Sometimes Wishes Do Come True

by Dag Michaels

The two nattily attired men scurried from the gravesite toward one of the nearly sixty, somber black limos awaiting their celebrity and/or power broker clients. One of them, Mark Fine, made a brisk motion with his hand, halting the rapidly approaching chauffeur who was carrying an open umbrella.

Fine and his companion were so absorbed in their conversation that the rare mid-summer rainstorm went unheeded. The parched L.A. basin however, gratefully accepted the liquid gold; much like a thirsty wino accepts another hit off his buddy's bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. The storm, with enough accompanying moisture to convert the cemetery's lush green grasses into the equivalent of a child's wading pool, was of no interest to them. And the always meticulous Fine showed no concern as rain soaked pathways went about the business of ruining his thousand dollar Gucci loafers.

Jay Silverman, Fine's cohort during the hurried trip from coffin to car, was doing most of the talking. The two men had grown up together and were best friends. Fine, at thirty-six, was the next “wonder boy” film director on Hollywood 's never ending gristmill. Even stalwarts like Ron Howard and Mel Gibson had been on board with kudos when Mark's latest big screen offering, Angels Adrift , was released.

Silverman was president of the accounting firm that anyone who was anyone in Tinsel Town used. And though Mark was older by six months, Jay had always been the leader. In fact, it was Jay who'd gone to several of his firm's high dollar clients to get the necessary financing for Angels Adrift . And it now appeared that Fine's directorial career was made, due in large part to his close friend.

Their current topic of conversation was the man who would soon be returned to Mother Earth. The man, Larry Lamour (known around town as Lucky Larry), was forty-nine at the time of his death, which would be tried as murder. Lucky Larry Lamour had been one of the industry's truly good men, and the massive gravesite turnout, especially in the rainstorm, was a heartfelt tribute to him. In a town where deceit, outright lies, and career enhancing backstabbing were the norm, even Larry's most jaded contemporaries could find no fault with him.

Reaching the limo, the two men disregarded the deferential treatment afforded individuals of their station in life. Without awaiting the aid of the chauffeur, Fine opened the right rear door of the Mercedes.

The driver slash bodyguard slash gofer, was a six-seven ex-round baller named Marvin Short, who years before had acquired the nickname Shorty. While in his junior year at UCLA, Shorty let his penchant for giving unnecessarily hard fouls get him kicked off the basketball team. Then after flunking out of college when the perks that automatically came with being an athlete in a moneyed sport, like free tutoring and creative grading, were no longer available, Marvin eventually got into his present line of work.

Following his friend's lead, Silverman slid onto the posh, midnight blue leather rear seat, his incessant questions bombarding the harried Fine. “So let me get this straight. You're telling me that this guy Lamour actually wished himself to death?”

“Well, technically that's an accurate appraisal of the facts, but what I actually said, Jay, was that what he wished for got him killed.”

“I'm not the smartest turnip to fall off the truck. But I fail to see the difference.”

“Jay, Jay . . . look, don't get your blood pressure up over this. I'll explain everything to you. However, I'll do it in my own way and time. I have a lot to tell you, and some of it will damn well shock you. But everything I'm about to share with you is the absolute truth.”

“Look, I'm your oldest friend, not some bimbo you're trying to impress. So please spare me the theatrics, okay?”

As Silverman finished his exasperated plea, the now irritated Shorty was getting into the driver's seat. After buckling up and turning over the limo's massive 6.0-liter engine, he looked at Fine in the rearview mirror. “Where to now, Sir?”

Hollywood Ways , Fine's production company, was located in a suite of offices on the tenth floor of a commercial building in Culver City . The film director told his driver to take them there, but moments later, his stomach changed his mind. “Check that, Marvin. Please take Mr. Silverman and myself to Solley's. Oh, and why don't you call ahead to place our usual luncheon order with Lew.”

Lewis Katz, the long time manager of the Jewish restaurant and deli, would see to it that the booth Fine favored would be reserved. He would also personally serve the two men. Both were longtime patrons and personal friends. Actually, Jay Silverman had helped put himself through Pepperdine while working as a waiter at Solley's. The legendary eatery served up some of the best kosher food to be found anywhere west of Manhattan .

“Take us south on Van Nuys Boulevard , rather than using the 405, okay? Mr. Silverman and I have some very important matters to discuss, the extra drive time won't hurt a bit. Just give Lew your best guess as to when we'll be arriving so we won't tie up the booth unnecessarily.”

“You got it.” The enormous man then hit the switch operating the vehicle's privacy partition, bringing the glass up. One thing that insured Shorty's continued employment more than any other was his innate ability to anticipate Mark Fine's needs and wishes. Then, while observing his boss's brief nod of thanks in the mirror, the chauffeur reached for the limo's mobile phone.

Once they were ensconced in the privacy that the partition afforded, Silverman once again assailed his friend with questions. “Are you saying that he somehow wished himself to death? Was this some kind of weird robbery attempt gone bad? Was the supposed ‘pillar of the community' a secret bank robber? Christ, Mark, this is making less and less sense to me.”

By now Fine was thoroughly frustrated. “Will you for the love of God please shut up! Just sit there and listen. All your questions will be answered . . . as promised. But this is a complex situation. So the best way to get you up to speed, as it were, is for me to tell you a story. Before I start, two things: first, what I'm about to tell you was told to me by Larry Lamour more than five years ago. And secondly, since that time, certain events have taken place in my life as well. I now have a story to tell as well.

*

Larry's Tale

Lawrence George Slaton was born in nineteen sixty. He was the only son that Beth Ann and Raymond Slaton would have, but with three older sisters, little Larry never wanted for attention or affection. He was a sweet, loving child who grew up well-grounded in the Southern Baptist faith of his parents.

Larry had it good growing up. As time passed, everyone commented on what an unusually lucky boy he was. By the time he was eight he'd already acquired the nickname he'd have for the rest of his life—Lucky Larry. Even the day all three of his sisters, along with his parents, were killed in what was later described as one of Ohio's worst highway accidents, Larry was home with an inner ear infection. Pure luck. He was fourteen at the time and had it not been for the re-occurring ailment, the charred, mangled van would have carried one more burnt body. A total of eleven souls perished that sunny July day in nineteen seventy-four.

The family van passed over a broken beer bottle waiting insidiously on the highway. Raymond Slaton fought a valiant battle to control the vehicle after the left front tire blew at seventy-five miles per hour. But the van shot out of control, crossing the manicured grassy median. The impact with the oncoming Greyhound bus was devastating. All five of the Ford's passengers, and six more from the fully loaded bus, were pronounced dead at the scene. The ironic fact (which made all the national news broadcasts) was that there was a chance that Mr. Slaton had made the tire that caused the carnage.

Long before Larry's arrival, the newly wedded Ray and Beth Slaton left the vile smelling area of southwestern Louisiana where they'd both been born. Few things in manufacturing produce the overpowering stench that permeates the environment surrounding “cracker plants.” These facilities, the spawn of the petroleum industry, combine, omit, and/or otherwise change the molecular structure of crude oil. These operations join the use of heat and various chemical products to “ crack” the base product into everything from gasoline and jet fuel, to the very fine grade oil that's used to lubricate sewing machines.

The young couple left the area for the cleaner air of the northern climes. Ray had friends who'd preceded him, and they'd told him that jobs were plentiful in Akron , Ohio . Sure enough, he snagged one at the Goodyear Tire plant, and soon enough, he and his young bride were living out their own version of the American Dream. The only hitch was the terrible odor permeating the area from the smoke stacks of the tire manufacturing factories.

So it was possible that the blown-out Goodyear steel belted tire that caused eleven deaths had indeed been in some part made by Raymond Slaton.

It could be said that even though young Larry must surely have felt his lucky streak had come to a crashing end while watching five coffins being lowered into a hastily purchased family plot, point in fact was that it was about to increase tenfold. The luck of coincidence would soon be replaced by luck of design, though he would have to wait nearly six years to be made aware of the actual facts surrounding his newfound blessings.

But let's back up just a bit. Certain other related facts need to be shared to help complete Larry's Tale. The first, and probably most important piece of information needed to be imparted is that Larry's now dead father was not an only child, he'd been the younger brother to a stunning sister.

Mary Leta Dorothy Slaton was born December tenth, nineteen fourteen, in Morgan City , Louisiana . Even at birth, little Mary was thought to be gorgeous by nearly everyone who saw her. Her first thirteen years she was the center of her mother's world. Mary was everything that Mommy never was: popular, smart, and a knockout to look at. As happens many times in similar situations, Mary's mother relived a youth that never was through her daughter.

Then, in nineteen twenty-seven, the unimaginable happened; Mom had baby Raymond. Though the depression was still a couple years away, little Ray was not a wanted addition to the struggling family. He was a shy child of fifteen months the day that his big sister went out to use the backyard tire swing and found their father hanging. He'd cut the old car tire off the rope hanging from a tree branch, then apparently climbed atop the orange crate that was on the ground beside him, tied the rope around his neck, and jumped.

Everyone assumed that he'd committed suicide for the same reason so many others had . . . inability to cope with the woes of having another mouth to feed. Mary's mother however, knew the true reason. She'd told her distraught husband that she intended to leave him. Unable to face divorce on top of everything else, he'd opted to play the “Stretch Neck Boogie.”

Ray's paternal grandmother had seen the handwriting on the wall and told his not so distraught mother that she'd be taking the boy to raise herself. Basically, everybody came away winners. The shy little boy got a loving new mommy; his real mother got to continue living life through her daughter's beauty; Mary Leta got her new step daddy's last name, and best of all, she would soon be crowned Miss New Orleans.

Just before Mary Leta won her title she'd changed her name. She was now and forever more known by her favored middle name, as well as by the last name of her stepfather. That name would carry her to great heights, first as a popular singer during the big band era, and later as a famous movie actress. The name was Dorothy Lamour.

How, you might ask, does any of that information tie-in with Larry Slaton being a very lucky individual? It's a fair question and one that will soon be explained, so let's go back to the day of the funerals in Akron . In attendance throughout the terrible ordeal was a mysterious, though familiar looking woman in black mourning. That woman was Dorothy Lamour. She approached the nephew she'd never before seen following the services and introduced herself to him. She wasn't at all surprised that the boy didn't realize he'd had an aunt, much less knowing who Dorothy Lamour was. They spent the next several days getting acquainted. She told the now orphaned lad that she was personally taking over responsibility for his well-being, explaining that she was retired from films, and that she owned a home in North Hollywood , California , as well as a true Southern mansion on the southwest shore of Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans . Once again Larry's luck showed through.

The next few years passed like a dream. Through his Aunt Dotty he met a host of celebrities, most of them also retired. And one thing seemed to prevail amongst her friends; they were all well-liked in the community. Closer scrutiny also indicated that none of them appeared to want for anything.

Larry asked his Aunt if it didn't seem unusual that so many people she knew were not only very well off; they were pillars of the community. After congratulating him on being so astute, Aunt Dotty seemed somewhat vague in her reply. “Dear boy, I'm not at liberty to share any information with you about that question right now. I will however, say this; if you believe, and if you are proven worthy . . . sometimes wishes do come true. So for now just be satisfied with that answer, and always know that I am here for you.”

The young man asked his aunt that question on a mild evening in early October of nineteen eighty. He'd been living in Aunt Dottie's New Orleans mansion for six years, and was a sophomore at Tulane University . His academic workload centered primarily on pre-law courses, specializing in criminal justice. The twenty-year-old had decided on a career in law enforcement, choosing the academic, rather than military, route to attain his goal.

On the evening in question they'd been sitting together on the home's veranda, absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells that wafted north across the inky black waters of Lake Pontchartrain. The raucous noise of the lake's famous amusement park filled the air, along with the aroma of Cajun cooking and cotton candy.

Also heard were the crickets and bullfrogs secreted away in a multitude of back lawn rendezvous spots. As the nocturnal creatures serenaded potential lovers, Larry and his aunt sat amid a sea of burning Citronella candles. The specially scented waxen orbs were their first line of defense against an onslaught of late season mosquitoes. As they talked, Larry sipped on his bottle of Coca-Cola. Aunt Dotty had, as usual, opted for her favorite drink . . . a mint julep.

The young man breathed in the sweet, cloying scent of the ever-present magnolia blossoms. After several minutes of silent reflection, he ventured forth, “Aunt Dotty, I know that you always have my best interests at heart, and that you'll always be there for me. You've proven it hundreds of times since I've come to live with you.” He paused to catch his breath and build up the courage to continue. “But I'm afraid I have a problem at school that even you can't fix.”

The atmosphere became charged with anticipation. He was distraught that his information would anger this woman he'd come to love and respect. He didn't know that she was expecting him to confess drug or alcohol addiction. Both waited for the other to initiate further discussion, and after the silence had continued for over a minute, she assumed the lead, saying to him, “Larry, you must know by now that I think of you as my own child. Whatever this problem is . . . we'll address it together. So please don't keep your doddering old aunt in the dark any longer. Just what is it you're afraid to tell me?”

The young man laughed out loud. If there was one thing that his sixty-six year old aunt wasn't , it was doddering. She'd used the term for years, whenever she wanted to defuse situations that might become volatile.

“Well, I just don't want to disappoint you. I mean, after everything you've done for me,” Larry said, and once started, the words poured out in a virtual flood. “Aunt Dorothy, I'm afraid I may end up flunking out of college. But I honestly don't think I deserve the failing marks that I keep receiving in the one all-important class.”

The two of them then entered into a long discussion, the young man telling her the particulars of why he felt so uneasy regarding his grade status. It had to do with an assignment the entire class had been given in the first week of a mandatory course. The course was taught by a New Orleans police officer, Lt. Randall Simms, who was augmenting his regular income by teaching. Unfortunately, he brought his old school police mentality into the classroom. He'd assigned the students a two-thousand-word paper on the virtues of having military training prior to applying to any large city police force. He'd spent two enlistments as a Marine MP prior to joining the police force.

“I must have really pissed Lt. Simms off, Aunt Dotty, although that wasn't my intent.” Larry was near tears. “Honestly, all I wanted to do was write a good paper that stated my beliefs.”

He went on to explain that his theme paper had reasoned that proper education, with a strong grounding in the principles of the laws they were sworn to uphold, was more important than the outdated disciplinarian approach that a military only background provided.

After questioning by his aunt, Larry admitted that he'd been caught up in the moment while stating his case, and had ended his paper in a flurry by commenting that many of the nation's rogue cops had undoubtedly been spawned from a gung-ho military background. His final statement maintained that only a proper education would bring the nation's law enforcement community to a place of caring and compassion for the rights of all its citizens; one which took it out of the hands of the Neanderthal-like thinking of those advocating the brute force approach.

He then told her that his instructor asked him to read the paper aloud to the class. Then he'd spent the remainder of that period deriding Larry's paper to the other students. The officer told him privately afterward that he was not only giving the paper a D minus, he was going to make it his business to “see to it that snot-nosed momma's boys like you never make it into law enforcement!”

Secretly, Ms. Lamour was thrilled that her beloved nephew might not become a policeman, but her sense of fair play and honor shortly overcame those first emotions. She told the young man of twenty that, while he might not have used good judgment when he wrote his paper, that fact alone didn't merit failure from the entire course. She indicated that perhaps she might be able to intercede on his behalf, then moved the conversation on to other topics.

Two weeks later Lt. Simms asked him to stay over after class. When they were alone he told his young student that perhaps he'd been a bit premature in his opinion of the youth. The instructor indicated that the paper's grade had been adjusted upward to a C plus, and that he felt as though Larry would receive an overall B for the course.

Out of love for his aunt, and to honor her, Larry had changed his name from Slaton to Lamour when he entered the entertainment business. And as Lamour, he told the story of the college incident numerous times over the years, but only to a very select audience. Only individuals who were already in their unique group, or, on rare occasions, people like Mark Fine, who were being considered for membership .

Larry would then explain to his listener(s) that his Aunt Dorothy was already a long-standing member of the special Wishes group, and that it was due to her efforts that the school's chancellor had personally interceded on Larry's behalf. And then, with a final sage smile, he'd finish by saying that he learned all this years later. On her deathbed, Aunt Dotty had confided to Larry that she had indeed kept her word to Lt. Simms once Larry had received a passing grade for the course. A courier had been dispatched with a sealed manila envelope. Inside was a set of photographs and negatives that a private investigator had taken for his client, a Ms. D. Lamour.

The photos showed graphic images of Randall Simms, married father of two, fondling a male prostitute in the alleyway behind Saint John's Catholic Church. Aunt Dorothy had wished for something that would change the officer's mind about her nephew's grade. The pictures did the trick.

*

By this time in Mark Fine's narrative, Shorty was gliding the limo into the parking lot at Solley's. He drove to the front door of the establishment so that the two men would have minimal exposure to the renewed onslaught of blustery rain.

His boss pressed the button for the intercom, “This is fine, Marvin. Don't worry about the umbrella treatment. And just stay parked here at the door for a couple minutes. I'll send a pastrami on rye out to you.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Fine. I was just this very second wishing that I didn't have to get out of this nice warm vehicle. You must have read my mind.”

The limo's other occupant was preoccupied with exiting the car, and therefore didn't notice the quick glance and smile exchanged by Shorty and his employer.

Lew greeted them at the door. After exchanging pleasantries, he guided them to the booth, where two steamy bowls of matzo ball soup awaited, along with a mini loaf of warm pumpernickel bread, and the ever-present jar of whole, kosher dill pickles. He parted, promising to return shortly with Jay Silverman's meal of boiled spring potatoes and sliced corned beef with cabbage, as well as Mark's usual: a triple-decker Rueben that had so much shaved corned beef piled between three slices of rye bread, that it was nearly five inches tall, along with a side dish of coleslaw.

“And could you send a pastrami on rye out to my driver?”

The two men ate with gusto, wasting little time with idle conversation. For the better part of ten minutes the only sounds emanating from the booth were the smacking of lips closing over bites of the delicious food, followed by contented sighs. Finally, the serious eating was completed. Then two orders of mouth-watering five-layered coconut cake, accompanied by strong black coffee, were being devoured as well.

Silverman took his last bite of the rich desert while reaching for their check. After swallowing he said, “Mark, I know you've got yourself convinced that there is some mysterious, other worldly organization or plot at work here. And I believe that Larry Lamour did indeed impart that story you related in the car . . . but how in the hell does any of that prove that wishes can come true simply by wanting them to?”

“Look, Jay, I know that it all sounds somewhat unbelievable at first. Once I was at least as skeptical a you. And I admit that just hoping for a passing grade by a boy of twenty doesn't add much credence to my case. But there's much, much more. For example, he learned some time later that Aunt Dotty had also had a wish come true. She fervently hoped that her nephew would never go into law enforcement, and he never did. Her special wish was that Larry would become an actor.”

“This is getting creepy.” It was as if a light had just come on in Silverman's head. “It's all starting to tie-in with a conversation I overheard at the funeral home. Against my better judgment, I'm beginning to believe you.”

“What are you talking about? I was with you for the entire service, and I heard no other conversation pertaining to what we're talking about.”

“It was after, when the anchovies from last night's Caesar salad at Spago were rebelling against you. You'd just beat feet to the crapper. I was sitting in the church pew when these two chicks in the row behind me got to gabbing about a rumor that's making the rounds.”

Fine laughed. “I know exactly what you're talking about, and it's no rumor. They actually gave that paramedic a polygraph test. At her insistence I might add. She told the police just what you probably overheard. As she was frantically applying compresses in an attempt to stop the blood flow from Lamour's massive chest wound, she swears he looked up past her and smiled. She said that she felt as though someone else was in the speeding ambulance with them, but saw no one. Her sworn statement indicated that his last words were, ‘Well, Aunt Dotty, I finally got my wish . . . but I guess I should've asked for real bullets too.'”

Silverman leaned back into the leather of the booth's rear cushion, contemplating all he'd heard. Finally asking, “So, what did he wish for, to be in a shootout?”

“No shithead. It had been his wish to be a cop . . . remember? And when he'd been playing the scene at that outdoor location his wish came true in a sense. The poor bastard literally ran into his own destiny when he turned the corner and came upon that bank robbery in progress.”

Jay gazed out of the restaurant's front window, some thirty feet away, staring through the rain, which continued to feed the L.A. basin's thirsty lawns, rather than at it. He was a man of action and decisiveness, and this introspective, contemplative mood wasn't at all like him. Five minutes ticked by as each of them came to grips with their private thoughts.

Finally, as Mark was about to call the waiter over for a coffee refill, Jay asked another question. “So, amigo, you told me in the car that there was a second story to tell as well. One involving you?”

Fine looked into the hazel eyes of his best friend. “I said that, yes. But let me preface my remarks by saying this: I can't begin to explain what is actually happening. But, I promise you that it does happen.”

Then, holding Silverman's undivided attention, he continued. “Larry told me that there were certain provisos to having wishes granted. Such as nearly all had to be something that benefited someone else; they had to be uplifting, as opposed to merely material; and wishes for self had to still be for the greater good of others.”

At this point Silverman appeared to be preparing to interrupt, but held his tongue when he saw the no nonsense look in Mark's eyes. “Just let me finish, and then I'll do my best to answer your questions. And I won't be able to shed much light on some of what I know you'll be asking, because I had the same questions myself when Larry first shared all this with me. Basically, all I know for sure is, once you've been ‘ interviewed' by a living member of the group, you then have a Guide to assist you in all phases of your life. That Guide is a kindred spirit both figuratively and literally.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Silverman blurted out, “Are you saying these Guides are dead . . . as in ghosts? Come on, Mark, give me a break here, okay?”

Fine smiled at his friend's outburst. Not so very long ago he'd asked the very same questions during his conversation with Larry Lamour. Without rancor he went on. “Once a living member has determined that a person has the right mindset to further the group's most basic core value—the betterment of all men—that information is passed along to the Guides.”

Silverman was now totally immersed in what his friend was saying, sure that he was in fact being told the truth. He actually raised his hand to speak, like a school child, because he didn't wan to interrupt. When Fine nodded his permission, Jay asked, “Do the wishes always get granted? And how do they communicate with the Guides?”

“Those are good questions. The answer to the first is no. Otherwise we'd no longer have wars, or starvation, or diseases like AIDS. As nearly as I have been able to figure, small things that give indirect help are most often responded to. As an example, Larry Lamour spent years trying to establish a foundation that would offer long term assistance to unwed mothers. He believed that it would be a small step toward keeping families together. It was only three years ago that he received fulfillment of that wish. Sometimes the group will act as a whole to accomplish an important wish. A prime example were the tsunami and Katrina aid efforts. Many group members came together literally overnight to assist in those good deeds.”

“Is this group comprised of just entertainment folks?”

“As I've been told, our g roup is comprised of a loose, but extremely dedicated coalition of people from all walks of life. All races and creeds are included, and my information indicates that the only major group of professionals that is lacking in quality members is the world's politicians. It appears that there's too much corruption in their ranks.”

The conversation again stopped as Fine took another sip of his tasty after dinner coffee, his cup being refilled while he was speaking.

“Now, as to how we communicate with our Guides. It couldn't be simpler. They come to us while we're dreaming. Whenever the need arises my Guide is just there.”

Silverman interrupted again. But this time rather than frustration, his broad grin conveyed happiness. “Mark, buddy, have I got the mother of all ideas. I'll personally back you financially on this one and we'll both end up gazillionaires. We can work together on the script and we'll make a blockbuster movie about this. We'll center it on Lamoure's life and get that De Capprio kid to take the lead. He's the hottest thing in town since he played Howard Hughes in The Aviator . We'll do it up right. Big cast. Big production. Big pay back.”

His enthusiasm was met with a stony stare and a shaking of his friend's head. “You still don't get it do you pal? This isn't about personal gain.” Fine held up his hand to silence Silverman, whose face was now red with anger. “Just hold it till I finish, damn it.”

The tension continued to build as Mark took another long sip of his coffee, but he could see that Jay was indeed calming down. He spoke again in a more soothing voice. “I used to be just about the money, too. Then I learned about something that puts real meaning back into my life. Helping folks for no other reason than because they need it. The wishes are a pure and decent thing my friend. Once in a while something may happen for one's personal gain, but even then, they're ultimately for some higher good.”

“I find that hard to accept, Mark. We just came from the funeral of a man whose wish got him killed.”

It would appear so. Actually, I know better. You see my doubting friend, I had a dream visit last night from Larry, and it was explained to me that he was ‘ called over' because he'd been chosen as the Guide for someone who the group believes is ready to dedicate his life to service. So, I wouldn't accept that movie proposition for any amount of money. It would be counter-productive to the group's interests.”

Stung by what he felt were harsh comments, Silverman snapped, “Now I suppose you're telling me that Larry Lamour is going to be your Guide for the rest of your life?”

“No, that won't be happening because my Guide has been in place for quite some time. There's no way I could've made Angels Adrift without him.” Before Silverman could comment, Fine said, “I know your curiosity is killing you, so I'll just say this . . . John Houston. Oh, and one other thing; say hello to Larry for me when he visits you tonight?”