My rose lips almost twitched. What else could she want?
“You—temporarily—have Horatio,” I said. “Let’s trade.”
She nodded. “Stan for the dog.”
Stan? Stan? Did she think I had Stan?
I obviously led a more sheltered life than I realized, because I couldn’t figure out whether her loyalties lay with Stan, or with Gretchen, or with both. Maybe she didn’t really care about anybody.
I blurted out what was, to me, the obvious.
“How could you think I had Stan? The smell alone would be a deal breaker!”
“Stan does not smell! I didn’t like the aftershave he wore when we met, but I fixed that fast. Stan is clean, and he dresses the best he ever has, since he met me.”
I stared at her. She had used the present tense, so it appeared she was not referring to the late Stan, but to somebody she thought was still alive and kicking. Not dangling from a dumpster, which is where I last saw him.
“Why would I have Stan?”
“He always liked you. Go figure,” she snapped. Her face changed colour and sprouted little red freckles. This was major blood pressure or rosacea, on somebody whose monthly beauty treatments totalled more than my yearly grocery bill. For a split second, I felt sorry for her. I also felt like bursting into entirely inappropriate guffaws. This woman thought I was competition for Stan’s affections? Which I could only guess were nothing like affection and more like the stuff that parents try to keep their teenagers from watching on the Internet.
“Maybe he told you where he was going.”
I was agog. Stan tell me anything other than to put my opinions where the sun doesn’t shine, to use his quaint but colourful vocabulary?
“I don’t know where Stan is,” I said truthfully, mentally glossing over the back story of the statement.
She looked at me, her eyes hard. Then she looked down at her papers again, trying to look disinterested and cool. Excuse me. She was dealing with an actor, a person trained to spot dissembling. I could tell she was upset.
Was she never going to mention the key? This was my high card, and I knew she wanted it. I tried to gnash my teeth silently, given Alphonse’s reminder that I should monitor the volume level.
“So what about the key?” she said, her pink lips in a tight line, as she pretended to look at her papers. Bingo.
“Oh, the key,” I said. I took a long pause, just because I love to play the moment. “What key?”
“You know what I mean,” she said, looking at me, and again I saw the same flash of evil—or pain—that I had seen moments before. People joked that she was Lucifer in pink lipstick. At this moment, it seemed like an accurate description.
And I was trapped in her office.
But I was there with Horatio. I saw the non-look in his eyes, and I wondered if I could get him out of there before any permanent damage was done to his sensitive, formerly fluffy nature.
Sherilyn stood up, leaning over her desk until I could see her cleavage to Australia. Totally wasted on me. I guess it had worked wonders with Stan and, sigh, Pete. And numerous others in the film industry, whose brains were in their pants, shoes or pockets.
“I want that key.”
“Gee, Sherilyn,” I said, dimply in an impossibly adorable way. “I put it in my safety deposit box yesterday. And it’s going to stay there until Horatio is safe back home in his beddy-byes.” I was lying, but I realized as the sentence escaped my lips that it was a very good idea.
She snarled, and I leapt back. Good grief, was this woman trained in early Roger Corman films? She must have practised for months in front of her mirror. She had turned snarl into high camp. I suddenly found it ridiculous, even hilarious. I would probably double over with laughter once I left her office. But now, for Horatio’s sake, I was carefully deadpan.
“Gee, Sherilyn,” I said, sweetly. “You should see an orthodontist about that spray problem.”
“Lu,” she spat at me. “That ‘gee’ routine is so old.”
I knew it would weaken my bargaining position, but I tried one more time to get Horatio to acknowledge me. But even when I leaned into his dear, hairy face, he looked at me with dead, dreary eyes. I wanted to cry.
I backed out of her office, pausing at the door to say, “When Horatio is home, I will consider giving you the safety deposit box key. Don’t you agree that we should have our lawyers negotiate the exchange?” What a bunch of hooey. She was right. I couldn’t afford the legal fees for something like this. I could ask my parents for the money, but they had never felt the same toward Horatio after the time he sat on Daddy. They blamed Horatio for Daddy’s prostate problems, which was so unfair. But, hey, I was bluffing here, in a Charge of the Light Brigade attempt to save my dog from the Devil in the Pink Lips.
I dimpled again, glanced at Horatio (did I see a fleeting look of hope in his doggie eye?) and walked down the hall, passing the goth receptionist, who looked at me balefully as I dimpled and closed the door behind me.
I couldn’t help it. I squeaked out a laugh, the sort of disbelieving laugh that friends share when something totally bizarre has happened. Unfortunately, I had no friend with me to share that laugh.
That inappropriate and hysterical laugh was squelched the moment I thought about Horatio.
I got into my car, drove around the corner, out of sight of the complex, turned off the engine and started breathing deeply. Oh, poor Horatio. All that sugar was a form of abuse. And what sort of drug was she giving him to glaze the eyes that once had entranced millions? Did anybody care? If nobody seemed to care about me, could anybody care about my co-star of so many years?
I wiped a few tears off my face, reminding myself that this was a tough business, and Horatio was used to hard knocks, like the time he had been sent to an audition with twenty-five miniature poodles and had been humiliated by having to stand next to these tiny would-be dogs while he, a Real Dog, stood unappreciated and scorned. Although he wasn’t standing now. He had been dumped in the corner of Sherilyn’s patio like a twenty-year-old, smelly, mashed-up floor cushion.
Doggie Waah Waah
I blew my nose and pulled out my cell. I called Pete first. We had a little communication problem for a few moments.
“Lu, take a deep breath,” he said, his voice raspy with concern. “Breathe. Breathe. Then try to speak. Stick to single-syllable words. It will be easier.”
I rolled my eyes, even as I was choking on Horatio tears.
“Horatio,” I sobbed. “Sherilyn.”
“No,” he said. “Get out. I knew Sherilyn was kinky, but an affair with Horatio? How does that make me feel? I know he has more hair than I do, but—”
“This is not about you. And Sherilyn and Horatio are not an item. Get your mind out of the porn shop, for Pete’s sake.”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said, chastened. “I was out in left field there. So what are you saying? Sherilyn wants Horatio? For what? She’s doing a dog movie? Who’s casting?” (This is the standard actor’s response to news of a film shooting.)
“She has Horatio,” I said. “She has Horatio, and he is a zombie, because she is feeding him fudge by the buckets, which his vet has said will kill him. She’s going to kill him”—I allowed myself a hiccup—“unless I get him away from her.”
“Oh, damn.” Pete’s voice was somber. “That woman is a witch.”
“Change the first letter to a b,” I said, between hiccups.
“You should call the police.”
“And then—?” I allowed him to fill in the blanks.
“Right,” he said. “And the police would ask a lot of questions.”
“And if anything happened to me, who would take care of Horatio? The rest of you would be in jail with me.”
We signed off, without anything more productive in place other than Pete’s sympathy and my reduced sobs.
I called Gretchen next.
“Horatio?” she said vaguely. “Which boyfriend was he?”
“He’s my dog! My bes
t friend! Much more interested in my life than you are!” I signed off, disgusted. I thought Gretchen was one of my best friends, and she couldn’t even keep track of Horatio, my best pal of how many years. Hadn’t she watched my commercials? Horatio and I were imprinted into the psyches of TV watchers across North America. Where had she been all that time?
Gretchen was always in her own spiderweb world. She was so secretive about her personal life. It wasn’t until the blowup with Geoff that I realized how much she got around. A therapist might be able to help her resolve the differences between her repressed youth and her current life style. I guess she was so involved in her own intrigues that she couldn’t be bothered to keep tabs on the basics regarding her friends.
I called Geoff next. “Oh, damn. That’s a bitch,” he said. “Poor Horatio.”
He offered to engineer a commando raid on Sherilyn’s office, which was sweet but impractical, as Geoff was not known for his heroics. Geoff would spend more time on his wardrobe and a press release than on the actual rescue. I thanked him and said I would get back to him on it.
Bent was outraged. “Horatio! Horatio!” he screamed into the phone. “How do you spell his name? I’ll write letters to the editor. I’ll send out mass e-mails.”
“Whoa, Bent,” I said. “Don’t do any of that. Just be my friend and listen.”
And he did. After I finished my saga of finding Horatio in Sherilyn’s office, he mercifully did not offer any platitudes or clichés, as so many people do when they don’t know what else to say. Instead he just said, surprisingly, “Lu, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Bent.”
He understood my reluctance to call the police. We threw around thoughts on possible courses of action. His sister was a social worker, and if we pretended Horatio was a large, hairy child, she might intervene. His uncle Joe had once sat in a dentist’s waiting room next to somebody who said he was with the Mob. Maybe we could see if Joe still had his name and number. I could ask Sylvia to go back to the office with me. This last idea was the best yet. My cell started to fade, so we signed off.
When I turned the phone off, I might not have had solutions, but at least I had been able to talk about the problem. That was why I was loyal to Bent. He could be surprisingly kind and sensitive in a crisis of the heart or spirit.
I drove home, my thoughts a blur.
After I had deadbolted the door behind me, I pulled off my jacket and called Mitzi. She listened quietly.
A long pause sat between us.
“Horatio is a hot dog,” she said. I rolled my eyes. She was in dollars-and-cents mode because she was his agent as well, and in the past few months had made more of a commission from him than from me. “But why would Sherilyn grab him? She doesn’t have the sense or taste to see his potential.”
I loved Mitzi at that moment for appreciating my Horatio.
“She just wants him so she can get what she wants from me.”
“Which is what?”
I started to tell Mitzi about the key, then stopped.
“She thinks Stan is with me,” I wailed, to keep her off the subject. “As if I would ever let somebody that foul into my life. I would rather date a vacuum cleaner. Bagless.”
A long pause while Mitzi digested that, and I realized that I had just inadvertently insulted her, although she wouldn’t know that I knew about her and Stan.
“Although, of course,” I added, “Stan must have had some appeal for some highly intelligent and desirable women.”
This mollified Mitzi, and I could feel the tension dissolve from the phone line. Whew.
“Have you seen my BlackBerry?”
“Didn’t you get my message? You left it in my den.”
“What message?”
Of course she hadn’t checked every one of her eight e-mail accounts, and, as her preference for the accounts changed according to whim, I had stupidly thought that my message might reach her.
“I can’t live without it. Bring it tonight.”
“Where?”
“Hello? Arts for the Animals.”
How could I keep forgetting about this damned gala?
“Right,” I said, as I rummaged in my bag for a tissue and pulled out a handful of business cards I had accumulated in the past days. McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Dollar Store Discount, Heads Up Hair Salon, and Hal Shapiro, Dog Therapist.
I froze.
Dog Therapist.
“Mitzi, gotta go! Love you, bye!”
I clunked down the phone and called Hal Shapiro. I was so wired that it took two tries before I finally punched in the right number. The first person I called cursed at me in a language that didn’t match any of the dialects in my repertoire. And the second call got me the recording of what sounded like a Reiki Rolfing Studio, judging from the background noise.
Finally, on the third try, “Hal Shapiro.”
“Hi, Hal. It’s Lulu Malone. Remember me?”
There was a long pause. “Of course. Did you clean up okay?”
I let that go.
“Would you like to meet me, say, for a quick visit?”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound wildly interested, and I couldn’t blame him. I could tell he was being polite.
“How about in half an hour at Westside Industrial Park, where the film studios are located?”
Another pause.
“I’ll be waiting in the parking lot by my Sunfire. I want you to meet my dog.”
“Hmmm.”
It was hard to identify this response, but it sounded like a blend of disinterest, boredom, disbelief and dread. Surely not. After all, I am Lulu Malone.
I gave him the address and ran to my car, carrying a bag of Horatio’s favourite Bow Wow treats and a jar of garlic-stuffed olives.
A Whispering Doggie Date
Hal was lounged against his Camry in the parking lot when I arrived. He was wearing the same leather jacket, a white shirt, faded jeans and excellent boots. Odds were good that he had called me just to please his parents so that they could keep mine as killer bridge partners. I could almost see the tick-tock in his eyes, counting the moments until this obligatory date was done.
He pulled himself off his car when I lunged out of mine.
“Hi,” I said brightly. I did a mid-level dimple. “This way.”
I charged ahead of him, through the doors and past the goth girl, who did a double take at Shapiro.
I reached Sherilyn’s office. She was scowling at a production budget, but I bet she was scowling at life. Some people do that. Scowl at life.
Horatio was still chained to the railing of her patio.
She started to say something to me, which I suspected was something along the lines of “What are you doing here, you four-letter, five-letter nuisance.” Instead, she froze and looked at Shapiro. And forced the pink demons into a seductive smile.
I heard Shapiro gasp behind me. Another man topples over, succumbing to the pink puffed lips and cleavage routine. Why should I be surprised?
“You poor thing,” he said. He pulled open the patio door and knelt by Horatio. Note to self: offer to have his jeans laundered.
“How are you, fella?” he whispered softly. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but Horatio seemed to perk up a bit. And listened, just the way he did when our director, Marty, gave directions in the Bow Wow commercials. I was so accustomed to feeling sorry for myself that sometimes I forgot that Horatio had fallen out of the public eye as well. I don’t know how much sheepdogs know about the power structure in the film and television business, but surely it must have hurt, being fussed over and then being ignored. I knew exactly how he must have felt. He had gone from being a celebrity pooch to being simply a big, overweight sheepdog. And now, thanks to Sherilyn, a really, really overweight sheepdog.
Sherilyn stared at Hal as he had his téte-à-téte with Horatio.
“Where did you find him?” she hissed. “Does he act? Does he talk?”
“Of course he talks,” I snapped. “He�
�s talking to Horatio.”
“That doesn’t count. I need to know how he is on camera. Maybe I could audition him.”
I knew where she was going with this, and I didn’t respond. I was watching Hal and Horatio. Hal gently scratched Horatio’s ear and kept whispering. My parents had set me up with a dog whisperer, bless them.
Hal kept his eyes on Horatio’s, untied the rope from his collar, and beckoned me subtly with his right hand. I ripped open the bag of treats, hoping the noise wouldn’t break the mood, and walked quickly to the patio.
I leaned over Hal’s shoulder and crooned to Horatio in a soft, sweet rendition of the refrain that had made us famous.
“Doggie Doggie Bow Wow!”
Horatio’s sweet eyes switched from Hal’s to mine. I saw a glimmer of recognition.
“Doggie Doggie Bow Wow,” I sang. I sounded like a demented torch singer at low volume, but Horatio understood. I had passed the point of caring whether or not Hal thought I was a few notes off the normal scale.
I held out a low-cal gourmet Bow Wow treat for Horatio. He looked at it vaguely. A three-day diet of fudge had dimmed his memory of what it was to eat good, organic food. I shoved the bag of treats under my arm, wrenched open the jar of garlic-stuffed olives and waved it under his nose.
His ears moved slightly, and he moved forward. I poured five olives into the lid of the jar and he inhaled them.
As Horatio chewed sloppily, then reached for another, Hal whispered to me, “He’s back.”
We waited a few moments, and about two olives and three health snacks later, we led Horatio from the patio into Sherilyn’s office.
She had been watching us through slitted eyes and lips. Her hand had been on the phone, ready to call security (or so I assumed), but once Horatio came around, she took her hand off the phone. She had been playing the Possession Is Nine Tenths of the Law card, as well as assuming she could easily intimidate Lulu, and this time she had lost.
Hal took Horatio by the collar and headed down the hall. I paused at the door, frantically searching for some brilliant parting shot that would match the exit lines in my favourite films. Something film noir, edgy, witty. I couldn’t even come up with a Dora Darling line.
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