Show Business is Murder

“Wonderful years-”

“Some wonderful years-”

“You turned everything we had into shit.”

“I broke it off with him.”

“You saw him yesterday, don’t you remember?”

“I told you, for a drink. That’s all.”

“It’s not all. It’s never all.” He went back to the terrace, slamming the door. Gratitude. No one had any anymore. Miranda was ungrateful for anything he’d done for her. There’d been a scene in Philadelphia-what the hell was the name of the show? His brain was fuzzy. Anyway, they’d cut her number. He’d come down after a tearful phone call, but first he’d made his own calls. The number was put back in.

He couldn’t lose her. She was his whole life, more important even than The Naked Truth. Why didn’t she understand that? It was for her own good. Yes, he’d had her followed, yes, he’d had the phone tapped. How else would he know what was happening in his life? He’d done what any good husband would do.

One more call. Ruben Bronson. He’d trained Ruben from scratch. Ruben was production stage manager on The Naked Truth. When was the last time David had talked to him? Once more to the speed dial. “Listen, Ruben-”

“David, I was just going to call you. Can you come in tonight? We have a problem.”

“I have some things I have to do.”

“It’s Jenny’s replacement. You haven’t been around. She’s not working out-”

“You handle it.”

“Okay, if that’s what-”

“I love ya, kid.” David hung up.

In the kitchen he scrawled the letter to Patrick on the phone bill. He had to write around the notes he’d made about the people Miranda called and the numbers he didn’t recognize.

“Why have you stopped going to the office?” she said.

“I want to be with you.”

“You’re driving me crazy, David. You’ve got to give me some space.”

“So you can sneak around and meet your friend, the loser?”

“I have other friends.”

“Yes. Like Linda Marshall who warned you that I was dangerous.”

“If you listen to my phone calls, you have yourself to blame. Linda is a therapist. She thinks you need help.”

“She’s just a dyke who wants you for herself.”

Miranda stared at him, weeping. Her tears made red streaks on her cheeks. She was tormenting him. Why didn’t she just stay where she was? He closed his eyes and made her go away.

The quiet became oppressive. He went into the bedroom. She was back in bed, where they would find her.

He returned to the kitchen and rinsed his hands, stacked the dishes and utensils in the dishwasher, all but the bread knife, which he dried carefully and put in the oak block on the counter.

The afternoon was waning.

“Please, David,” she said, “Patrick will be home soon.”

“We were working it out,” he said. He was on the terrace again, walking around. He looked at the canvas- covered hot tub with its blanket of withered leaves and crusty pigeon droppings, the Adirondack chairs around the table. The empty mug someone had left under the table wore a moldy crust.

He took off his glasses and placed them on the table.

He looked at his Rolex. There was blood on the face. He raised it to his lips and licked the blood off. It was four o’clock. Patrick would be home soon.

He listened to the sound of the elevator, the key in the lock.

“Mom? Dad? I’m home.”

For a brief moment David stood on the low brick wall that enclosed the terrace, then he stepped off.

Arful by JOHN LUTZ

“ARE YOU TRYING to tell me dogs can talk?”

Braddock had been in Hollywood three long years now. He hadn’t been able to sell a screenplay, but he was sure he’d heard and seen just about everything, much of it right here in Savvie’s bar, within spitting distance of Wilshire Boulevard. But here was something he hadn’t expected, like an opening scene from an old Twilight Zone episode.

The old man sitting across the table from him smiled, wrinkling his seamed face even more and giving him the look of one of those dolls with heads and faces made from dried apples.

“No,” he said, “not every dog. But some dogs sometimes, if a certain operation is performed on their palates and if they are properly trained.” He took a swig of blended Scotch and twinkled an eye at Braddock. “I know how to train ’em.”

Braddock was barely in his twenties, but he knew he was no fool. “Who trained you? ” he asked.

Mitty-that was the old man’s name-twisted his lips in an odd mobile line that changed his smile to a tight grin. He had small, even teeth that were yellowed and probably false. “Dr. Darius,” he said, “the veterinarian surgeon who discovered and perfected the operation.”

“Sure,” Braddock said. “I think I met him once.”

“Doubt it,” Mitty said. “He’s been dead for over fifty years. But before he died he taught me not only how to develop the facility of speech in certain dogs of a particular combination of breeds, but the operation that makes it possible.”

It was dim in Savvie’s. Outside the tinted windows only an occasional pedestrian trudged past in the ninety- degree heat. This time of the afternoon there were no other customers in Savvie’s. Braddock, Mitty, and Edgar the part-time bartender had the place to themselves. Braddock considered what Mitty had told him. How naive did the old joker think he was?

“I suppose you’re a rich man,” Braddock said.

Mitty raised bushy gray eyebrows high on his deeply furrowed forehead. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you and Java sipping this cheap Scotch if I was rich, now, would I?”

“Java?”

Mitty nodded and glanced down and to the side, toward a dog that had been so still and quiet that Braddock hadn’t noticed it. Java was a small black and white pooch sitting patiently on its haunches near his chair.

“I didn’t see it there,” Braddock said.

“Java’s a he,” Mitty corrected.

“Sorry, fella,” Braddock said to the dog. For only an instant, he half expected the dog to answer.

Java resembled one of those miniature collies, only his hair was shorter. And he did have a funny look around the mouth, as if he were sort of smiling. As if he knew something.

“Why didn’t Java introduce himself?” Braddock asked.

“Introduce yourself, Java,” Mitty told the dog.

At the mention of his name, Java woofed.

“That’s talking?” Braddock asked.

“Not at all. You can’t expect a dog to know the English language without learning it. And I didn’t give him the proper commands. What he is, he’s shy, not much of a performer. That’s why I said he wouldn’t talk here and now. But he’s getting better, more outgoing.”

“Where have you performed?” Braddock asked, being careful to look at Mitty when he asked. “I mean, you and Java?”