Free Getting Up With Fleas (Trace 7) by Warren Murphy

know,” I said, “you’ve got a lot of problems with this film. Why the hell are you doing it?”
    “I couldn’t resist the chance to work with so many old friends,” McCue said.
    Birnbaum got up and walked to the small wooden dance floor located between the bar and the tables. He looked around the room and smiled. Naturally, he had perfect teeth.
    “Hi, gang,” he called out. He waited as if expecting a response. Finally, there was a feeble “Hi, Biff” from a table behind me. I looked around and saw Sheila, the assistant producer, looking embarrassed.
    “I’m not going to make a long speech,” Birnbaum said. Codwell and McCue applauded. Roddy Quine looked startled, as if he had missed something, so he applauded too, until Birnbaum silenced him with a stare and the director went back to sulking.
    “On Monday, just four days from now, Peachpit Productions is going to start filming on Corridors of Death right here in this hotel. Now, all us movie folk know each other and you all know me…”
    “Barf Birnbaum,” McCue whispered to me. “Dumbest producer in Hollywood.”
    “You said that,” I said.
    “It bears repeating,” he said.
    “…but some of you may not know my partner—that is, personally. All of you know him by reputation. Through the years, we’ve had a long happy partnership. I’ve been handling the West Coast movie end and my partner’s been handling the East Coast television part of the business. But this time, he’s coming out of the closet, so to speak…” Birnbaum chuckled. It was the only sound in the room. “…and he’s going to give us a hand in making our new film. Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to present my friend and partner. You know him as Mister Talk-show, Mister Television, Mister Entertainment, but to me he’s just Jack. Ladies and gentlemen, America’s most beloved television personality, the Boy Next Door, Jack Scott. And his lovely wife, Pamela.”
    He waved a hand toward the door of the dining room as a couple walked in.
    Jack Scott. I’d heard of him but I’d never heard anyone call him “Mister Television” before. He was the host of a late-night talk show and once in a while he had a television special, and it seemed his primary ability was pointing in the direction of the next act. He’d been doing the talk shows forever and every so often you’d read a story about how he always looked young and the Fountain of Youth and all that crap, but coming through the dining-room door, he looked like a tan prune with legs, wrinkled, sixty years old and showing every day of it. Chico would be impressed when I told her that; she loved gossip. The Boy Next Door? He looked like the Boy Next Door if you happened to live next door to an old folks’ home.
    Pamela Scott was a pretty-enough, plain woman with no makeup, no flesh tones, and hair the color of mouse fur. She was a lot younger than he was, but she didn’t act younger. She walked like a woman who needed more sleep than she was getting.
    Scott naturally had perfect teeth too and was showing them off. She walked behind him, looking ill-at-ease. Birnbaum was applauding their arrival.
    “Let’s hear it, folks, for Jack Scott and Pamela,” he called out, clapping his little heart out. Behind me, there was a cascade of clapping. I didn’t have to turn around this time; I knew it was Sheila proving her worth as an assistant producer.
    Scott led his wife to the table; she sat down next to Quine, who seemed surprised to see her. Birnbaum sat down on the other side of her and looked toward the dance floor, where Jack Scott was rocking back and forth from foot to foot waiting for the imaginary applause in his head to die down.
    “You think Barf is a dork,” McCue whispered to me. “Wait until you hear this guy.”
    “Gee whiz, folks,” Scott started out. “Whoever would have thought, all those years ago in Albany, that here I’d be talking to such wonderful Hollywood stars as all of you”—he waved his