The door chimes sounded again, then Nova started knocking forcibly on the oaken door. “Tim, yoo-hoo. Are you in there, darling? I haven’t all the time in the world to commiserate with you.”
“Damn, I’ve become a horror movie cliché and on top of that I’m contemplating seeking employment from a woman who likes to shout yoo-hoo.”
It then occurred to me that I was maybe only the victim of some sort of elaborate practical joke. I was drugged somehow and then worked on by a makeup man.
But, alas, several vigorous tugs at the newly-arrived fur on my chest convinced me that it was, unfortunately, real. Whatever I was the victim of, it wasn’t practical jokers.
Nova whapped more profoundly on the door.
I started for the doorway, noticing that walking with hairy feet inside my loafers made me wobble some.
Putting my fur-rimmed eye to the spy hole, I gazed out into the night. The overhead light above my mosaic tile porch showed a very annoyed Nova Botsford standing out there. “Timmy?”
A cranky woman like her certainly would never hire a wolf-man to work on her show. I couldn’t see her face-to-face, or anybody else for that matter, until I was over this. Whatever this was.
When I cleared my throat, it produced an unsettling snarling sound. “Nova,” I called in a raspy, growly voice, “I’ve got bad news for you.”
“We already talked about your getting the heave-ho from Nose Job, remember?”
“No, this is different bad news.”
“You mean about your scrawny brat of a daughter being canned by Destry? I knew that two days ago, dear. Now, for Pete’s sake, let me in.”
“No, no, this is brand-new bad news,” I explained. “I’m suffering from that new bug.”
“Which bug?”
“The one that’s going around. Just arrived from Asia Minor, I think. Extremely contagious, so you really can’t come in.”
“That’s awful. You poor guy,” she said. “But I can’t afford to get the trots just now, otherwise I’d come right in to make you a cup of tea or something else to indicate I care.”
“No, nope, don’t think of it. Dump Truck can’t function if you’re under the weather, Nova.”
“Exactly, I have to put my health first,” she said through my door. “Oh, by the way, I thought I heard some kind of hound yowling in there. Did you get a dog?”
“That must’ve been me,” I realized.
“What’s that, Tim?”
“Neighbors have a pet wolf.”
“A pet what?”
“Wolfhound. Russian wolfhound.”
“Well, dear, you’d better get back to bed and take care of whatever the hell it is you’ve got,” she said. “Good night, Timmy.”
As her Porsche went roaring away into the night, I realized, “Damn, I was so preoccupied with being a wolf-man, I forgot to ask her about a job.”
I walked lopsidedly back to the hall mirror for another look.
I was still covered with fur.
Returning to my living room, I figured I’d sit calmly down and try to decide what exactly to do about this latest catastrophe.
But then I suddenly realized that I wanted to go hunting.
Yanking off my shoes, I went loping into the kitchen. Howling once, I slipped out the back door, ran across the back lawn crouched low, and headed for the dark woodlands that stretched away behind the house.
Mostly I chased rabbits and, I’m pretty sure, the calico cat who belongs to the art director who lives two mansions down from me. I also went after some night birds, one of which might’ve been an owl.
Fortunately, I didn’t catch anything and my interest in hunting waned after about half an hour. I was wheezing some as I headed for home. Probably from the exertion. “Jesus, I hope I’m not allergic to my own fur. Or maybe it’s wolf dander that’s causing the wheeze.”
Back in my living room, I decided to call Bernie Hersh. I really needed somebody I trusted to take a look at me and confirm that I wasn’t simply hallucinating. I only had to push one button on my phone with my clumsy fur-covered finger and say, “Hersh,” to get the phone to dial his number.
“You’ve reached the residence of Bernard Hersh, one of America’s most respected wordsmiths. Unfortunately, I’m home at the moment and have to answer the damn phone myself.”
“It’s Tim, Hersh. I have a serious—”
“I can e-mail you a list of rehab centers, therapists, priests, rabbis, and others who can deal with your nitwit daughter,” he said. “I also know a guy who can put her in a sack and convey her to the jungles of Guatemala.”
“This isn’t about Beth, it’s—”
“Whoever might she be? I’m alluding to your daughter, Mutiny Skylark, who was booted out by—”
“Listen,” I cut in, “I’ve got a more pressing problem.”
“Well, I might be able to help you find a new job, but—”
“You knew I was fired from Nose Job?”
“Everybody from Santa Rosa to Tijuana knows you were fired from the show. Let’s have lunch tomorrow and—”
“Could you drop over here?”
“To pick you up tomorrow?”
“Tonight. Right now. Immediately.”
“Are you ailing? Your voice does sound like you’re in the throes of bronchitis or—”
“I need a reliable witness.”
Hersh said, “Fifteen minutes,” and ended the call.
“Did they move Halloween up a few months?” inquired Hersh as he crossed the threshold.
“I am a wolf-man, right? You can see that? I mean, I’m not simply suffering from hallucinations or delusions?”
“You look like a wolf, for sure, old buddy,” he assured me as he shut my heavy front door. “Why have you made yourself up like that?”
“It’s not makeup.” I led him into the living room. “I just … suddenly changed.” And, sitting uneasily down in a redwood and leather chair, I told him what had happened.
Hersh wandered over to a window to gaze up at the starry sky. “That’s funny.”
“What’s funny, the fact that I’ve been transformed into a loathsome—”
“No, the fact that there’s only a half-moon tonight.”
“Hey, you’re right.” I tried to snap my fingers but discovered you can’t do that with hairy fingers. “Traditionally werewolves only change during a full moon.”
“Having scripted not only The Werewolf Hunter but True Yarns from the Graveyard and the unjustly short-lived soaper Haunted Hospital, I’ve become something of an expert on occult and supernatural stuff.” He seated himself on the sofa. “In my opinion, this is unusual behavior for a werewolf.”
“Maybe,” I suggested, “this isn’t anything supernatural at all. It could be a very nasty allergic reaction to something I ate.”
Narrowing his left eye, my friend looked directly at me. “You really think so?”
My furry shoulders sank. “No,” I admitted. “Now, wolf-men change back into human form comes the dawn, don’t they?”
“Traditional wolf-men, yeah.”
My nose started to itch, but when I tried to scratch it, it wasn’t where it usually was. At the end of my furry snout it was and of a rubbery texture. “Let’s get to why I’m in this current state.”
“Have you been bitten by a werewolf of late?”
“C’mon, Hersh. Until I turned into one, I never actually believed that werewolves existed.”
“Well, according to occult experts, there are only so many ways you can make a sudden transition like this,” said Hersh. “If you haven’t had any direct contact with a werewolf, then I’d guess that someone either put a spell on you or slipped you a potion.”
“Would that work?”
“You are sitting there covered with fur from head to toe. Something did it.”
“A magic potion, an evil spell. Who’d do anything like that
to me?”
“Besides your erstwhile wife, you mean?”
> Shaking my head, I raised my hairy hand to tick off my fingers. When I saw my wolf-man hand up close, I abandoned the notion. “Firstly, Mandy knows that most wolves don’t earn enough money to pay much in the way of alimony,” I explained. “Secondly, it’s too late to change the title of I Married an Asshole to I Married a Werewolf.”
“Possibly,” Hersh conceded.
“Third, and most important. She doesn’t know diddly about black magic and sorcery.”
“This is LA, Tim. There are more witches, warlocks, and sorcerers hereabouts than any other spot on Earth, except maybe San Francisco,” he told me. “Take this guy Vincent X. Shandu, who’s the hottest mystic going. Calls himself a necromancer and charges a thousand bucks an hour. Or Professor Estling, who—”
“Who the hell would pay a grand to turn me into a shaggy beast?”
“Some warlocks charge less. We’ll have to find out who did the job.”
“How?”
“When I was writing Vampire Cops for HBO, we had an occult detective as a consultant,” Hersh said. “Name’s Fletcher Boggs. I’ll call the guy tomorrow and try to set up an appointment for you to—”
“What’ll he charge?”
“A lot less than a thou.”
“Okay,” I said after about half a minute. “Talk to Boggs. Does he make house calls? I don’t want to venture out in the world looking like this. Even with dark glasses and a hat—”
“Case like yours, he’ll come here.” He stood, moving toward the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow, soon as I find out anything.” He stopped just short of the doorway. “Or would you like to spend tonight at our place? Dottie is very understanding about—”
“Not that understanding,” I said as I followed him to the door. “I’ll be okay here by myself. And I really do appreciate your help.”
Hersh took hold of the brass doorknob. “Do you mind if we don’t shake hands?”
It had been, to put it mildly, a trying day. After attempting to pace back and forth across the living room, a process that usually helps me clarify my thinking, I decided to go up to bed. Pacing on furry feet, I found, didn’t aid my thinking at all.
I usually sleep in a pajama top. That night, my first as a wolf-man, the idea of taking off my clothes didn’t appeal to me. Nor did the idea of brushing my teeth.
I’d sleep in my plaid shirt and khakis. Stretched out atop the bedspread, I propped up three fat pillows and picked up the book I’d been reading from the bedside table. It was that bestselling self-help book, Trample ’Em Underfoot: The Route to Success.
Trouble was, it made me uneasy to look at my currently furry hands holding the damn book. Tossing it to the floor, I grabbed up the TV remote. After a couple of tries I was able to poke the on button with sufficient force to get the big set looming at the foot of the bed to come to life.
“Now some exclusive KMA-TV footage of the so-called Wolf-Man of Westwood,” said the handsome, though aging, news co-anchor. “Pretty interesting stuff isn’t it, Camilla?”
“Wolf-man?” I sat up.
The camera pulled back to include the stunning raven-haired Camilla Cardy. “It sure is, Will. And we want to thank viewer Wally Needham for donating this sensational footage that he was lucky enough to capture with his cell phone.”
“As we reported an hour ago on KMA’s All Night All News,”said Will Noonan in his deep, handsome voice, “the alleged wolf-man was first spotted earlier this evening prowling the side streets of Westwood Village. Thus far police have found no trace of him.”
“Because of the proximity to the UCLA campus,” added Camilla, “early reports suggested that this was nothing more than a college prank.”
“Now that KMA has obtained exclusive pictures of this strange creature, however, we can confidently state that this is not a hoax or prank. Later in this hour we’ll be talking to Professor Marshall Terping of the USC Zoology Department as to the true nature of this phenomenon.”
Camilla said, “Let’s take a look at this exclusive two-minute footage.”
I leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
A very jiggly, long shot of the front of a Fanny’s Undies lingerie shop appeared. Coming out of the darkened store was a shaggy wolf-man. In his arms he clutched a tangled bundle of what looked to be lacy panties, half-slips, and frilly nightgowns. Clutched in his sharp teeth, dangling by one strap, was a white uplift bra.
The guy with the cell phone apparently got up the nerve to move closer at this point.
Dropping his collection of underwear, staring straight at the camera, and spitting out the bra, the wolf-man snarled at Wally Needham. Then he went loping away along the night street. In the distance a siren sounded, somewhere nearer a woman screamed. The film ceased.
The wolf-man had been wearing a plaid shirt.
Turning off the set, I dropped off the bed. “But that’s not my plaid shirt,” I told myself, starting to pace. “The shirt I’m wearing is the MacMurdie tartan. That wasn’t.”
Or was it?
I’d only seen his shirt up close for about half a minute and the color of the amateur footage was bad.
“No, that wasn’t me. I know damn well I haven’t been anywhere near Westwood,” I told myself. After I’d morphed into a wolf-man, I’d chased rabbits. As far as I could remember. Besides, it would’ve taken quite a bit of time for me to get down there on foot. And I couldn’t drive my six-year-old Volvo with furry feet.
But that meant there were two wolf-men, both fond of plaid shirts. A strange coincidence. But, no, that wasn’t me.
“I don’t have a lingerie fetish, either.”
My pacing slowed. All at once I felt very drowsy again. Not bothering to climb back onto the bed, I curled up on the floor and drifted into sleep.
———
I was awakened by an immense thunking sound from outside, followed by a harsh metallic snapping and an assortment of birds cawing and cackling along with an anguished flapping of many wings.
“Someone’s attacking the birdbath!” I exclaimed, popping up off the carpet.
As I started to run toward the bedroom door, I chanced to notice my feet. They were no longer furry. I stopped, held both hands up to my face. “Back to normal,” I said, chuckling.
Ducking into the bathroom, hesitating a few seconds, I took a look in the mirror over the sink. I was no longer a wolf-man.
From out on my front lawn came more loud, angry bird sounds.
Barefooted, I hurried to the stairs. I was only halfway down when my oaken front door was unlocked and flung open.
“Popsy?” called my daughter.
“Beth, you can call yourself Mutiny Skylark, you can even call yourself Carmen Miranda,” I said as I continued my descent, “but, damn it, don’t call me Popsy.”
“Sorry, Dad.” Wearing cargo pants and a T-shirt that had END OF THE WORLD TOURlettered across the front, my daughter entered the house.
I inquired, “What, pray tell, just occurred on the lawn?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing much.”
“What’s the condition of the birdbath?”
“Well, it sort of fell over.”
“What caused that, Beth?”
“I accidentally drove into it with my Porsche.”
“You seem to make a habit of driving into things.”
She shut the door with a backward push of one foot. “I do, yeah. It’s like you and your plaid shirts.”
“Want a cup of herb tea?” I headed for the kitchen.
“Don’t you have anything with caffeine in it?” she asked. “No, never mind. I know you don’t.” She followed me along the hall into the big white and yellow kitchen.
I took a half gallon of vanilla soy milk out of the yellow refrigerator, poured about a cup into my blender, peeled and cut up a banana, and tossed that in along with a spoonful of honey.
“Ugh,” commented Beth as I pushed the Blend button.
After the machine had roared for about a minute, I turned it of
f and poured myself a glass and sat down at the raw-wood table. “You’re really going to have to do something about your driving, kid.”
She sat opposite me. “If you’d been around to teach me to drive, I’d—”
“What’s going to happen with Destry?”
“I’ve got two of my agents, one of my attorneys, and a manager over talking to them.”
“Maybe you ought to toss in a couple of personal trainers.” I took a sip of my banana smoothie.
She rested an elbow on the table edge, studying me for a few silent seconds. “Can I ask you something, Dad?”
“Sure.”
“How do you feel about Mom?”
“How did the residents of London feel about the Black Plague?”
“You aren’t fond of her?”
“Not so you’d notice, no.” I set down my glass. “What prompts this question?”
Beth leaned back in her chair. “You haven’t felt differently lately?”
“As a matter of fact, I sure as hell have. But it has nothing to do with your mother,” I told her. “Just last night I … never mind.” I decided not to confide in Beth about my wolf interlude. She still lived with Mandy and I didn’t want my former spouse to know what’d happened to me.
“You felt something last night?”
“Did you come here expecting to find me changed? You dropped in only two days ago, Beth, and your visits aren’t usually that frequent.”
“Well,” she said, sighing in a disappointed way, “I was expecting you’d be more favorably inclined toward Mom.”
“Why would I totally lose my powers of reason and assume an attitude like that? Why would I feel anything but fear and trembling about the woman who’s going to immortalize me in a book entitled I Married an Asshole?”
My red-haired daughter took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Really effective sorcery and black magic is expensive,” she began. “But, heck, I can afford it. Some friends of mine introduced me to a very effective sorcerer named Vincent X. Shandu and he—”
“I’ve heard of the guy. What the hell did you hire him to do?”
“Well, to bring you and Mom back together,” she answered quietly. “So I’d have a real family again and wouldn’t bang up so many cars and—”
“How was he going to do that?” I got up and stood looking down at my daughter, considerably pissed off.
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