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The Notorious Noel Caper

By Sally Carpenter

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1: Christmastime in Tinsel Town
Southern California
December, 1993
Sunday

After all these years, I still envied the guy for stealing the plum movie role that should have gone to me. Now I had to work with him.

When I found out that Doug Shaw (real name: Damian Starkweather) was slated as a participant in the Santa’s Magic Celebrity Charity Benefit Bowl-athon, I declined to sign up. But my sister was so excited at the prospect of competing in the tourney with her Bowler Babes team that I caved in.

Despite the tournament’s good intentions of raising funds for worthy causes, it was also a shameless promotion for the newly constructed Santa’s Magic Park, an entertainment marvel on the scale of Anaheim’s Mouse Park. The venue was scheduled to open in two weeks, just in time for the schools’ winter break. The brains behind the wildly successful Santa’s Magic Franchise (hereafter called SMF for short) of family movies, live touring concerts, cartoon shows and TV specials had recently transformed acres of strawberry fields near the coast of Ventura County, California, into a massive entertainment edifice for year-round Christmas junkies like myself. The benefit tournament was one of several soft opening events designed to whet the public’s appetite, so that when the park officially opened its gates, the masses in turn would open their wallets.
That’s why I was driving Celeste to the theme park on a Sunday afternoon in December. Winters in Southern California are much like the other seasons, with bright sun but cooler temperatures—sometimes all the way down to 60 degrees. Not a snowflake in sight and, after a week of heavy rains, no raindrops either, but just in case, I had the top up on my 1964 red Mustang convertible. In the spirit of the season, I had affixed a red-bow-topped wreath to the front grill of the car. This was my time of the year.

I pulled up to the Backstreet Entrance, an entry gate for the park employees—known as Santa’s Helpers—along with performers and executives, separate from the enormous public walk-in gate that was equipped with discreet metal detectors. A sentry––what the park called its private security force—checked our IDs at the gate and raised the barrier so I could drive in. Other sentries, clad in their dark green uniforms along with black radio receivers and speakers on their black belts, were posted along the driveway to direct the bowlers into the various parking lots. After I turned off the car engine, yet another uniformed sentry escorted Celeste and me to the venue. Despite the park’s advertising as the “jolliest fun in the world,” the large number of sentries gave the impression that paradise was expecting a few snakes. I supposed they didn’t want the guests wandering off to sightsee on their own.

I noticed the long black baton that hung from the sentry’s belt. “Do you plan to use that often?”

“Oh, no, sir,” he replied. “Firearms are not allowed in the park. This is the only peacekeeping device we’re allowed. Our main use for the baton is to form orderly lines in the ride queues and to separate individuals who may be having a disagreement. But we don’t anticipate using them at all. After all, we host the jolliest fun in the world, and families come here with the intention of having a pleasant time.”

I carried my bowling bag as well as Celeste’s bag, one in each hand. Fortunately, with the recent acquisition of her guide dog, a yellow Labrador named Lucy, my sister didn’t need to hold my arm. Celeste—age 33, five years younger than me—was dolled up in her team’s pink bowling shirt and black pants, along with her purse slung over one shoulder. Despite my pleas, she insisted on wearing her dark glasses; they made her feel less vulnerable in crowds. I had on a navy polo shirt and khaki pants loose enough not to split a seam if a camera zoomed in while I was bowling. My long blond hair was, as usual, tied back in a ponytail. Celeste’s blond hair hung loose around her shoulders because it didn’t matter if hair got in her eyes. We both had on light jackets.

As we drew closer to our destination, the pesky sentry peeled off to cling to another new arrival. Then I was finally free to talk. “Sis, this is a terrific park. I can see the roller coasters from here. They’re magnificent.”

“I’m still shaking from when you got me up in one of those monsters when I was nine years old,” she scoffed. “You lied when you said I’d love it.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure? If I beat you in the tourney today, you have to take a ride in the tallest coaster.”

“What happens if I win?”

“There’s no point in discussing it, because you won’t.”

“I’ve been practicing with my team every day.”

“You’ve only just started.” Despite the kidding, I was proud of my little sister. With Lucy to guide her, Celeste had gained enough confidence to get out in the world. The bowling team provided a new set of allies to look after her.

“When was the last time you bowled?” she asked.

“I hit the lanes last week, as soon as I signed up for this gig.” And I had needed the practice; I was badly out of shape. For years I’d been tossing back the bottle more than throwing a bowling ball.

After a second ID check at the entrance to the Snowball Bowling Lanes, a helper directed us to our lanes. Celeste’s team had already gathered in lane fourteen; I was next door on lane thirteen. Somehow that unlucky number didn’t bode well.

The pretty young helper was decked out in a long-sleeve red polyester dress (knee-length) with white faux-fur trim. White pantyhose and comfortable black shoes completed the outfit. Pinned to her left breast was an official laminated employee photo ID badge with her first name in large print. The male helpers wore faux-fur-lined red tunics, white pants, black shoes and the badges.

Like everything in the park, the alley was awash with holiday decor up the wazoo, with wreaths and garlands pinned on the walls, and ornaments and huge metal snowflakes hung from the ceiling. The chairs and scoring tables were made of green and red plastic. Rows of tiny colored light bulbs were strung along the walls, flickering on and off in patterns. The bowling pins were regulation size and weight but were painted to resemble icicles. Good thing Celeste and I had our own balls—the house balls were colored like giant glittery snowballs.

The place was crammed with celebrities who were not only bowling for charity but also preening for the roving news reporters and handheld cameras. Net proceeds from the event would be split among local nonprofits that served the disabled, which explained the presence of deaf and blind bowlers as well as athletes with prosthetics. Numerous helpers roamed about, serving beverages and directing guests to the restrooms. Sentries were posted everywhere, eyeing the proceedings grimly, without the happy smiles of the helpers.

Celeste and I crossed the huge lobby. “There he is,” I said. “My nemesis.”

Doug Shaw was deep in an interview with a reporter. Those soft brown eyes. The perfectly-coifed short dark hair. The clean-shaven boyish face that had never suffered a pimple. I’d admit the guy was good looking but––really––was he any more photogenic than my famous mug?

“Be nice to him. He can’t help it if he’s a better actor than you are,” Celeste said.

“He is not!”

“The Santa’s Magic movies? I saw those, and he wasn’t so bad.”

“You’ve never seen him mugging at the camera like an ape. By the way, Sis, a word of warning. There are TV cameras all over the place, so don’t go picking your nose or anything.”

That shut her up. Cameras made Celeste uncomfortable. On our way through the concourse, I spotted another familiar face—one that I was pleased to see.

“Gibson!” I extended my hand. “Sandy Fairfax. Remember me?”

His mouth extended into a huge gap-toothed grin. “I sure do. Welcome to Snowball Bowling.” His voice still held a twang from his Deep South upbringing. He gave my hand a firm grip. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Sandy. Have you kept up with your bowling lessons?”

After Gibson had won a championship title in the Professional Bowlers Association, he retired from the pro circuit and freelanced as a bowling consultant and stunt double in Hollywood.

“I’m a little rusty, but I get by. I’d like you to meet my sister, Celeste Farmington. She’s a member of the American Blind Bowling Association. Sis, this is Gibson Laine.”

“Hello, Celeste.” He took my sister’s free hand––the one not holding the dog’s harness––in a gentle squeeze. “Sure am glad to meet you. The ABBA is a great organization. I love working with them.”

“I really enjoy bowling,” she said. “I just got started, but I’m having lots of fun.”

“Sis, this ace taught me how to bowl for my TV show. What was the episode? Oh, yeah, ‘The Terrifying Tenpins Caper.’ Gibson made me practice until my hands fell off. But I was so good we didn’t need a double for the trick shots.”

The pro laughed. “As I recall, the real reason you wanted to learn was so you could impress a girl you were dating at the time. Whatever happened to her?”

“She ran off with a golf instructor,” I said. “So, Gibson, what brings you here?”

“The park coaxed me out of semi-retirement to design this facility.”

“It’s fantastic.”

Another one of Gibson’s acquaintances came up to chat, so Celeste and I said our goodbyes. We stepped down from the concourse and into the lane area. Once we reached our lanes, the four other members of Celeste’s team took her under their wings, which freed me up. I took a seat on the bench behind the lane thirteen scoring table, stripped off my jacket, and changed out of my sneakers and into my bowling shoes. I put my black ball and Celeste’s gold ball in the ball return rack. I was the only one on my lane—where were my teammates?

A dwarf walked up and placed a ball on the return rack. I recognized him as one of the elves in the latest SMF movie. As much as I detested watching Doug Shaw on screen, my ten-year-old daughter had dragged me along to see every one of his flicks. This would be an interesting tourney.

“Hello,” I said. “You’re Barnaby Falls, right?”

He craned his neck back to take in my six-foot-two stature. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“You’re on my team?”

“Looks that way, mate.” He didn’t sound happy. Barnaby eyed me quizzically. “You are—?”

“Sandy Fairfax.” The blank stare continued. “I had a TV series in the 1970s. Buddy Brave, Boy Sleuth.”

“Old news. I was hoping to get some young, peppy movie stars on my team.”

“I starred in two films.”

“Anything current?”

“Well, no.”

With that, Barnaby left for the snack bar. This might be a long day if I was stuck with a team full of snobs. But another teammate showed up––a young, amiable African American comedian debuting in his own network sitcom. We chatted a bit. A fourth member of our five-man team arrived. Who could be the final bowler?

None other than Doug Shaw himself.

He strolled up to the ball return as if everyone should be gawking at him. He made a huge production of polishing his bowling ball with a cloth, inspecting the ball for nicks, weighing it carefully in his hands, and placing it in just the right position on the return. He was, of course, making a to-do for the mobile cameraman standing beside him. Was Doug planning to act like an idiot all day? It didn’t help that his fluorescent green shirt and shiny red pants gave me eyestrain. If Santa granted me only one wish this year, I’d ask to bowl a perfect game and show Doug who’s the boss.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to speak to the man. In fact, Doug didn’t talk to his teammates at all. He briefly chatted with the scorekeeper seated at the scoring table. (the scorekeeper was here mainly to keep track of the bowlers. After each ball rolled, the automatic pinsetter at the end of the lane calculated the remaining pins and flashed the score on an overhead monitor).

Doug then wandered off to snag another interview. He was more interested in promoting himself than the worthy causes of the day.

A male helper ran a cable in front of the center lanes and set up a microphone stand. A tall man in an expensive tailored suit and a black toupee stepped up to the mic and flashed his bright white crowns. If Doug Shaw was the face of the Santa’s Magic Franchise, Conrad Coleman was the driving force behind it. As the SMF founder, CEO, and president, Conrad controlled all aspects of the media empire, oversaw production and squashed bad publicity.

Beside him stood a woman whom I recognized from magazine photos and TV clips. His wife, Irene Coleman, was clad in the latest Rodeo Drive chic, which was a bit overdone for an afternoon of casual bowling. A diamond necklace encircled the dress’s high neckline. Her hair, dyed black, was pinned in her customary updo, revealing diamond studs in her earlobes. Diamond bracelets hung from her wrists. Hopefully the sentries would thwart any robbery attempt for her baubles. Irene generally said little at public appearances but clung to hubby like a guard dog.

Conrad’s velvety voice, still with a touch of his hometown New York accent, boomed over the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” The hubbub quieted. “On behalf of all the Santa’s Magic employees and entertainers, we welcome you to the first of our grand opening celebrations for the Santa’s Magic Park. I’m proud to have this opportunity to help raise badly needed funds for the agencies that perform such wonderful service for our most special neighbors.”

His smooth voice rambled on for some time about something or other—the singsong drone almost put me to sleep. My teammates and I—except for Barnaby and Doug—sat on the plastic bench and chatted among ourselves. A helper arrived with a tray holding three beers. She handed a glass mug to each one of my teammates. When she offered me a drink, I held up a hand and declined.

She seemed flustered. “It’s complimentary, sir.”

“I know, but I don’t want it. Can I have a soft drink instead?”

The helper frowned, as if the change in plans confused her. “Yes, of course.”

“I thought the park didn’t serve alcohol.”

“We don’t to the general public, sir, but it’s available for private events.”

Such as fundraisers, where happy donors were more likely to add another zero to their charity checks.

“If you could swing a Mountain Dew, I’d appreciate it.” I reached for my wallet in my back pants pocket.

“Oh, no, sir. Tipping isn’t permitted. I’ll be right back.”

The sitcom comic had overheard our conversation. “No booze for you? What happened to the infamous Sandy Fairfax party animal?”

I chuckled. “That guy slid under the table one night and never got up again.”

Conrad had finally ceased braying, and the tournament came to life. The pinsetters over the pin racks lit up. Christmas music played over the loudspeakers, followed by the thunder of balls rolling down the hardwood lanes, the crash of falling pins, and the buzz of voices. Doug joined us just long enough to roll his first frame—a dismal six pins total. Instead of picking up the pin split, he split––as in leaving. The helper returned with my drink: a tall glass full of ice and precious little Mountain Dew. Still, it was enough to wet my whistle. Barnaby bowled a spare and then took off as well. At this rate, we wouldn’t have a team left. Maybe I needed to go as well and press the flesh between frames.

Celeste was having a grand time with her friends. The five ladies, all bedecked in identical team shirts, sat together on the bench and giggled like schoolgirls. Lucy lay on the floor at Celeste’s feet, head on her paws, looking bored at the proceedings. Celeste had told me that Lucy preferred to work than to lay about.

A sighted woman who served as the team’s pin spotter sat at the scoring table beside the scorekeeper. The pin spotter’s job was to inform each player the number and location of the remaining pins after she bowled. The pin spotter could give suggestions on how to roll the ball, but she couldn’t physically touch the bowlers as they played or throw the ball for them.

I slipped a bowling glove over my left hand (I’m a southpaw), picked up my ball, and approached the lane for my first frame. I positioned my feet according to the arrows on the floor. I brushed that stubborn cowlick out of my face. My baby blue eyes took careful aim. The tournament was being taped for playback on a cable station, and rolling a lousy score would embarrass me worldwide. I took my steps and threw the ball, giving it a little twist on release. My approach was a bit ungainly, but it got the job done. The ball sailed smoothly down the lane, but instead of hooking, the ball smacked the pins head on, leaving the dreaded seven-ten split. I cringed and yelled some words of annoyance, keeping it clean for the cameras. On my second ball, I’d hoped to nick the edge of the ten-pin and send it sailing toward the seven-pin for a nifty split, but I missed both pins. If I didn’t beef up my game, my teammates might demand a substitute.

On my way back to my seat, my sister said, “How did you do, Ernest?” My family always called me by my given name because in their minds, my stage name ranked somewhere between “traitor” and “scoundrel.”

“Eight pins,” I said. “But just wait. It’s early in the game, and I’m just warming up.”

“I’m already ahead. I got nine,” she bragged.

“I think the loser owes the winner a nice dinner.”

“I already made a reservation at my favorite restaurant.”

A guy can’t get respect from his own family. With that, I wandered off to snag a reporter for my spotlight. I had a short chat with the People magazine representative about my recently launched comeback. I promoted my favorite charity, Guide Dogs of America. I also put in a plug for the upcoming Miss North Pole Scholarship Pageant, another of the park’s soft opening events. For some mysterious reason, I’d been tapped as the master of ceremonies, but I didn’t mind. A guy could do a lot worse than to get paid for talking to beautiful women.

I returned to my lane because I wanted to watch my sister bowl, which was pretty amazing. I never dreamed that blind people could bowl, but they can. Before the games started, Celeste had walked to the foul lane several times to memorize the space for her approach. Now, she felt the balls perched in the ball return until she found the one with her initials and a tiny star engraved in the shell. At lane fourteen, the alley staff had set up a portable rail made of metal tubing. The rail stood about waist-high and ran from the beginning of approach to the foul line. With her ball in her right hand and her left hand resting lightly on the rail, Celeste carefully placed her feet. She had a great ability to tune out the sounds around her and focus on a task. Her team members shouted words of encouragement. Celeste took her steps, swinging the ball with one hand while holding onto the rail with the other to keep her approach straight. At the foul line, she released the ball and froze for a moment, keeping her throwing arm straight out and her thumb up. Then she straightened up and listened intently for the falling pins. The ball hit the target.

“Good shot, Celeste.” The pin spotter then called out the remaining pins. “One, two, four and seven pins are still standing.”

The girls’ team cheered. Celeste stepped to the ball return with a smile.

“Could be worse. At least I didn’t get a seven-ten split.”

“Yeah, rub it in, Sis!” I hollered. Should I tell her that one of the handheld cameras was following her play? No, that would make her nervous, and I’d never hear the end of it if I made my sister look bad on television.

The pin spotter gave Celeste some verbal pointers on how to throw the ball. Celeste set her face in a mask of concentration and rolled the ball. Son of a gun, the ball traveled straight and true.

“A spare!” the pin spotter called.

Celeste jumped, screamed, and clapped her hands, much to the delight of the cameraman who zoomed in on her. Her teammates squealed in delight. She skipped on her way back to her chair and hugged her gal pals.

“Hey, Sis, come here.” Celeste followed my voice until she stood in front of me. “Gimme five.” She raised her hand, and I gave her palm a hearty slap. “Good job!”

“Whose side are you on?” grumbled the sitcom actor.

“Look, when the tournament’s over,” I said, “I don’t have to see your mug any more. But I still have to put up with my sister.”

The camera guy who had followed Celeste had turned his lens on Doug, who was moseying up for his next frame. With the attention on him, Doug danced a zany step to the foul line, deliberately threw a high-lofting ball and then sank to his knees, clutched his head and wailed when the ball hit the gutter. He was more interested in acting up for the camera than in the game. No trophies for my group.

Doug took a towel and pretended to wipe a gallon of sweat off his face. For his second ball, he turned his back to the pins and threw the ball over his shoulders. At this rate, the lane would be full of potholes by the time I bowled. Surprisingly, the ball actually hit a couple of pins. Then Doug strolled off to the concourse, making silly wisecracks about the game with the camera guy in tow.

The scorekeeper turned to me. “Where’s Mr. Falls? He’s up next.”

“I have no idea.” I stood and glanced around. With so many people milling about, spotting a particular face was difficult, especially a little person who could get lost in a crowd.

“I don’t see him,” I said.

The scorekeeper called the front desk from the speaker built into the scoring table. After a brief conversation with the desk staff, the scorekeeper told me to take my turn so as not to slow down the tournament. Fine by me. I was itching to beat my sister’s score. I took my ball and stepped into my starting position.

Then the power on my lane shut off; the lights in the pin deck went dark. Nothing like distracting a guy when he’s ready to play. I asked the scorekeeper what was going on. A brand new facility shouldn’t break down on the first day. The scorekeeper pressed the reset button on the scoring table twice before the lane powered on again. Now maybe I could get back to my game.

I took a deep breath, kept my eyes on the pins, and made my approach. The ball sailed down the lane fast and strong, then hooked slightly to the right and smacked into the sweet spot between two of the front pins. The pins bounced off each other with a crisp snap and collapsed. A strike! I jumped, pumped my fists, and let out a loud whoop.

But my victory was short-lived.

The pinsetter came down to pick up any standing pins. An “X” flashed on the pin display to indicate a strike. The machinery rose as a metal bar swept the downed pins into the pit to reset. The machine came down again, but instead of placing ten new pins in place, it dumped a body on the floor.

We’d found our missing bowler.

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