Free Show Business Is Murder by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

he’s shy, not much of a performer. That’s why I said he wouldn’t talk here and now. But he’s getting better, more outgoing.”
    â€œWhere have you performed?” Braddock asked, being careful to look at Mitty when he asked. “I mean, you and Java?”
    â€œNowhere yet. We’re working up to it.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Braddock sipped his drink, a club soda with a lime twist. He never drank before evening, keeping his mind clear to write. He’d soon discovered that many of the powerful people in the film industry were blatant con men, not to be believed. If he’d been naive when he arrived in L.A., he was long over it. Now there were calluses on his cynicism.
    Mitty leaned back and regarded him. Braddock regarded the old man right back. He had to be in his eighties, and he dressed like a racetrack tout in Guys and Dolls, tan checked sport coat, red shirt, redder bow tie. The tie had a sprinkling of tiny black polka dots and was perched in an oddly rapacious way at his Adam’s apple like a brilliant exotic butterfly, carnivorous and going for the throat.
    â€œAs I recall from seeing you in here before,” Mitty said, “your first name is James.”
    â€œCorrect.”
    â€œLike James Braddock, heavyweight champion of the world.”
    â€œNever heard of him.”
    â€œHe was long before your time. But shouldn’t you still know yours is the same name as a heavyweight champion?”
    Braddock almost pitied the old man for the question. “That kind of ancient knowledge is useless now. It’s a new world. Linear logic is dying. If something comes up and I need that kind of information, I can always get it from the Internet.”
    Mitty shook his head with unexpected violence, as if tryingto jar loose the persistent butterfly tie clinging to his throat. “You have to be able to think, to synthesize, not just have a lot of facts at your disposal. Everything’s connected to everything else.”
    â€œThat’s what I’m telling you,” Braddock said. “The Internet.”
    â€œBut the world didn’t start when the Internet was invented. Or just as you were born.”
    â€œI think it pretty much did,” Braddock said. “At least, when it comes to useful information.”
    Mitty appeared saddened by this statement. He looked down at Java. Java looked back. He still seemed faintly amused and, yes, rather shy. A strange thing in a dog.
    A fat man in oversized Levi’s and a tropical-print shirt waddled in from the heat and breathed in the air conditioning with a smile as he wiped a wrist across his perspiring forehead.
    â€œGlad I could find somewhere to get a drink,” he said. “Everyplace else is closed because of the election.” He settled his bulk on a bar stool that seemed to bend beneath his weight, though that was probably an optical illusion. “How come you’re not closed?”
    Edgar, who was a huge man himself, in his sixties with the build and misshapen ears of a former pro wrestler, said, “ ’Cause last election day, we knew who to vote for. Fact is, though, we were about to close.”
    Mitty winked at Braddock and smoothly and slowly tugged on Java’s leash until the little dog was out of sight on the other side of his chair. Then he raised a gnarled forefinger to his lips in a signal for Braddock to be silent.
    â€œWhat’s the big secret?” Braddock whispered across the table.
    â€œJava,” Mitty said. “Even if you don’t believe me, he’s a valuable piece of show business property. But I must trust you with him for a few minutes.”
    No one spoke, not even Edgar, busy behind the bar, as Mitty wrapped Java’s leash around the table leg, using an elaborate kind of slip knot. He hand-signaled for the dog to sit and stay, then went shuffling off toward the men’s room. Java didn’t move or make a sound. Braddock had to