“You’re the Yid motherfucker who died in Attica, I thought. I’m sorry you didn’t die, but I’ll make sure of it as soon as I get out of this television studio,” hissed the imam.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Stevie Beastie. Yid Motherfucker is not the correct answer. The correct answer is Robert Hirsch Leventhal. Bobby Leventhal would’ve worked too. I’m really sorry you missed the big question. You know the rules of the show, Beastie. You miss the big question, you get executed. Bye-bye, you nigger fuck.”

The fat little man brought the gun he was carrying in his sport coat pocket out from under his topcoat, pressed the barrel against Rasheed Jamal’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The entire back of the imam’s head smashed up against the wall behind him. Jamal fell backward into the couch. Then to make absolutely sure he was dead, Leventhal shot the imam nine more times in his face. When Bobby Leventhal finished with Rasheed Jamal, aka Cleveland Steve Beastie from Chicago, he was unrecognizable.

And it all happened just like that.

“It all happened just like that!” squealed Tammy, the production assistant.

She wasn’t sure the producer heard her. He seemed to be staring off into space.

“It all happened just like—”

“I heard you. I’m thinking.”

“Should we go on?” asked Tammy.

“Of course we go on,” answered the producer. They were in the production office down the hall from the green room. “You can’t buy this kind of publicity for a million bucks,” said the producer, more to himself than to the PA. “It’s absolutely fantastic. Now if we get an execution at the end of the show, we’ll be home free. We’ll have the biggest hit this country has ever seen.”

“The green room’s a mess,” said Tammy. “I mean, there’s gook all over the—”

“Have someone clean it up. Find another green room and move everybody into it for the time being. Take a dressing room away from someone.”

“A dressing room’s too small.”

“Well, find a room that’s big enough, for Christ sake.”

“Retta Mae Wagons has blood all over her.”

“Get her a new dress from wardrobe. Jesus Christ, whatever your name is, can’t you figure anything out for yourself?”

“Two detectives were in the green room,” added Tammy, sailing along as usual, unmindful of digs and insults. “Friends of Arthur Durch. They immediately arrested the killer. Who should we replace the dead man with?” she asked routinely, as if game show contestants were murdered every evening in the green room.

“What kind of question is that, for Christ sake? Isn’t there just one standby?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“The hillbilly, sir.”

“Billy Constable?”

“Yes, Billy Con—”

“Are there any other choices, dum-dum?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to use Billy Constable, won’t we, dum-dum?”

“Yes, sir. How hard do you want his questions to be?”