Deadly Dues (18 page)

“Don't hurt me,” he squeaked. “Please don't hurt me.” Once he spoke, I realized that although he looked like a kid, he must be closer to twenty, with the build of a twelve-year-old.

“You miserable little piece of ragweed. Don't ask me for any mercy,” I roared.
Wow, that was great. It was ten years since I had delivered that line in a truly forgettable Western, and I had called it up just like that
.

He cried even more, and I felt like a big meanie.

“Could I have some water?”

I sighed and went into the kitchen. I poured him a big glass of water and trudged back into the living room, trailing the rolling pin.

He was gone.

I was mostly relieved, but also annoyed that I hadn't managed to grill him. Ryga would have grilled him. But I wasn't Ryga. And I wasn't sure I wanted Ryga grilling everybody who was popping up, trying to kill me. Who knows what cat they would let out of the bag?

I needed to act like a private eye. Unfortunately my experience was solely in the secondary world of film and television. So I didn't have a clue. Makeup, wardrobe, lines, marks—no problem. Dealing with real criminals, however badly dressed, was a new calling.

Stan had been murdered, maybe by somebody I knew. Mr. Size Twenty had been killed by a gnome-happy Good Samaritan. The little runt who maybe had tried to strangle me at the shoe store, and who apparently had tried the very same thing in my very own home (while breaking some vintage crockery), had disappeared. Far, far worse was the matter of Horatio.

I went to the front door, threw it open with all the grandeur I could muster, and howled into the night, “Horatio, wherefore art thou?” It was stupid and melodramatic, but it felt darned good. I nursed a faint hope that somewhere he would hear my howl of yearning and come back. But he was apparently in the clutches of demented dognappers, who were shaving his hair or worse while I was carrying on. What sort of dognappers were they, if they didn't have the brains to do follow-up calls?
Whoops
. I realized I hadn't checked my phone messages.

I stepped over the broken saucers and started to pull the patio doors shut, but was stopped by a high-decibel screech and a flood of light that smacked me in the eyes. Mrs. Lauterman, by dangling over her far balcony, could manage to get her security light onto my patio. I prayed she wouldn't take a dive over the railing into the rose bushes.

“Lulu! Are you all right? Do you have a new boyfriend?”

I rolled my eyes at the thought of the punk as a suitor.

“No!”

“Good,” she called. “You can do better. He's way too short for you, but his shoes are cute.”

Her assessment was off, but at least somebody had noticed that things were not totally serene chez Malone.

“He's not my boyfriend.”

“I like the other one better. The policeman is more your type.”

The lights came on in the Mortons' bedroom windows.

“He's not my type,” I called back.

“Then why is he your boyfriend?”

“He is not my boyfriend. Mrs. Lauterman, please! Don't wave your hands like that! Hold on to the railing!”

The Corellis' front light turned on, and their bulldog started to bark. He was a snarling tank on canine wheels. I didn't want to be on the street if they let him loose.

“Thanks, Mrs. Lauterman. You take care now,” I shouted. “I'll call you if I need you.”

“Okay” she said, after a disappointed pause, and closed her window. The searchlight went out with a sad little click, and I felt a pang of guilt. She was trying to help me, and I was shutting her out. But at least now she was safe inside and not planted in a rose bush.

What did I really know about Mrs. Lauterman? She was old, she was only slightly nutty, she was funny and she cared whether I lived or died. Which, at the moment, was more interest than my various pals were showing.

Her husband had been the best bowler in the Still on Our Pins seniors' bowling league, until he had keeled over in the middle of a bowling game, two years ago. Just when he had a strike. At least he had died happy.

Mrs. Lauterman had never seemed that upset about his departure. He was a crabby sort of guy. You could hear him shouting at her, usually about desserts. She might have been secretly happy to be free of the never-ending tirades about how she could improve her apple cake, raisin rolls, banana cream pie and walnut torte. I noticed that when I took her to the supermarket, she never bought desserts. I asked her once, and she said, “No more desserts, dear. Ever.” She loved fudge and chocolate bars, but resolutely refused anything that had been near an oven.

I found it comforting when her searchlight flashed on at strange hours, frightening away would-be muggers (good) and would-be lovers (bad). It was a small price to pay for security.

Mrs. Lauterman tottered over with her walker for tea every few weeks. She liked to give me decorating tips, most of which were fifty years old, but then I am a retro sort of girl, so I was interested. She always brought garlic olives or croutons for Horatio. No wonder he adored her.

I wondered if I would end up like Mrs. L., thirty years from now, buying searchlights at home improvement stores for my evening's entertainment. What sort of young neighbours would I have? Punks with purple hair who would strip and snort coke when I turned the spotlight on them? Worse, would they sic their robotic vacuums on me? Or would they be grateful that a doddering old actor was interested in their welfare?

I was touched by this thought whenever it flitted across my mind. And that is why I took Mrs. Lauterman shopping and bought her milk and bread whenever I went to the convenience store, why I occasionally took her a potted plant and why I cared about her.

I loved that she cared about me.

I knew that my friends and colleagues cared. But they tended to be somewhat self-involved, and viewed my dilemmas as accidents on the freeway of life, which they slowed down to examine briefly as they whirled through their busy lives. Mrs. Lauterman was old, and she had all the time in the world to worry about me.

I knew Horatio cared, but where was he? So many times I had crawled through the door after a fifteen-hour shoot, which, despite the glorious overtime, was still exhausting, and had collapsed onto his pillowy back. Even a long shift at McDonald's had at least been balanced, at the end of the day, by a slurpy kiss from Horatio when I limped into the condo, reeking of burger. (Perhaps that is why he was so glad to slurp at me.) Now I was being hounded by an assortment of thugs, and Horatio was missing.

He was a totally lousy guard dog, and I hated that about him. And I missed him.

I picked up the phone to call the animal shelter, then realized it was after midnight. I thought about leaving another message, “Have you seen a large, famous sheepdog?” and then wisely decided to wait until morning. They would think I was a crank caller. Part of me hoped the animal shelter would be big Bow Wow Dog Food fans, and expend extra-special effort on Horatio sightings. However, I had learned over the years that minor celebrity is incredibly fickle and unpredictable. Just when you are puffed up over your great fame, you run into a family of fifteen that has never heard of you. On the other hand, at the moment you think you are totally anonymous—for example, the moment when you have a barbecued chicken wing hanging out of your mouth, along with a few strings of pasta—a crowd of people surrounds you, singing your song.

And who was I kidding? I knew that Horatio probably had been kidnapped by illiterate dognappers who didn't respect his noble name. What sort of idiot would kidnap a humungous sheepdog with an eating disorder (as in way too much) and who weighed way more than a smart car? Worse, and this is what I didn't want to think about, how were they treating Horatio? Would they give him his special treats? Would they fluff his ears every evening before he woofed his way into dreamland? Would they tickle his paws just so, until his tongue came out and drooped happily?

I knew I would never get to sleep. I wondered who I could call at this hour, and couldn't think of any civilian who wouldn't hate me for calling so late. I could phone my actor friends at late hours (unless they had a morning shoot with a 6 AM call time), but I was hesitant. Pete had his own problems. Geoff was no doubt being Geoff, with the nearest willing female body. Gretchen would just whisper. Bent would rant about today's headlines. But my other, real friends, the ones not in the business, would not appreciate being awakened after midnight. They loved me, but they needed their sleep.

I slid Ryga's card off the side table and dialed the cell number.

It rang five times and I decided I was an idiot, realizing with a sinking heart that he probably had caller ID, and if I hung up, he would know I had called. And just as I was trying to decide whether or not to hang up, he picked up.

“Ryga.”

Yay. Sounded as if he didn't have caller ID.

“Lu?”

Damned caller ID.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual.

Long pause.

“And you are calling because . . . ?” He sounded annoyed. I couldn't blame him, as my clock said 12:10 AM.

“Oh . . . well . . . I know you like to be informed on developments, and I thought you'd like to know that a punk wearing blue Crocs just tried to kill me. Bye-bye!” I gushed cheerfully, and hung up the phone with a clunk.

Ten minutes later he was at my door.

Ryga looked tired when I opened the door.

I had left the evidence without touching it: a yard of brown rope, which looked disgustingly as if it might have once been a white clothesline. Great. Now I had a black eye, a bruised arm and a dirty neck. I was pretty sure I had some disinfectant wipes in the bathroom, but I wasn't sure if they were intended for contact with human skin.

After a ten-minute rehash of my encounter with the punk with the blue Crocs, Ryga sighed.

“You don't know why anybody would want to attack you? This is past being random.”

I looked at him blankly. I was pretty sure it had something to do with the dreaded Stan.

I pulled out my dolly face from the kids' series I did when I started out. I had played Dorothy Dolly and had to wear a blue plaid pinafore with little lacy bloomers and black boots (and the production being low low-budget, the only boots they could find were half a size too small. My feet still hurt when I thought about it).

“Golly—” I started.

“Ms. Malone,” he said.
So we were back to formal again
—
what happened to Lu?
“I don't know you very well, but even I can tell that the moment you start a sentence with the words ‘Golly' or ‘Gee,' you are up to something.”

I had been under the impression that I was a clever, sophisticated conversationalist, with smarts, wiles and sensitivity. I had two degrees, the first in theatre and the second in English literature, so that if a career of uncertain prospects in acting did not work out, I might try a career of uncertain prospects in writing. Obviously, I was failing in both areas, if in conversation I was unable to write or deliver material that was believable.

I felt like an idiot and, even worse, a lousy liar. And my dimples didn't work anymore. This was awful.

“My dog's missing, too,” I said. “He's a lousy watchdog but nice to have around.”

I blew my nose and tossed the tissue over my head into a Roseville bowl (Renfrew Flea Market, ten dollars; someday I will have to sell it to pay my electricity bill).

He watched the ball of tissue arc over my head with some admiration.

“Nice shot.”

I blew my nose again and did it again.

“You cry very easily.”

“I am not crying.”

“Like blubbering storm clouds. Ominous. Looks like a never-ending supply of rain.”

Ominous? Since when had I become ominous? And blubbering? I was supposed to be adorable.

“I have a good reason to cry. Although I am not crying. Plus, I am an actor. I need to keep my emotions near the surface.”
What a pile of guff.