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

admit the pooch was well trained.
    The fat man finished his beer and made his way back out into the heat.
    Edgar looked over at Braddock. “You ever hear of Mitty and Buddy?” he asked.
    â€œNo. And are you really getting ready to close?”
    â€œNaw, I just said that to get rid of that guy. If he’d stayed around, he would have thought Mitty was nuts. I like Mitty. I don’t wanna see that. And Mitty was bound to start bragging again about that dog. You can’t shut him up for long.”
    â€œThat’s for sure,” Braddock said. “But I don’t know why he’d brag about the dog.”
    â€œNot that dog,” Edgar said, “Buddy. Mitty and Buddy used to be one of the hottest lounge and resort acts in the country. But I’ll tell you something: that dog there, Java, looks a lot like the photos I seen of Buddy.”
    â€œCome off it,” Braddock said with a laugh. “You mean this Buddy was a talking dog?”
    â€œI mean it,” Edgar said, stone faced. “He even talked to some scientists the government sent when they heard about him.”
    â€œFunny I never read about that,” Braddock said.
    â€œWell, it’s kinda like UFOs.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œThe scientists didn’t believe it even after they heard it. ’Cause they didn’t want to believe it.”
    â€œBut I’ve heard of UFOs.”
    â€œThat’s ’cause there are more of them than talking dogs.”
    â€œSo why’s Mitty telling me all about this stuff?” Braddock asked.
    â€œBecause he’s dying.”
    Braddock sat back. “What?”
    â€œHe’s got something bad wrong with him, some kinda rare blood disease nobody can do anything about. I think he wants to sell you the dog.”
    â€œBuddy?”
    â€œNaw! Buddy’s been dead more’n forty years. Java. Mitty knows a smart young guy can work up an act and make a fortune with Java. He likes you, thinks of you as a son. He told me that.”
    â€œI only met him a few months ago.”
    â€œHe says that right away you reminded him of himself when he was young, full of ten kinds of malarky and burning to make some kinda smash in the business.”
    â€œTen kinds of malarky?”
    â€œI’m only repeating what—”
    Edgar broke off what he was saying as Mitty emerged unsteadily from the men’s room and returned to the table. There were wet spots on the front of his pants and his fly was slightly more than half zipped up, just far enough that Braddock decided not to bring it to his attention and embarrass him. As Mitty sat down, he drew from an inside pocket a folded, aged envelope.
    â€œLook at these,” he said, lovingly spreading the ancient contents of the envelope on the table so Braddock could examine them.
    There were old playbills, press clippings, and grainy black-and-white photographs. Several of the photos were of posters extolling the virtues of Mitty and Buddy. On one of the posters they were headliners at some Catskills resort Braddock had never heard of. The only photo of Buddy was a grainy black-and-white of the dog with his leash wrapped around a post, much as Java’s leash was wrapped around the table leg, with the same distinctive kind of slip knot. Buddy and Java did look a lot alike.
    â€œYou think I wasn’t big in show business at one time?” Mitty asked. His complexion was sallow. He dug in a pocket and deftly swallowed a pill with a swig of Scotch, waiting for Braddock to answer.
    â€œI believe that,” Braddock said.
    â€œBut you don’t believe about Buddy.”
    â€œI didn’t say that . . . ”
    â€œAnd you don’t believe Java here is trained to speak.”
    â€œListen,” Braddock said, feeling sorry for Mitty, “I’ve gotta be honest. I’m like all the rest of them out there. I don’t believe dogs can talk.”
    â€œNot dogs! ”