Don't Explain: An Artie Deemer Mystery (3 page)

“Great leap, Clay. Love the running in midair. Classic gag, no kidding.”

“Hey, thanks a lot, Kevin.” Poor Clayton leapt to his feet.

“And Jellyroll—brilliant as always.”

“You don’t think it was out of character?” Clayton nudged.

“What was?”

“The running. Too slapstick?”

He patted Clayton and Jellyroll on the shoulder and moved along, but he didn’t get far before another group of attention seekers headed him off.

“He liked it,” said Clayton to me. “Then why doesn’t he use me as something
other
than an evil principal? Kevin’s doing some interesting stuff. Did you hear about the Bosnia Project?” He hugged his legs to his chest and shivered like a little boy at the end of a day at the beach. Clayton had a face full of angles, like a broken pencil, with a stiff shock of hair that stood straight up in an electrocuted way. His brows furrowed vertically and twitched. The poor sod. He was getting a little too old. “Plus, Kevin’s adapting
Three Sisters
. Don’t you think I’d make a great Judge Brack?”

“…Judge Brack?”

“I don’t think I’m right for Masha. You free? You want lunch? Maybe we can find a little fish
boîte
that takes dogs? You want fish?” he asked Jellyroll, who cocked his head side to side.

“We’ve got to go uptown for a R-r-ruff Dogfood shoot.”

“How is that? Is that a good gig?

“It’s lucrative but not rewarding.”

“Yeah, I know that kind of gig.”

“Jellyroll’s just walking through it now.”

“What about those tricks? The tricks are new. Do you teach him that?”

I said I did. I teach him a trick or two to keep him interested.

“Hey, Artie—” He lowered his voice. “I heard a disturbing thing the other day. I heard that there’s a stalker after Jellyroll?”

“What? Who did you hear it from?”

“Woman I’ve been seeing from the soap.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday. But she said she’d heard it from her personal trainer out on the Coast last week.”

“Last week?”

“I guess it’s true, huh? There is a stalker, from the look on your face.”

“I’ve been getting threatening bowling sheets.”

“What are you doing about it?”

“Well, I’m trying to keep it quiet, but that hasn’t been successful, has it?”

“Apparently not.”

“I wonder if the stalker himself’s putting out the word,” I said.

“Publicity, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I played a stalker in a reenactment on
Serial Killers Update
. Severely twisted fucker. I got to talking to the writer. He told me he couldn’t say on reality TV what he
really
learned from his stalker research.”

“What was that?”

“Th at the best way to handle a stalking situation is to kill the stalker before he even gets started.”

“Come on, Clay—”

“I’m sorry, I’m just telling you what he said.”

How did all those people know? Why was I the last one to know they knew?

“Hey, Artie, you all right?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, maybe you don’t need to take it so seriously. It’s probably nothing.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

“…Did you say you’ve been getting threatening bowling sheets?”

“With cartoons on the back about ax murderers.”

“…Artie, I have an offer for you. Why don’t you disappear to my island?”

“Did you say
your
island?”

“Absolutely. I’m a very rich young gentleman. You don’t think I’m jumping in the river for the bread, do you? Absolutely not. I jump for the artistic satisfaction. Look, I’m not kidding you here. It’s remote and unspoiled, way up north on the ocean. You’ll stay
in the boathouse at the head of a pristine cove. Well, it’s not really a boathouse, but that’s what we always called it. Why don’t you and Jellyroll and your lovely new squeeze—what’s her name?”

“Crystal.”

“Crystal. Why don’t you and Crystal take the boathouse with my compliments? Have a private little interlude, no show biz, no commercials, no psychos.”

“It’s really your island?”

“Kempshall Island, absolutely. Kevin’s been up there, as a matter of fact. He came in his own boat and spent a week. He loved it.”

Kevin passed us again with a determined stride. He didn’t slow down or make eye contact, but he said, “Take him up on it, Artie. His island is one of the world’s beautiful places.”

“It’s true,” said Clayton. “I never go.”

“Why?”

“Well, because of my old man. The islanders despised the bastard. He was a millionaire over and over by the time he got up there, but he was still an acquisitive little Dickensian prick. He was real wrinkled, and he always had bad breath. He took over their island. It was pretty easy since the locals don’t have two nickels in cash money. He built his dream castle and ran them off. In fact that’s what he called it: the Castle. That’s where I spent summers until one night my father burned it down with me in it—I was ten—and he disappeared one step ahead of the feds.” His expression no longer matched his glib tone. “I was lucky to get out with my life.”

“Jesus, Clayton, I had no idea.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s movie-of-the-week material, my youth.”

“What became of him?”

“He was never seen again.”

“Never?”

“About two years ago, I hired a detective agency to find him. I got the best. Your best detectives, by the way, are still based in L.A. I spent a lot of the old man’s money to pick up the trail. But
there was no trail, not a trace, nothing to go on. The agency eventually fired me as a client.”

“Could he have died in the fire?”

“No, the local law had top experts in to poke through the ashes. There were no remains. He was running all kinds of financial scams, robbing people who trusted him. He was scum, but he was very good at whatever he put his mind to. He put his mind to disappearing.”

“What about your mother?”

“Dead. She died while I was still an infant…Some of the local people are great. I’ll fix it up with Dwight. Dwight’s a prince. He’ll pick you up at the little one-horse airport and take you to Kempshall Island. What do you say? You got me this gig, let me give you a vacation in the boathouse. It looks like you need it.”

“Does it really look like I need it?”

“Oh, bad.”

THREE

J
ellyroll was supposed to play dead when his person tries to feed him some “ordinary” dogfood instead of his usual R-r-ruff Dogfood. His person prods him, picks him up, jostles him, cajoles him, but nothing works, he remains “dead,” hanging limply in his person’s arms—until offered some you-know-what. He’s great at it. Playing dead is a Lassie bit we copied one melancholy Saturday afternoon.

But under the present circumstances, the playing dead part made me edgy. I decided, however, to let it go because the young writing team of Marsha and Brad was so delighted with the “concept,” I didn’t have the heart to make them change it. After all, he was just
playing
dead. Besides, the cool, dark studio felt safe, and the people inside greeted us warmly, asked if we’d like anything, coffee or a snack.

Mr. Fleckton and his two always-terrified assistants greeted me, but they were as stiff as potato chips today, and I could tell by the way Mr. Fleckton’s brow throbbed that something was uniquely wrong. He made small talk with me for a little while, then he said, “Uh, ahem, Mr. Frank would like to, ah, see you on thirty-five.”

The corporate headquarters, the brains, of H. & R. Casswell Comestibles, the corporate parent of R-r-ruff Dogfood, was known to its minions as “thirty-five.” It was always spoken of in hushed, reverential tones, even when ridiculed, as in “those dick-heads on thirty-five.” It had its own elevator, a carpeted, paneled, and mirrored one that stopped only there. On thirty-five.

“Uh, Artie,” said Fleckton in a quivering voice, “no animals allowed on…thirty-five.”

I paused. “He’s been up there before,” I told Fleckton.

“Yes, but that was special.” Mr. Fleckton’s eyes pleaded.

Did I want to leave Jellyroll alone under the circumstances? Or did I want to tell them all to fuck themselves?

“We’ll take great care of him right here,” said Marsha and Brad. Jellyroll loved Marsha and Brad.

So I agreed. The elevator shot upward at orbital velocity putting undue strain on the ligaments in my knees. Nobody needs to go that fast unless he’s an astronaut.

A jovial, round-faced fellow in an expensive suit met me when the door opened onto the decorated (the concept was mauve) reception area. On thirty-five. He pumped my hand and led me into his corner office. The floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the southern reaches of Central Park and most of Manhattan to the north.

“Artie, nice to see you again. Barry Frank, you remember me?”

“Sure. How do you do?” I’d never laid eyes on this guy before. Why was he so nervous? His smile was about to fall off his face and disappear in the mauve carpet. Was this about the stalker? Had they, too, heard about the stalker?

“Come on in, have a seat. Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

He pressed a button on his desk somewhat smaller than a snooker table. “Wanda, coffee. Wanda, ASAP.” He smiled at me. He sat on the corner of his desk, swung his leg back and forth. “So how’ve you been?” he asked as if we were old buddies at the frat house smoker. “Have a seat.”

I heard water splashing somewhere. Did he have a fountain in here? I looked for it, didn’t see one.

“Oh, that?” he said. “That’s a little idiosyncrasy of mine. Nature tapes. That’s the
Babbling Brook
. For relaxation purposes. Does it bother you? I can turn it off. Dam it up, as it were, ha-ha.”

“It doesn’t bother me.” I sat in a leather chair facing him. His smile never faltered, but beads of sweat sprang from his forehead.

The coffee arrived, delivered by a beautiful young woman in a tight little black skirt and ruffled white silk blouse. She bent from the waist and placed the tray on a glass coffee table. Then she turned and walked out.

“Artie, I’m afraid the fact is we’re going to have to get a new R-r-ruff Dog.”

“What?”

“Well, Artie, first I want you to know this is not my idea. I was against it from the gitgo, and I made my opinion known. Very loudly. But the corporate boardroom is not a level playing field. Frankly, Artie, there is a faction on the board that, well, to put it charitably, is concerned with values.”

“Values?”

“Appearances, ah, in the family-values arena.”

“What are you talking about? Jellyroll’s neutered.”

“Ha-ha, good one, Artie. No, Artie, actually, from their point of view, it’s not Jellyroll that’s the concern, it’s you.”

“Me?”

“You see, Artie, they learned that you live with a professional pool player. And, well, this faction on the board, the one concerned with family values, can’t in good faith be seen to support the homosexual household. Now, I have no problem with gay people. Some of my best friends are gay.”

I sputtered inarticulately at first, but then I said nothing.

“I know how you feel, Artie. I tried to tell them, but they were adamant—”

“She’s a woman.”

“What? Who is?”

“The pool player.”

“A woman pool player? I didn’t know there was such a—”

And at that moment I felt suddenly sorry for Barry, just a minion who probably made three hundred thousand bucks a
year, but still a minion without a wealthy dog to rescue him from the workaday humiliations.

“You’re not ga-ga—?”

“Barry, I want to talk to you about this coffee. This coffee is cesspool overflow.” I handed him the cup. “This coffee doesn’t even deserve the name coffee. I’m going to sue you and the board for attempted murder by antifreeze poisoning.”

The poor guy was trembling in fear and confusion. Coffee was sloshing over his index finger.

“Artie, we can discuss this.”

I headed for the door.

Barry pursued me out into the reception area. “Artie, who knew she was a woman? I mean, Chris Spivey. Who knew it was Christine, not Christopher?”

I kept going.

And suddenly Barry stopped pursuing me. “Yeah,” he sneered, “go ahead, be righteous. You can
afford
it.”

He knew he had a point. This R-r-ruff gig paid big bucks, but the fact was Jellyroll and I didn’t need it. We used to, but his career has taken off since then. I
could
afford it, and freedom to walk is one of the sweets of wealth. I hustled through the heavy glass door toward the elevator. I free-fell thirty-four floors back to the studio. A hush descended as I stepped from the elevator. Heads turned. A dozen people on the floor, five more up in the booth, they all stopped work to watch us. They all loved Jellyroll, and now he was going from their lives. Jellyroll sensed the difference. His head pivoted.

I strode straight to him, took his leash from one of Fleckton’s assistants, who flinched as if I were going to belt him. Long faces prevailed. Marsha was sobbing in the corner, while her associate Brad, also in tears, patted her shoulder blade. I felt this impulse to go over and try to make
them
feel better, but I ignored it. I walked out wordlessly.