KAUFMAN – CBA

Copyright 2025 Brent Alles / Just B Cuz Productions

The California sun shined brightly into Jerry’s Famous Deli in Studio City. October 28, 1981. The Good Morning America crew had just wrapped up filming a segment there and were packing up to head to the next assignment. The restaurant staff didn’t pay them much attention, somewhat annoyed with the constant “Hollywood focus.” Even considering the fact they catered to the town where entertainment lived, breathed, and died. The notoriety, of course, was to be expected, due in no small part to the presence of the “famous” busboy who currently worked there.

The last of the GMA contingent to exit was the bubbly blonde reporter who turned and shook her head one more time as she witnessed one of the more well-known comedians in America bussing tables. The sitcom Taxi was number 17 in the Nielsen ratings for the 1980-1981 season. One of the reasons for that show’s success was presently scraping some breakfast residue off a plate before returning it for washing.

The tray of plates clattered with precision as Kaufman set it down in the back. Not a single chip or rattle. He had been a busboy at Jerry’s for just over a year. Every plate he cleared, every glass he polished, was part of a rhythm. In the dizzying world of showbiz and pastrami, rhythm meant invisibility. And invisibility was his specialty.

He headed back out and wiped down table sixteen, subtly glancing at a man seated elsewhere. The man had slicked-back hair and was carefully, precisely folding his napkin. This guy never looked up, too engrossed in conversation with his tablemate: a narrow-eyed person whose cufflink bore the insignia of a security consulting firm that didn’t exist on paper. Kaufman didn’t need to hear every word to understand what was being said. He caught enough. “Schedule’s moved up… tonight… private room.”

Kaufman’s pulse quickened. Private room? That wasn’t for bagel meetings. That was for deals that didn’t want daylight.

He pushed another cart of dishes toward the kitchen. As always, he made sure to occasionally add a slight stumble or other type of mishap. Just enough to spill water. Seem clumsy. Patrons there who knew who he was just shook their heads like the blonde reporter did. Rueful smiles at the sight of someone who should have been riding high in Beverly Hills instead of “slumming it” as a busser. Kaufman, as usual, didn’t care what they thought. His latest stumble, though, gave him the chance to get a near perfect view of the newly hired dishwasher.

Kaufman hadn’t seen him before. Tight curls. Too clean. Combat-ready boots, not deli slip-ons. Most tellingly, the dishwasher’s hands weren’t raw from work. They were… disciplined hands.

Kaufman passed by the new employee, bumping into him on purpose and muttering, “Sorry.”

The dishwasher didn’t blink. Didn’t react at all. Definitely not deli staff, Kaufman concluded.

In the hallway by the restrooms, Kaufman reached behind a ceiling tile, pulling a micro-listener from its hiding place. He slipped it into his apron and returned to the main dining area. Unfortunately, the slicked-back hair guy and his shady dining companion had vanished. Their breakfast plates remained, however. Kaufman palmed the sugar packet that was seemingly, innocuously left behind. He read the inked code on its back: “PR2. 9:30 PM.”

Out of habit, he hummed a little of the “Mighty Mouse” theme to himself. “Here I come to save the day,” indeed.

– – – –

Later that evening, Kaufman returned to the deli. He mused that he was lucky nothing else was on his schedule tonight. No Taxi taping this week. Tomorrow night, he was hosting “Evening at the Improv.” Tonight, though, he could totally focus on the situation at hand.

At 9:12 p.m., he crept toward the hallway leading to the private rooms and stopped short behind a service cart. Through a crack in the door, he saw the “dishwasher” from earlier. Not washing dishes now. Instead, prepping gear. A flat case opened with surgical precision. Inside it, the components of a suppressed pistol.

Kaufman didn’t know who the target was yet. But he definitely knew it was someone on the premises.

To establish some cover, he returned to the kitchen, grabbed a tray, and moved toward the dining floor. Table five. A man swirling a glass of Zinfandel gave him a nod.

It was Shapiro. Handler. Contact. Ghost. Still pretending to be a talent manager for “comedians” and “entertainers” like Kaufman. Shapiro even represented ventriloquists. Kaufman had a brief, wistful memory of performing his own ventriloquist routine for his parents and schoolmates back in the day. How they laughed. He could never, of course, reach the heights of his personal hero, “Buffalo” Bob Smith, and his masterpiece puppet, Howdy Doody…

The occasional busboy shook his head. Enough nostalgic wool gathering for now. He looked back at Shapiro and slowly nodded in return.

He turned the corner and backtracked fast. The dishwasher-cum-assassin was gone from the hallway. Kaufman checked the locker room. Empty. Then, he saw a faint flicker in the prep kitchen mirror.

There he was. The imposter. Assembling the weapon.

Kaufman walked in. “Nice form,” he said. “A little stiff, though. You ever do improv?”

The man turned. Eyes narrowed. “Kaufman.”

Kaufman didn’t smile. “I’m everywhere. I’m nowhere. But mostly I’m here to stop you.”

They moved. Kaufman grabbed a metal tray, deflecting the pistol’s aim. A shot silenced itself into a pile of pastrami. Kaufman ducked, lunged, and swept his opponent’s legs with a serving cart, sending him sprawling. Wrestling training with Memphis legend Jerry “The King” Lawler was showing its value. Every strange turn in the busboy’s life helped him now.

“You were better on Carson,” the assassin hissed, regaining his stance.

“Carson doesn’t serve latkes,” Kaufman replied and then cracked a stool across the assassin’s arm, sending the gun clattering. A couple of jabs and a roundhouse left the opponent staggering. Kaufman then locked in a “sleeperhold.” Just like Lawler taught him. Wrestling was “fake,” right? Not now. It certainly wasn’t fake when Kaufman snapped the assassin’s neck.

“Senk you very much,” Kaufman chirped in the voice of his famous “foreign man” character, “Latka.” Sometimes, he just couldn’t help himself.

A quick search, and he retrieved another sugar packet from the assassin’s jacket. Another code.

He returned to the private room. Shapiro was there now. And joined by the man with slicked-back hair that Kaufman first observed during his morning shift.

“You’re early,” Shapiro said.

“Everything’s early tonight,” Kaufman replied.

Shapiro’s hand hovered over his pocket. “They know about me. I’m burned.”

A gunshot rang through the room’s wood paneling. The bullet embedded in the back wall. Kaufman moved fast, hit the lights. In the darkness, he reached into the vent near the floor and retrieved a spring-loaded device. A second shot rang out. Screams echoed from the dining room.

Then, silence.

Kaufman flipped the light back on. Shapiro was unharmed. The man with the slicked-back hair was gone. A third figure lay at the threshold, dead. Another agent, downed by Kaufman’s trap.

Shapiro said, “You came through. Like always.”

“Who else was going to do it?” Kaufman replied. “Gallagher’s doing another fruit-smashing gig down the street.”

“The person who ordered this. The hit on me,” Shapiro said. “We know where he’s going to be tomorrow night.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Going to be… at the Improv.”

            Kaufman’s typically wry smile surfaced.

“Why are you smiling?” Shapiro demanded.

Kaufman replied, “No reason. Just… everything’s eventual, you know? Everything’s eventual. Anyway, I know just the guy to deal with it tomorrow night. Just you wait and see.”

– – – –

The next night, the Improv was packed. A haze of cigarette smoke curled beneath the stage lights. At the mic stood the “infamous” Tony Clifton. Rumpled tux, greasy mustache, and a voice like a blender gargling whiskey.

“You people… are garbage,” Clifton shouted, slurring for effect. “I had better audiences in Saigon. And they were on fire.”

The crowd booed and laughed. Uncertain, uncomfortable.

Clifton stomped off stage, trying to make the people think he was abandoning them for their impudence. Really, though, he was getting intel from his long-time friend and compatriot who was hanging out in the back: Bob Zmuda.

Bob whispered to Kaufman (in his Clifton disguise). “He’s here. Second row, right side. Code name ‘Domino.’”

Kaufman nodded and bounded back onstage. Once again, his normal façade of “humanity” was gone. He WAS Tony Clifton. The crowd cheered, booed, and jeered. Whatever they wanted to contribute to the act.

“Tony” riled up the crowd. God, he loved this. In a comedy club or an arena filled with slobbering, raving wrestling fans, there was no better feeling in the world than getting this type of reaction.

Couldn’t focus on that right now, though. He had a mission to complete.

Clifton staggered like a drunk. He pointed to his target in the crowd. “You! With the toupee! You look like a rejected Muppet.”

The man in the second row smirked. Clifton stepped off the stage and stormed over to his target’s table. He pulled him into a hug. “This guy! He gets it!” Tony screamed as the crowd squealed and erupted in laughter.

Seconds after Tony’s embrace, his target’s knees buckled. The man who had ordered the hit on Shapiro barely felt the injectable poison that Tony had in a “joy buzzer” carefully fitted on his nondominant hand. Clifton gently guided the man to the ground and whispered in the man’s ear: “Message to your bosses… comedy kills.”

Chaos continued to erupt as Tony returned to the stage, now bellowing out “I Will Survive” as a disco band gamely played along.

Security, meanwhile, had made their way to the target’s table, trying to revive him. The crowd laughed and cheered, thinking it was part of the act.

When security finally removed the now dead man from the club floor, the audience all turned back towards the stage.

Clifton was gone.

– – – –

Over two years and many secret missions later, on January 26, 1984, Shapiro made his way backstage after the taping of The Top. Kaufman had just finished introducing a flashy, quirky new pop star known as Cyndi Lauper. Her first national television appearance. Just another gig for Kaufman. No one had to know what else went down backstage that evening. When the cameras weren’t rolling.

Shapiro looked at him. “You know this was your last mission, right?”

Kaufman slowly changed into his “normal” clothes and nodded. “You want me to disappear, right?”

“That’s right.” Shapiro grinned. “It’ll sell the legend.”

Kaufman grimaced but then nodded. “Just like Elvis.”

Shapiro pulled an envelope from his coat and handed it over. “New identity. New location. We’ll feed the cancer story to the press. Few months from now, you’ll be a myth.”

Kaufman smiled. “They’ll never see it coming.”

– – – –

On May 16, 1985, Zmuda, dressed like Clifton, hosted an event at the Comedy Store. A one-time-only show to raise money for cancer research. In Kaufman’s memory. The place was packed with roaring fans. Kaufman would have been ecstatic, Bob thought.

With the show over, Zmuda returned to the dressing room and began to take off his costume. The club bartender handed him a VHS tape in a manilla envelope. “Here you go, Mr. Zmuda.”

“What’s this?” Bob suspiciously replied.

“I dunno. Some guy told me to give it to you.”

Zmuda looked at the envelope. From Arlington, apparently. No return address. He found a VCR backstage and put the tape in. Just static at first. After a few moments, though, grainy surveillance footage finally appeared. The person was in disguise, but Bob knew exactly who it was.

Kaufman. In sunglasses. Once again bussing tables. In… Istanbul? Yeah, had to be.

A label appeared on the screen: “Kaufman: CBA.”

Then, another label appeared beneath it: “Comedian. Busboy. Assassin.”

“You magnificent son of a bitch,” chortled Zmuda.

He raised a glass.