Deadly Dues

by Linda Kupecek

  Again, “Doggie Doggie Bow Wow.” They executed a little bow at the end, in homage to me, I guessed, which brought a genuine smile to the face which so far had struggled to keep from crumpling.

  “You’re fired!” Diana hissed at them from behind me. “I’m telling your manager that you should never work another event. What an outrageous display. You’re catering staff here. You don’t sing!” She hissed the last word as if singing were a crime against humanity.

  “Oh, Diana,” I said sweetly, putting my hand on her arm. “I begged them to sing my song. They didn’t want to at first, but when I insisted, they gave in.”

  Her lips vibrated for a few seconds, undecided.

  “Oh. Okay.” She moved toward the bar, then turned back. “But no singing unless you’re asked, right?” This asserted her authority.

  The two kids shook their heads, wide-eyed and innocent. One of them winked at me as they turned back to their duties, shovelling dip into a huge bowl.

  I turned back to Brad Saunders and found him beaming at me.

  Before I could continue my conversation with him, my name was announced over the sound system, and I was called to the stage, where I gave an impromptu but (if I do say so myself) charming speech on love of animals, love of the arts and the joy of involving both in your life. It was brief, but okay, and I moved back into the crowd amid applause. I smiled, thinking that if I had had the nerve, I could have made a pitch for helping out destitute actors like myself, but decided it was not the classiest thing to do at a fundraiser I was hosting.

  I was accosted by fans, would-be friends and strangers. I thought I saw Ryga across the room with a tall, beautiful blonde, but decided I was hallucinating. Habim appeared before me with a striking brunette, whom he introduced as his wife, Mimi, a stockbroker. Mitzi wobbled toward me on her highest stilettos and we exchanged kisses, and then the handing over of the BlackBerry, which she almost kissed before putting it into her diamanté clutch.

  To my horror, Hal Shapiro lounged across the room, with a glass of wine in his hand. He waved at me and continued his conversation with a couple who were well-known philanthropists. Brad Saunders was nowhere in sight. Perhaps my speech was not as charming as I had thought.

  As I worked my way to the door, and then the elevator to the parking garage, the string quartet was playing a sombre version of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”

  • • •

  When I got home, I was exhausted. Dealing with dog dilemmas in real life, while trying to coax money out of animal lovers, was taking its toll on me.

  I collected Horatio from Mrs. Lauterman, thanking her profusely, and led the sleepwalking Horatio back to his favourite cushion.

  I climbed the stairs, each one seeming like a step up Everest, ran a sea salt, lemon and chamomile bath and settled into thought.

  My mind was like a jackhammer—no noise but just as annoying with its repetitive questions.

  Who had killed Stan? Who had sent Zonko to assault me? Who was in cahoots with the garden gnome? What did Zonko want (probably the key, but did I know that for sure?)? Who had moved Stan’s body? And why? Why did Sherilyn want the key so badly? Why had Stan given it to me, by accident or by intent? What was going on with Mitzi and Stan? How was poor Alphonse going to get by in life? How much was therapy for Horatio going to cost me? Would I ever get another gig? Was Hal Shapiro going to call his parents and tell them I was a borderline criminal with a troubled dog, a penchant for dumpsters, and a nasty group of associates? Would they tell my parents, and then would my parents fly in and camp out in my condo until I cried uncle and joined a convent?

  By this time, I had crawled into bed. I didn’t bother with the marbles tonight. If an idiot like Alphonse could break into the house, any moderately gifted criminal could. I folded the rolling pin to my chest and decided I would just play it by ear.

  A Day at the Spa

  Each day brings its own wondrous astonishment. This morning, my happy surprise was that nobody had tried to break into my condo and kill me. I am grateful for every blessing, and this deserved a few moments of meditative silence, big-time.

  I lifted the covers and acknowledged the morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Then I felt the pain of the rolling pin wedged into my armpit (damn, how did that happen?) and happily noted the faint doggie smell (correction: not so faint, change to overwhelming) emanating from Horatio on the floor at the foot of my bed.

  First thing today: take Horatio to Puppy Spa, where in half an hour the competent staff could accomplish a task that would have cost me five hours of cursing, praying, bribing and getting totally soaked in dirty doggie water. Puppy Spa was not cheap. Luckily, I had a VIP account (due to the fact that the staff adored Horatio and viewed him as the star of the Bow Wow commercials and me as his lowly sidekick) and could make monthly payments. I would have to live on macaroni and cheese dinners for weeks and get temporarily fat and sluggish, but Horatio would smell better. I had a lot of problems, including being nearly knocked off by various unknown assailants. Being taken out of action by doggie B.O. was not high on the list, but at least it was a threat I could address.

  I hauled myself out of bed and turned on the Food Network for Horatio. He settled on the floor in front of the TV, entranced. I made strong coffee and inhaled it, along with a pear that was just about to see the Pearly Gates. Then, more momentously, I turned off the television and lugged Horatio (although it would be more accurate to say I bribed, tempted, lured, cajoled and begged him) into the car. The trail of dried garlic flakes was my last resort, and it worked.

  His eyes were brighter now, and he was almost his old self. All that garlic sautéeing on the Food Network had really perked him up. His tongue slurped my cheek, and part of me wanted to kiss him, while the other part of me wanted to throw up. This puppy needed a bath, big-time.

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled up at Puppy Spa. Lonnie and Chan helped me roll Horatio, protesting all the way, into the spa waiting room, where they immediately sprayed him with doggie aromatherapy mist.

  “We have a new scent,” said Lonnie, a four-foot-eleven dynamo with the strength of a big-time wrestler, her white blonde hair in gigantic spikes. Her hair shifted with the mood of her clients, so I guessed she had had a few ferocious ones in the past few days.

  Lonnie and I got on well. She always made Horatio a better, happier dog. On sultry summer days, we often went to a nearby wine bar and talked dogs and men. At times, we got confused and didn’t know which breed we were discussing. But it was always fun.

  “Dog House Nirvana.” She sprayed some in the air, and I ducked. It smelled like—I don’t know—too much dog. Waaay too much dog. Mixed with cinnamon, cloves and fennel.

  Horatio sniffed it, made a sweet little noise, lowered himself onto the floor, rolled onto his back, closed his eyes and paddled his paws in quiet ecstasy.

  I looked at Lonnie.

  “Go figure,” she said, shrugging. “If only I could get a guy to do that.”

  Then she leaned over Horatio.

  “Come on, big guy. We’re going to make you clean and pretty.”

  Horatio stood up and followed her obediently.

  I watched them head back to the private spa rooms, where dogs got the sort of pampering I hadn’t seen in years. Lonnie took a terry-towel doggie robe from a row of hooks on the wall as she opened the door for Horatio. Between Hal Shapiro and Lonnie, I was starting to feel wildly inadequate in the dog owner department. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I still felt bitter over the way Horatio had snuggled up to Mr. Size Twenty—whoops, Zonko—when he was trying to kill me. I was spending more on Horatio’s personal care than I spent on my own. No wonder my career was fading, when my dog was better groomed than I was.

  I knew Horatio’s cleanliness overhaul (a.k.a. bath) would take some time, so I drove to Yen’s Supermarket, three blocks away, and picked up apples, milk and other necessities for Mrs. Lauterman. Yen and I got into our usual spirited debate abou
t the prices of apples and oranges (unfortunately, quite literally, but it was the sort of mindless chatter that I welcomed at this point).

  Yen’s daughter swaggered in, dressed in a leather jacket and a miniskirt so tiny I wondered if I needed reading glasses to see it, and they immediately flew into an exchange in their language which had nothing to do with the prices of oranges and everything to do with the length of miniskirts. I knew better than to interrupt, and picked up a newspaper while I waited to pay.

  I turned to the second page and froze, my hands by my shoulders, my face hidden by the paper. “Body of respected union employee found in river.” Surely the writer wasn’t talking about Stan.

  I read further and realized it was Stan. His body had been found in the river. Foul play was suspected. Duh. How on earth did Stan get from the dumpster to the river? I couldn’t imagine one person managing it. An image of Geoff and Bent hauling Stan’s body down dark alleys flitted through my mind. I immediately swatted it away. No way could any of my friends be involved.

  At least Stan’s body was no longer travelling around the city. I didn’t know if he had family. If he did, they would be able to lay him to rest and say goodbye. I felt tears begin to cloud my eyes and tried to talk tough to myself. Stan had ruined my career. Why should I care?

  From what I knew of Stan, I had guessed that what he wanted most in life was to be respected. But he had confused the abuse of power with the ability to command respect. Before he met Sherilyn, he had been a strong advocate for the rights of performers. He wasn’t nice, but he was effective. He had been a man to be reckoned with, an intelligent, informed and fearless warrior for actors. Then Sherilyn had sashayed into his life, and the Stan we had known (the one I had once liked) had disappeared.

  After he met Sherilyn, he had taken a sharp turn into Machievelli territory and started to do and say things that had made all of us question his stability.

  I now knew that Stan must have been in turmoil, trying to do the job he had at one point loved while trying to satisfy the demands of a lover who wanted it all—him, his job and everybody over whom he had any power.

  How could Stan, who had once valued his work, have thrown away whatever respect he once might have earned? I had once admired him. He had fought like a champion, spent many hours of overtime fighting to get the performers in film and television the money they were owed, the treatment they deserved. I had received many much-welcomed cheques thanks to Stan’s zeal for the righteous battle.

  I felt a surge of sympathy. Yes, he had put an end to my career and income. I blamed him for being weak. But I now knew that it was Sherilyn who had ended my Doggie Doggie Bow Wow days, Pete’s marriage, Geoff’s lucrative leading-man gigs, Gretchen’s contracts and Bent’s coaching gigs.

  On contemplation, I did mourn him. I theorized that he was a man who had tried to do the right thing, but had been felled by his hormones and Sherilyn’s cleavage.

  What surprising paths we take, as a result of the wrong directions, map or mood, I mused.

  As I munched on a pork bun at Yen’s Market, I wondered, shockingly, if it had been so terrible that my career as the spokesperson for Bow Wow had ended. The gig had been wonderfully lucrative, and I loved my tiled kitchen floor and my Stuart Weitzman boots, but …

  But. I chewed on the bun and the thought. Did I really, really want to spend the rest of my working life as a cute, adorable dog-food icon? How many more times could I stand to hear people singing that damned song into my face, as if I should be thrilled to hear it? I was invariably polite. But another part of me wanted to scream, “Enough already! Get a life!”

  Maybe I should take my own advice. I had had other options, which I had not pursued once the Bow Wow contract was in place. I had turned down the second lead in a comedy series about singing grave robbers because of the dog-food gig, and I hadn’t minded. On reviewing the pilot script, I really hadn’t minded. But had I closed too many doors?

  I wanted respect. I wanted what was due me. Realistically, I knew I should be respected for my work in the commercials, which were well produced, funny and compelling. I had taken the text to a level that was warmer and more human than what was on the page. Yet I had never felt respected enough for that work, even though the commercial had won numerous awards over the years, including several for me as an individual.

  I finished the pork bun and placed the wrapper in Yen’s waste bin.

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “I know,” he said, beaming serenely. I thought, How good it must be to know on a daily basis that you have done good work and that people are happy. Was this any different from people singing Doggie Doggie into my face?

  Perhaps those annoying Doggie choruses, off-key or not, were a tribute to my talent. Maybe it was time to put my resentment to rest.

  I climbed back into the Sunfire and returned to Puppy Spa, where Horatio was waiting for me. He swanned into the lobby like Peter O’Toole in full regalia, nose in the air, with a peach ribbon tied to one ear and a satiated, happy look in his eye.

  Lonnie’s hair had now drooped into a shaggy, fluffy mess, a sign that she and Horatio had connected on a spiritual, cosmic and cosmetic plane.

  “Horatio seems a little mellow, as if he has moved through some transition to a deeper understanding of himself,” she said reverently.

  “Probably,” I said. “The poor guy has been traumatized the past few days, but I lucked out. I found a dog whisperer.”

  Her eyes turned into Frisbees.

  “A dog whisperer? Wow.”

  She pressed a card into my hand.

  “Tell her to call us. We would so love a dog whisperer.”

  “Him,” I said. “I’ll tell him.”

  As I drove away, with Horatio’s extremely heavy head on my leg, I thought that Hal and Puppy Spa would be a good match. He could give them doggie dimension. They could give him doggie dollars.

  Be Prepared

  Inside the condo, Horatio padded over to his dog cushion and collapsed happily. He gave me a look of such sweetness and love that I beamed at him. Then he settled down into his usual big hairy blob of contentment.

  I remembered why I loved him. Because he was, for the most part, reliable, lovable, cuddly and (except for the unfortunate lapse with Zonko) loyal. And he was sincere, which is more than you can say for some other forms of life.

  I smoothed his head and rubbed his right-hand towel—I mean, very large ear. Horatio just needed unconditional love and attention a few times a day, and gave it back generously. Mitzi had once said to me that she would love a man who was like a dog—just pat him once in a while, scratch his ears and send him out to play. Seemed sort of cold to me.

  After I had settled Horatio, I checked my e-mail. More Viagra. Several invitations to Las Vegas (alas, not from gentleman callers or old friends, but from a travel agency). And a message from Mitzi with an urgent flag on it.

  “Please come to my condo ASAP.” She already had her BlackBerry. Maybe she was worried that I had found her exchanges with Stan and wanted to explain. I checked my cell. No messages. Usually she would call my cell, every actor’s lifeline to work.

  I suspected that Mitzi was hiding something more than her surprising relationship with Stan. But she was my agent and, despite all suspicious events, my friend, and I was going to go.

  What about Horatio? I peeked around the corner of my den to check on him. He was snoozing and rumbling.

  I couldn’t impose on Mrs. Lauterman again. She had been such a good sport about sitting with him last night. Horatio took that moment to raise one giant ear and open one eye. I interpreted that as a signal that he would be just fine.

  I had forgotten to deliver Mrs. L.’s groceries. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to tell somebody where I was going. Mrs. Lauterman wasn’t my first choice, but she was convenient.

  I wanted to believe that Mitzi was still my best friend, my ferocious agent, my big-time shoe pal, and that whatever she was doing was for a good reaso
n.

  I ground my teeth. Lu, stop that. Remember how Sherilyn sounded. I forced myself to relax my molars and looked around for an easily hidden weapon. I decided against the rolling pin. Would Mitzi’s doorman say, “Is that a rolling pin in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” I rummaged in my junk drawer and found a Swiss Army knife (one dollar, Shelter from the Cold thrift store). I had never been able to open it, so dumped it back into the drawer. An umbrella. (Stupid idea. I wasn’t Mary Poppins.) A nail file. (Pathetic.) A spray bottle of a high-end, beautifully packaged perfume called Snake Venom, given to me as a gift years ago, which sent anybody who smelled it into paroxysms of gagging. Perfect. I put the bottle in my purse.

  Horatio raised his head dreamily as I closed the door, bag of groceries on my arm.

  I walked across the lawn to Mrs. Lauterman’s building, thankful that no fence separated her apartment condo building from the Rockvale Estates townhouses, and pressed the elevator button. She was waiting for me with her door open. She was either psychic or had been watching for me through the window.

  “Thanks, Lulu,” she smiled from behind her walker. “You’re a little doll.” Funny, I would object to those words from a stranger on the street, but from Mrs. Lauterman they made my heart warm.

  She backed up with her walker. She was an excellent, if somewhat erratic, driver. Better than I was with the Sunfire. I carried the paper bag to her counter and unpacked the milk, bread, apples and Metamucil. And a jumbo-size chocolate bar. She seized it with joy. I thought she was going to inhale it, wrapper and all. Guy Lombardo played in the background on her record player, which, like her, was old but still ready for action.

  “Oh, Lulu, you remembered!” She hadn’t asked for a chocolate goodie, but one look at her radiant face when you produced anything with chocolate and more fat and sugar than a human body should ingest in a week, told me I had done the right thing. She hated dessert. She loved candy. I figured that at her age she should darned well eat what she wanted. She was going to outlive all her fussy doctors anyway. They didn’t like the ginger wine and the martinis she downed regularly either, but I was totally in Mrs. L.’s camp.