Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

A tall, imposing Frenchman on the order of Charles de Gaulle, Maurice oozed militarism. When he ordered Billy to surrender center stage and take his seat, a mutinous pro-Billy audience hissed its displeasure. Brandishing the mike like a bayonet, Maurice silenced them. Mistakenly, I thought Maurice would triumph over Billy in the battle of the egos, but I underestimated our man. As Maurice spoke to us, reviewing our contests for Billy, our hero sat still, allowing the audience to gaze upon his biker-ness. In the midst of Maurice’s recap of our contests, a woman in the audience shouted, “Hey, stud, I just love the studs on your vest.”

“They do reflect my studliness, don’t they, ma’am?” Billy responded.

The audience howled until Maurice eyed them coldly, as if selecting the worst offenders to be executed on the spot.

“As I was saying,” he snapped, “one of your endeavors involved a dart-shooting match in which you, Ruth Anne, were the victor. Am I correct?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered smartly.

“And today we’re going to reenact that great event.”

At that moment, a dart-board descended from the ceiling on the left side of the set. The audience cheered, Billy grinned, Sally Sue groaned, and I started to sweat. The spectators in the Sudzy Wudzy Tavern, the arena where I had won Billy in darts, numbered five, and four of them had imbided too much sudzy to focus on the game. Now I was to perform in front of the studio audience and the trillions at home.

After Maurice handed me the darts, I stalled for time by casting a critical eye over the absolutely perfect feathers. Another reprieve occurred when Sally Sue dropped a dart on her instep and hobbled off the set. Gallantly, Billy followed her. The audience cheered her as they would an injured athlete, but Maurice glared at her as if Sally Sue were a malingering recruit.

“Since your opponent has defected, Ruth Anne, you must carry on alone,” Maurice commanded. “Perform solo!”

Of course, I saluted. It was the proper thing to do. Then, to avoid court-martial, I threw three bull’s-eyes in a row. When I turned to acknowledge the roar that had erupted from the audience, I saw Billy doing a wheelie on a motorcycle. Oh, that Billy! He hadn’t gone backstage to help Sally Sue; he went there to get the cycle! He upstaged my three bull’s-eyes!

“Halt, I say halt,” shouted Maurice as Billy vroomed into the audience, up and down the aisles, braking occasionally to kiss a young woman or to hoist a thrilled granny onto the seat behind him. When the exhaust from the bike had created a haze over the studio that threatened to eclipse him, Billy leaped from the cycle and did The Billy. The audience went crazy.

And so did Maurice. In one swift move that looked like an uncle-ish pat on the head, he conked Billy with the mike. As Billy slid to the floor, Maurice grabbed him and set him firmly in a chair next to Sally Sue, who had limped back to the set. The audience laughed at Billy’s “pretend” daze.

Resuming control, Maurice announced, “We’ll take calls from our viewers now.”

Two biker “old ladies” called and told Billy they wanted to be his old lady. A woman from Walla Walla wanted to know where to buy The Billy video. When Yvette came on stage to give the answer, Billy came out of his coma. As she flounced offstage, Billy turned to watch her and my heart sank. Decaled on the back of his right ear were the letters Y-V-E-T. It’s not that Billy can’t spell. It’s just that he has small ears.

When Bruno from the Bronx called, it was like hearing from an old friend.

“Yo, Maurice, Bruno from the Bronx here. How ya doing?”

“State your business,” ordered Maurice.

“Sure. I got a question for Sally Sue and Ruth Anne. Women, since this guy is not a sensitive, caring, nineties man like me, and he is definitely not meeting your needs, would you like me to off him?”

Maurice beamed. “Why, that’s an interesting idea, Bruno.”

“Maurice, I ain’t talking to you.”

“Oh, sorry.”

I glanced at Sally Sue, who looked wistful. During a break for a commercial, she whispered to me that she too had seen the letters behind Billy’s ear. But we both thanked Bruno and said no after Billy, that master of timing, had blown us each a kiss.

Only the wrap-up remained, and to perform that sacred duty, Maurice turned to Dr. Carla Young, psychologist, who oozed self-confidence.

“It’s quite obvious to all but the certified dull that what we have here is a case of the exhibitionist, Billy, strutting his stuff for the voyeurs, Sally Sue and Ruth Anne. It’s not that they love Billy per se. It’s just that they love peeking at him and these so-called contests are merely transactions to determine who gets the next peek.”

For the first time in her TV career, Dr. Young was soundly booed. She twirled her hair and bit her thumbnail as she staggered offstage. For once I was grateful to Billy’s fans, who truly believed that we loved him.