Coldheart Canyon: A Hollywood Ghost Story

Yet he'd felt the dog, he would have sworn to it on a stack of Bibles, getting up and walking around and around on the same spot, padding down the bed until it was comfortable for him.

He lay back on the pillow and drifted back to sleep, but it wasn't a healthy sleep thereafter. He kept half- waking, and staring down at the darkness of the bottom of the bed, wondering if Dempsey was a ghost now, and would haunt his heels until the dog had the sense to go on his way to Heaven.

He slept in until ten, when Marco brought him the phone with a woman called Rosalie from the Pet Cremation Service. She was pleasant in her no-nonsense way; no doubt she often had people in near hysteria at the other end of the telephone, so a little professional distance was necessary. She had already been in contact with the hospital this morning, she said, and they had informed her that Dempsey had a collar and quilt with him. Did Todd want these items returned, or were they to be cremated with his pet?

'They were his,' Todd said, 'so they should go with him.'

'Fine,' said Rosalie. 'Then the only other question is the matter of the urn. We have three varieties—'

'Just the best you've got.'

'That would be our Bronze Grecian Style.'

'That sounds fine.'

'All I need now is your credit card number.'

'I'll pass you back to my assistant. He can help you with all that.'

'Just one other question?'

'Yes.'

'Are you ... the Todd Pickett?'

Yes, of course, he was the real Todd Pickett. But he didn't feel like the real thing; more like a badly bruised lookalike. Things like this didn't happen to the real Todd Pickett. He had a way with life that always made it show the bright side.

He went back to sleep until noon then got up and ate some lunch, his body aching as though he were catching a heavy dose of the flu. His food unfinished, he sat in the breakfast nook, staring blankly at the potted plants artfully arranged on the patio; plants he'd never persuaded Dempsey not to cock his leg against every time he passed.

'I'm going back to bed,' he told Marco.

'You don't want to put a holding call in to Maxine? She's called nine times this morning. She says she has news about a foreign buyer for Warrior.'

'Did you tell her what happened to Dempsey?'

'Yes.'

'What did she say?'

'She said: oh. Then she went back to talking about the buyer.'

Todd sighed, defeated by the woman's incomprehension. 'Maybe it's time I got out of this fucking business,' he said to Marco. 'I don't have the balls for it any longer. Or the energy.'

Marco put up no protest at this. He hated everything about the business, except Todd, and always had. 'Why don't we go down to Key West like we always promised ourselves? Open a bar. Get fat and drunk—'

'—and die of heart attacks at fifty.'

'You're feeling morbid right now.'

'A little.'

'Well it won't last forever. And one of these days, we'll have to honor Dempsey and get another dog.'

'That wouldn't be honoring him, that'd be replacing him. And he was irreplaceable. You know why?'

'Why?'

'Because he was there when I was nobody.'

'You were pups together.'

This got a smile out of Todd; the first in forty-eight hours. 'Yeah . . .' he said, his voice close to breaking again. 'We were pups together.' He tried to hold back the tears, but they came anyway. 'What is wrong with me?' he said. 'He was a dog. I mean ... come on. Tell me honestly, do you think Tom Cruise cries for a day if one of his dogs dies?'

'I don't think he's got dogs.'

'Or Brad Pitt?'

'I don't know. Ask 'em. Next time you see 'em, ask 'em.'

'Oh sure, that's going to make a dandy little scene. Todd Pickett and Brad Pitt: 'Tell me, Brad, when your dog died did you wail like a girl for two days?''

Now it was Marco who laughed. 'Wail like a girl?'

'That's how I feel. I feel like I'm in the middle of some stupid weepie.'

'Maybe you should call Wilhemina over and fuck her.'

'Wilhemina doesn't do fucks. She does lovemaking with candles and a lot of wash-cloths. I swear she thinks I'm going to give her something.'

'Fleas?'

'Yeah. Fleas. You know, as a last act of rebellion on behalf of Dempsey and myself I'd like to give fleas to Wilhemina, Maxine and—'

'Gary Eppstadt.'

Both men were laughing now, curing the hurt the only way it could be cured, by being included in the nature of things.

Speaking of inclusion, he got a call from his mother, about six o'clock. She was at home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, but sounded ready to jump the first plane and come visit. She was in one of her 'I've a funny feeling' moods.

'What's going on?'

'Nothing.'

'Yes there is.'

She was inevitably right; she could predict with startling accuracy the times she needed to call her famous son and the times when she should keep her distance. Sometimes he could lie to her, and get away with it. But today wasn't one of those days. What was the point?

'Dempsey's dead.'

'That old mutt of yours.'

'He was not an old mutt and if you talk about him like that then this conversation ends right here.'

'How old was he?' Patricia asked.

'Eleven, going on twelve.'

'That's a decent age.'

'Not for a dog like him.'

'What kind of dog would that be?'

'You know—'

'A mutt. Mutts always live longer than thoroughbreds. That's a fact of life.'

'Well, mine didn't.'

'Too much rich food. You used to spoil that dog—'

'Is there anything else you want besides lecturing me about how I killed my dog with kindness?'

'No. I was just wanting to chat, but obviously you're in no mood to chat.'

'I loved Dempsey, Mom. You understand what I'm saying?'

'If you don't mind me observing something—'

'Could I stop you?'

'—it's sad that the only serious relationship you've had is with a dog. It's time you grew up, Todd. You're not getting any younger, you know. You think about the way your father aged.'

'I don't want to talk about this right now, okay?'

'Listen to me.'

'Mom. I don't—'