Free The Man Who Cancelled Himself by David Handler Page A

conversations.
    “I’m, like, you guys are being so negative,” objected Annabelle.
    “Okay, okay, maybe we do sound like total cynical hacks,” acknowledged Marty. “But at least we have no illusions about what we’re doing here.”
    “Unlike Bobby.” Tommy sneered unpleasantly. “Where is the Bobster anyway? The Boston shuttle running late again?”
    “Naomi was looking for him,” said Annabelle.
    “Why, she need servicing?” he cracked.
    “No, the copier does,” Annabelle fired back. To me she said, “Bobby’s the only one around here who’s handy.”
    “Another thing you’re going to discover, Hoagy,” Marty went on, choosing his words carefully, “is that Lyle changes directions on you a lot. The man’s completely unpredictable. Which means a lot of our time is spent stabbing around in the dark—”
    “Or, if possible, in Lyle’s back,” chipped in Tommy.
    “For a gag that pleases him. And that’s a nonstop adventure, because what he says he loves one minute he may hate five minutes later. We never know why. We only know it’s out. So a lot of what we do is …”
    “Trial and terror?” I suggested.
    Marty nodded approvingly. “Not bad. You’re going to be okay.”
    “So I keep telling myself.”
    “Okay, wait, why’s she doing that?” wondered Annabelle, intently observing Lulu, who was snarfling at the wall next to the couch, tail thumping. “Is it a mouse?”
    “No, she’d be cowering between my legs if it were any form of rodent life.” Now Lulu was growling at the baseboard. “Offhand, I’d say there’s a person listening on the other side of the wall.”
    “Lyle,” Marty whispered. “He’s in Katrina’s office eavesdropping on us with his Super Ear. Some stupid James Bond gadget he bought at this spook supply shop on Madison Avenue. He can hear through walls with it. Show him, Tommy.”
    Tommy got up out of his chair and creaked over next to the wall. “Just remember, Hoagy,” he exclaimed, voice raised. “No matter what happens we know we can always count on Lyle to come in at the last minute and pull it out!”
    There was a brief moment of silence. Followed by a tremendous crash on the other side of the wall.
    “See?” chuckled Marty.
    “And so another Uncle Chubby mug bites the dust,” intoned Tommy, clipping off the words like David Brinkley. He bent and gave Lulu a pat on the head. “You, Lulu, are okay.”
    “I love her deadpan, too,” Marty observed, inspecting her. “Reminds me of Lady Macbeth.”
    “Marty’s first wife,” explained Tommy. “Actually, she looks a lot like Beth. Especially around the nose.”
    “She does,” Marty agreed. “Does she get PMS?”
    Lulu let out a low moan of outrage. She has a rather Victorian sense of propriety. Picked it up from her mommy. Or so I’d once believed.
    “Does Lyle often eavesdrop on you?”
    “One of his favorite hobbies,” Tommy confirmed with dry dismay. “The man likes to go through our trash, too. He thinks people are constantly plotting behind his back to overthrow him. We’re talking serious paranoia here.”
    I nodded. I wondered if that’s what all his talk about being set up at the Deuce was: paranoia. I wondered indeed.
    “Tommy and I also happen to be in the middle of a rather ugly contract dispute with him,” Marty confessed.
    “No way!” exclaimed Annabelle. “Not again!”
    “Stick around, Hoagy,” said Tommy. “You may be head writer within the hour.”
    “See, we found out last night from our agent that he’s trying to chisel us out of ten grand a week,” said Marty.
    I tugged at my ear. “I’m afraid that may be my doing, indirectly.”
    Tommy peered at me bleakly. “That what he’s paying you?”
    “It is,” I replied. “And, believe me, if I’d known it was coming out of your—”
    “Oh, hey, hey,” Marty cautioned me, with a raised hand. “Don’t you feel responsible, Hoagy. Not your doing. It’s her salary that’s killing