The producer ignored the question writer. Looking straight ahead through the control room to the stage and Linus Major’s soundproof tube, the producer said, “I told you. The bastard’s quitting on me too. He knows the answer. He’s just not saying it, either. That’s two in a fucking row! Look at that shit heel. Just look at the pissy wimp. Metzger, get over here!”

The contestant coordinator, Elsa Metzger, browbeaten and introverted from birth, spectacles resting on the tip of her nose, dress down to her ankles making her look like the spinster she would always be, ran—not walked but ran—to the producer’s side.

“Do not,” said the furious producer, “I repeat, do not ever let this happen again! Do not ever give me another contestant who will change his or her mind in the middle of a taping and decide not to go all the way. If you can’t figure out what the hell the story is with these contestants of yours in their auditions…if you…goddamn it…if you give me another Wagons or Major, you’ll be out of work. You hear? You’ll be out on the street. And I promise you, you will never work again in this industry. Now get the hell out of this control room. I can’t stand the sight of you!”

Elsa Metzger turned and ran out of the control room, sobbing.

Onstage, Rip Puckett said as sadly as he could, “Sorry, Linus Major, time is up. The answer is…Precambrian!”

Linus Major shrugged his shoulders.

The spotlight moved to Billy Constable’s soundproof tube.

“Billy, Billy, Billy. Are you ready?” asked the jovial host.

Billy, inside his soundproof tube, adjusted his earphones and nodded yes.

Rip Puckett asked, “Who was the undefeated welterweight from Philadelphia who was discovered to have only one good eye and was banned from boxing?”

Billy Constable grinned a cocky grin and quickly answered, “Gypsy Joe Harris.”

“Ab-so-lute-ly correct!” shouted Rip Puckett.

In the control room, the producer turned to his lawyer, Sigmond Levy, sitting behind him, and said, “That kid wants to win.”

In the second round of Game Two, Rip Puckett asked Retta Mae Wagons, “What age group accounts for the most deaths from firearms: five to fourteen, twenty to twenty-four, twenty-five to forty-five, or forty-five to sixty-four?”

Retta Mae had read somewhere that it was twenty-five to forty-five. She crossed her fingers, prayed she would miss, and said, “Five to fourteen.”

The audience moaned.

“See! See!” screamed the producer in the control room. “Even the audience knows she’s wrong!”

“Oh, too too bad, Retta Mae Wagons,” said Rip Puckett, showing blatantly obvious false remorse. “You’re wrong again! The correct answer is twenty-five to forty-five.”

Retta Mae Wagons smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

“See how thrilled the bitch is she lost?” said the producer in the control room. “Did you see that smile? She’s thrilled she lost.”