Red Mosquito

Pat Sajak and Alex Trebek and Bert Convy sit around, in slacks and loosened neckties, in the Merv Griffin Entertainment executive lounge, in the morning, watching a tape of last year’s World Series. On the lounge’s giant screen a batter flails at a low pitch.

“That was low,” Trebek says.

Bert Convy, who is soaking his contact lenses, squints at the replay.

Trebek sits up straight. “Name the best low-ball hitter of all time.”

“Joe Pepitone,” Sajak says without hesitation.

Trebek looks incredulous. “Joe Pepitone?”

“Willie Stargell was a great low-ball hitter,” says Convy. The other two men ignore him.

“Reggie Jackson was great,” Sajak muses.

“Still is,” Trebek says, feeling absently at the pulse in his own wrist.

A game show host has a fairly easy professional life. All five of a week’s slots can be shot in one long day. Usually one hard week a month is spent on performance work at the studio. The rest of the host’s time is his own. Bert Convy makes the rounds of car shows and mall openings and Love Boat episodes and is a millionaire several times over. Pat Sajak plays phenomenal racquetball, and gardens. No one is exactly sure what Alex Trebek does with his time.

There’s a hit. Sajak throws a can of soda at the screen. Trebek and Convy laugh.

Sajak looks over at Bert Convy. “How’s that tooth, Bert?”

Convy’s hand strays to his mouth. “Still discolored,” he says grimly.

Trebek looks up. “You’ve got a discolored tooth?”

Convy feels at a bared canine. “A temporary thing. Already cleaning up.” He narrows his eyes at Alex Trebek. “Just don’t tell Merv about it.”

Trebek looks around, as if to see who Convy is talking to. “Me? This guy right here? Do I look like that sort of person?”

“You look like a game show host.”

Trebek smiles broadly. “Probably because of my perfect and beautiful and flawless teeth.”

“Bastard,” mutters Convy.

Sajak tells them to both pipe down.

Pat Sajak and Alex Trebek and Bert Convy sit around, in slacks and loosened neckties, in the Merv Griffin Entertainment executive lounge, in the morning, watching a tape of last year’s World Series. On the lounge’s giant screen a batter flails at a low pitch.

“That was low,” Trebek says.

Bert Convy, who is soaking his contact lenses, squints at the replay.

Trebek sits up straight. “Name the best low-ball hitter of all time.”

“Joe Pepitone,” Sajak says without hesitation.

Trebek looks incredulous. “Joe Pepitone?”

“Willie Stargell was a great low-ball hitter,” says Convy. The other two men ignore him.

“Reggie Jackson was great,” Sajak muses.

“Still is,” Trebek says, feeling absently at the pulse in his own wrist.

A game show host has a fairly easy professional life. All five of a week’s slots can be shot in one long day. Usually one hard week a month is spent on performance work at the studio. The rest of the host’s time is his own. Bert Convy makes the rounds of car shows and mall openings and Love Boat episodes and is a millionaire several times over. Pat Sajak plays phenomenal racquetball, and gardens. No one is exactly sure what Alex Trebek does with his time.

There’s a hit. Sajak throws a can of soda at the screen. Trebek and Convy laugh.

Sajak looks over at Bert Convy. “How’s that tooth, Bert?”

Convy’s hand strays to his mouth. “Still discolored,” he says grimly.

Trebek looks up. “You’ve got a discolored tooth?”

Convy feels at a bared canine. “A temporary thing. Already cleaning up.” He narrows his eyes at Alex Trebek. “Just don’t tell Merv about it.”

Trebek looks around, as if to see who Convy is talking to. “Me? This guy right here? Do I look like that sort of person?”

“You look like a game show host.”

Trebek smiles broadly. “Probably because of my perfect and beautiful and flawless teeth.”

“Bastard,” mutters Convy.

Sajak tells them to both pipe down.

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