your lines, kid, and you’ll do great.”
“How come I have to say all this?”
It was mid-evening. Bobby and Stronzo were at their hotel, rehearsing his lines.
“Something wrong with the script, Bobby?”
“Well, none of it’s true. I never said or did any of this stuff. I don’t want to go on TV and lie to people.”
Stronzo offered his “fatherly” smile. “It’s not lying.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s creating a mystique. Don’t you go to the movies, Bobby?”
“Sure. All the time.”
“What’s the best one you’ve seen recently?”
“Diamonds Are Forever.”
“That’s James Bond, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Bobby.
“You don’t think Sean Connery really kills people?”
“Of course not. They’d put him in jail.”
“But don’t you see Sean Connery on screen killing enemy agents?”
“Well, that’s really James Bond. Sean Connery just plays him.”
“Now you’re catching on.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Let me be blunt: the fans don’t give a damn about you.”
Bobby looked hurt. “What do you mean?”
“You, my boy, are Bobby Leonetti. Bobby Dreamland is a fictional character that I created. I decide who he is, I decide what he does, I decide what he sings, and I even decide what he wears.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Whatever I tell you. Bobby, I’m not trying to make you feel bad. You’ve done a terrific job so far. I have all the faith in the world that you’ll knock ‘em dead tomorrow. But please don’t question my methods. Trust me, Bobby — the formula works.”
Half an hour before airtime, Kenny Kendall walked onto the set. He and Stronzo shook hands like the old friends they were.
“So, where’s…?” Kendall pulled an index card out of his jacket pocket. “…Bobby, that’s it. Where’s Bobby?”
“In his dressing room, and anxious as hell to meet you.”
Kendall grinned. “Well, who can blame him?”
No matter how many times he saw Kendall, it never ceased to amaze Stronzo that his friend never showed a single sign of aging. Kenny Kendall was forty-five years old but could have passed for a man two decades younger; and he insisted that he never did anything to fight the aging process.
Stronzo knocked on Bobby’s dressing room door.
“Come on in,” Bobby called.
The door swung open.
“Wow,” Bobby exclaimed. “Kenny Kendall.”
He offered his hand. “Please to meet you, Mr. Dreamland.”
Bobby shook it. “’Mr. Dreamland’? Geez, Mr. Kendall, just call me Bobby, OK?”
“All right. And you just call me Kenny.”
“Really?”
“Sure! You worked your way up, just as I did. Knock ‘em dead, my boy!”
As they left the room, Bobby said, “Wow, what a nice guy.”
In the corridor, Kendall said, “Jesus Christ, Dominic! That kid is fucking gorgeous. I don’t suppose he goes for older men?”
“You fucking chickenhawks never change, do you? Didn’t you almost go to jail for that a few years back?”
“Ah, but the operative word is ‘almost.’ I never forgot you for turning me on to that lawyer.”
“Why else would you plug my clients free of charge?”
“Why, out of the goodness of my heart.”
They looked at each other and burst out laughing.
In the control booth, the director said, “Cue the theme.” The pre-recorded “Kendall Bop” went out over the opening credits to 720 stations nationwide.
“Cue the announcer.”
The program’s announcer enthused, “Hey-ho, kids! Welcome to the hottest live music program in America, ‘The Kenny Kendall Show.’ And here’s your host, Kenny Kendall!”
As Kendall made his way on to the set, a neon “Applause” sign lit up. The clean-cut, netaly dressed white teen-agers who comprised the show’s audience offered Pavlovian applause.
“Well, hi there, kids.”
“Hi, Kenny!” The klieg lights reflected off their impossibly white teeth.
“We’ve got a hot new singer for you today. Direct from Brooklyn, New York...Bobby Dreamland!”
The “Applause” light came back on as Bobby walked out on stage clutching a fake microphone. As he did so, the girls went wild. One even rushed the stage to get to Bobby, which a uniformed security guard prevented.
In the booth, the director said, “Cue the record.”
As “Take Good Care Of My Baby” started, Bobby held the faux microphone up to his mouth and lip-synched, “My tears are falling since you’ve taken her away/And though it really hurts me so, there’s something that I’ve got to say.”
When the song ended, Bobby stepped down from the podium, exactly as he had been instructed. Kenny Kendall shook his hand.
“Thanks, Bobby, that was just great. How about it, kids? Wasn’t Bobby terrific?”
The teen-agers clapped, whistled, and shrieked.
“Well, my young friend, you are on your way. ‘Take Good Care of My Baby’ just debuted on the charts. Don’t be surprised if it turns up on ‘America’s Hot 40’ real soon.” Kendall referred to the nationally syndicated radio show that he owned and hosted.
“Gosh, Kenny! Do you really think it’ll be a hit?”
“You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
A neon sign said, “Laugh.” The audience obeyed.
Bobby said, “You know, Kenny, it sure is great to be on your show. Back home in Brooklyn, me and my friends watch you every afternoon. But I never dreamed I’d actually be on your show. At one time, I couldn’t even get into your audience.”
“What ever do you mean?”
“I wrote to you for tickets once, but you never replied.”
The “Laugh” and “Applause” signs both flashed. The audience did so.
Kendall chuckled. “I must apologize. Guess my staff was having an off day.”
“Laugh.” They did.
It had never occurred to the show’s writers to explain how Bobby was supposed to get from Brooklyn to Baltimore to attend a taping, even if he had received the tickets he ostensibly requested.
“So, Bobby, is there anything you’d like to say to the viewers?”
“Yeah. To all you kids out there: thank you so much for liking my music. You don’t know how much it means to me. And to my dad and mom, and my sisters, Allie and Patrice — thank you for supporting me, too. I love you all!”
A sign flashed, “Aww.” The audience said, “Aww....”
“So, Bobby, how about doing another song?”
“Kenny, I’d love to.” He got back up on the podium and grabbed the dummy mike. “All right, kids, put your dancing shoes on. We call this one ‘Cotton Candy Love.’”
In Skip Mitchell’s hotel room, Allison gaped at the screen. “That little prick! How dare he bring me into this?”
“It ain’t your brother’s fault. Stronzo and Fulsome are pulling the strings.”
“Well, I don’t recall giving anyone permission to say on TV that I supported Bobby’s singing!”
“You think they gave a damn about getting your permission?”
“Well, can’t I sue them or something? Like, for defamation of character?”
Mitchell sat next to her at the foot of the bed and placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “You’re one person, sweetheart. They’d crush you like a cigarette butt.”
Allie managed a smile. “So, what are you saying? Mr. Smith Goes To Washington is just a fantasy?”
“If my experience is any indication.”
“I might feel better if you stuck your meat into me.”
Mitchell grinned. “That can be arranged.”
In the Leonettis’ living room, Bobby’s parents, along with numerous relatives, sat in front of the TV, watching “The Kenny Kendall Show.” When Bobby said, “I love you all,” Maria burst into tears and turned to her husband.
“We raised a wonderful boy, Vince.”
“We sure did.”