Show Business is Murder

“Nowhere yet. We’re working up to it.”

“Uh-huh.” Braddock sipped his drink, a club soda with a lime twist. He never drank before evening, keeping his mind clear to write. He’d soon discovered that many of the powerful people in the film industry were blatant con men, not to be believed. If he’d been naive when he arrived in L.A., he was long over it. Now there were calluses on his cynicism.

Mitty leaned back and regarded him. Braddock regarded the old man right back. He had to be in his eighties, and he dressed like a racetrack tout in Guys and Dolls, tan checked sport coat, red shirt, redder bow tie. The tie had a sprinkling of tiny black polka dots and was perched in an oddly rapacious way at his Adam’s apple like a brilliant exotic butterfly, carnivorous and going for the throat.

“As I recall from seeing you in here before,” Mitty said, “your first name is James.”

“Correct.”

“Like James Braddock, heavyweight champion of the world.”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was long before your time. But shouldn’t you still know yours is the same name as a heavyweight champion?”

Braddock almost pitied the old man for the question. “That kind of ancient knowledge is useless now. It’s a new world. Linear logic is dying. If something comes up and I need that kind of information, I can always get it from the Internet.”

Mitty shook his head with unexpected violence, as if trying to jar loose the persistent butterfly tie clinging to his throat. “You have to be able to think, to synthesize, not just have a lot of facts at your disposal. Everything’s connected to everything else.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Braddock said. “The Internet.”

“But the world didn’t start when the Internet was invented. Or just as you were born.”

“I think it pretty much did,” Braddock said. “At least, when it comes to useful information.”

Mitty appeared saddened by this statement. He looked down at Java. Java looked back. He still seemed faintly amused and, yes, rather shy. A strange thing in a dog.

A fat man in oversized Levi’s and a tropical-print shirt waddled in from the heat and breathed in the air conditioning with a smile as he wiped a wrist across his perspiring forehead.

“Glad I could find somewhere to get a drink,” he said. “Everyplace else is closed because of the election.” He settled his bulk on a bar stool that seemed to bend beneath his weight, though that was probably an optical illusion. “How come you’re not closed?”

Edgar, who was a huge man himself, in his sixties with the build and misshapen ears of a former pro wrestler, said, “ ’Cause last election day, we knew who to vote for. Fact is, though, we were about to close.”

Mitty winked at Braddock and smoothly and slowly tugged on Java’s leash until the little dog was out of sight on the other side of his chair. Then he raised a gnarled forefinger to his lips in a signal for Braddock to be silent.

“What’s the big secret?” Braddock whispered across the table.

“Java,” Mitty said. “Even if you don’t believe me, he’s a valuable piece of show business property. But I must trust you with him for a few minutes.”

No one spoke, not even Edgar, busy behind the bar, as Mitty wrapped Java’s leash around the table leg, using an elaborate kind of slip knot. He hand-signaled for the dog to sit and stay, then went shuffling off toward the men’s room. Java didn’t move or make a sound. Braddock had to admit the pooch was well trained.

The fat man finished his beer and made his way back out into the heat.

Edgar looked over at Braddock. “You ever hear of Mitty and Buddy?” he asked.

“No. And are you really getting ready to close?”

“Naw, I just said that to get rid of that guy. If he’d stayed around, he would have thought Mitty was nuts. I like Mitty. I don’t wanna see that. And Mitty was bound to start bragging again about that dog. You can’t shut him up for long.”

“That’s for sure,” Braddock said. “But I don’t know why he’d brag about the dog.”

“Not that dog,” Edgar said, “Buddy. Mitty and Buddy used to be one of the hottest lounge and resort acts in the country. But I’ll tell you something: that dog there, Java, looks a lot like the photos I seen of Buddy.”

“Come off it,” Braddock said with a laugh. “You mean this Buddy was a talking dog?”

“I mean it,” Edgar said, stone faced. “He even talked to some scientists the government sent when they heard about him.”

“Funny I never read about that,” Braddock said.

“Well, it’s kinda like UFOs.”

“How so?”

“The scientists didn’t believe it even after they heard it. ’Cause they didn’t want to believe it.”

“But I’ve heard of UFOs.”

“That’s ’cause there are more of them than talking dogs.”

“So why’s Mitty telling me all about this stuff?” Braddock asked.

“Because he’s dying.”

Braddock sat back. “What?”

“He’s got something bad wrong with him, some kinda rare blood disease nobody can do anything about. I think he wants to sell you the dog.”

“Buddy?”

“Naw! Buddy’s been dead more’n forty years. Java. Mitty knows a smart young guy can work up an act and make a fortune with Java. He likes you, thinks of you as a son. He told me that.”

“I only met him a few months ago.”

“He says that right away you reminded him of himself when he was young, full of ten kinds of malarky and burning to make some kinda smash in the business.”

“Ten kinds of malarky?”

“I’m only repeating what-”

Edgar broke off what he was saying as Mitty emerged unsteadily from the men’s room and returned to the table. There were wet spots on the front of his pants and his fly was slightly more than half zipped up, just far enough that Braddock decided not to bring it to his attention and embarrass him. As Mitty sat down, he drew from an inside pocket a folded, aged envelope.

“Look at these,” he said, lovingly spreading the ancient contents of the envelope on the table so Braddock could examine them.

There were old playbills, press clippings, and grainy black-and-white photographs. Several of the photos were of posters extolling the virtues of Mitty and Buddy. On one of the posters they were headliners at some Catskills resort Braddock had never heard of. The only photo of Buddy was a grainy black-and-white of the dog with his leash wrapped around a post, much as Java’s leash was wrapped around the table leg, with the same distinctive kind of slip knot. Buddy and Java did look a lot alike.

“You think I wasn’t big in show business at one time?” Mitty asked. His complexion was sallow. He dug in a pocket and deftly swallowed a pill with a swig of Scotch, waiting for Braddock to answer.

“I believe that,” Braddock said.

“But you don’t believe about Buddy.”

“I didn’t say that… ”

“And you don’t believe Java here is trained to speak.”

“Listen,” Braddock said, feeling sorry for Mitty, “I’ve gotta be honest. I’m like all the rest of them out there. I don’t believe dogs can talk.”

“Not dogs!” Mitty said desperately. “Certain dogs. Maybe one in a hundred thousand. If they’re trained.”

“And have been operated on,” Braddock reminded him.

“Only some of them. Now and then there’s one that has the proper palate formation and doesn’t require the operation. And to tell you the truth I never even tried the operation. I love dogs, can’t cut on ’em like I was a trained surgeon. After Buddy died I gave up show business. Then, when Dr. Darius’s widow died and the family let