The cripple knew chances were slim that the producer would truly telephone. “I hope you do call,” the cripple told the producer. “I hope you do. I hope you’re not saying that just to, you know, just to get rid of me. I really hope you do call.”

The cripple shifted his crutch into a more comfortable position under his left arm. He fixed his filthy hat so that it sat on his head more securely and, saying something the producer didn’t hear, limped away.

“What?” yelled the producer to the departing cripple, surprising himself for wanting to prolong talking to the lowlife. “You said something. What did you just say?”

The cripple had gone only a short distance down the pavement. He turned and yelled back. “I said come see me before it’s too late.”

The producer said, “Before it’s too late? Too late for what?”

But the cripple was gone, lost in a crowd of pedestrians.

That night the producer sat in his armchair ignoring the important investment documents he should have been studying. He could do nothing but think about the goddamn cripple. The old vagrant’s last statement, “Before it’s too late,” played over and over in his head. Too late for what? The cripple is knowledgeable, thought the producer, and he does know about me. What if the guy does have a bizarre idea that’s really good? What if…

Eventually the producer got out of his art deco armchair, walked across the long, wide living room of his luxury duplex apartment, opened the hall closet, and dug out the crumpled piece of paper from his raincoat pocket.

On the dirty piece of paper was scribbled:

Chuck Barris 212 555 5872

Steve Beastie was born in either Chicago or Cleveland, he couldn’t remember which. Why Beastie didn’t know where he was born is complicated. But it makes sense, I guess.

Anyway, in 1974, when Steve was seventeen, he left Chicago for New York City to live with his grandmother. In his early Bronx days Beastie was just another skinny, scuzzy black kid with perhaps more bravado than most of the gangbangers he hung out with. He, like the rest of his gang, wore a lot of gold chains around his neck and earned money moving drugs. Beastie sold anything he could get his hands on: decks of heroin, nickel and dime bags of weed, vials of cocaine.

Beastie’s granny, while working at Lerners Department Store, tried her best to take care of her only grandson and keep him out of trouble. It wasn’t easy. She gave it her best shot until the day they sent Steve Beastie to Rikers Island for armed robbery. Beastie was eighteen years old when they collared him for a stickup gone wrong. That’s about when Steve’s granny washed her hands of him.

Steve Beastie had scoped out the liquor store for about a week. He thought he’d prepared “one hundred percent perfect,” only to find out later that he hadn’t, that he wasn’t even close. Over the years, Beastie would chalk off his botched robbery to inexperience. He promised himself that it wouldn’t happen again.