Braddock wasn’t put off by this answer. He kept in mind the adage that you can’t cheat an honest man, and noted that the furnishings of Guilfoil’s office were fairly expensive. Deep enough pockets here, Braddock decided, but not so deep that if anything went wrong Guilfoil could afford topnotch Hollywood attorneys in a legal war of attrition.
“What I’m looking for,” Braddock said, “is a promotional production featuring my grandfather’s dog, Java, who has a very unique talent.”
Guilfoil appeared politely interested. “Which is?”
Braddock couldn’t quite yet bring himself to say. “Let me give you a little back story first.” He reached for his briefcase that held the material given to him by Mitty, along with some freshly doctored photographs of “Buddy” the talking dog, in what appeared to be aged newspaper and billing images from two generations ago. Braddock had used a friend’s computer to improve on what Mitty had shown him.
He watched while Guilfoil spread the material out on his desk and studied it.
After a while, Guilfoil looked up. If he’d had eyebrows, they would have been raised. “Are you kidding? A talking dog? Take a walk, kid.”
Braddock was ready. “I’m willing to put up a thousand dollars of my own money toward this production.” He laid a check on the desk, already made out to Guilfoil. “It isn’t much, Mr. Guilfoil, but it will show my sincerity.” Bait, borrowed from a loan shark in Central L.A. Braddock had been studying scams, and knew this was a necessary expense.
He watched Guilfoil stare at the check. “But this dog here, in what you’ve shown me, has gotta be dead.”
“Buddy has passed,” Braddock confirmed. “But let me tell you what my grandfather Mitty told me just before he, too, passed on. There are certain dogs of a certain breed and with palates of a certain type who… ” And he spun the tale told by Mitty months ago in Savvie’s bar.
Guilfoil didn’t quite buy into it. Not yet. Braddock understood.
“I’m not asking anything other than a percentage of the gross in any further film appearances or personal, so to speak, bookings,” Braddock said. “That’s how confident I am.”
“I know you’re confident,” Guilfoil said, “but are you sane?”
“I’ll let you judge for yourself,” Braddock said, standing up. Guilfoil drew back as if afraid, but Braddock merely walked to the door, opened it, and whistled softly.
There was the whisper of paws on the waxed tile floor, and a small figure entered the office and stood just inside the door.
“Mr. Guilfoil,” Braddock said, beaming proudly, “meet Java!”
Guilfoil stood up. “Hello, Ja-” He caught himself. “And this is a direct descendent of Buddy of the Catskills?”
“Direct, and ready to demonstrate the fact.”
Braddock walked back toward the desk, and Java followed to stand beside him, facing Guilfoil.
“I never saw a dog smile like that,” Guilfoil said.
“Java, speak!” Braddock said.
Java simply smiled at Guilfoil.
Braddock knew it was time to bring into play the results of the other half of the money he’d borrowed from the loan shark. The part he used for his ventriloquism lessons.
“Well?” Guilfoil said.
Java said, “Arful!”
Everything went smoothly after that.
TWO WEEKS LATER, Braddock sprang the trap. He showed up at Guilfoil’s office with Java and explained to Guilfoil that his mother in New Jersey needed heart surgery in a hurry, and asked Guilfoil for a loan against future earnings. Guilfoil, harder of heart and arteries than Braddock’s nonexistent mother, refused with transparent reluctance.
“You don’t leave me any choice, Mr. Guilfoil,” Braddock said. “I can’t stay here in L.A.”
“We have a contract to do a promotional film and work up a talking dog act,” Guilfoil reminded him. “I’m supposed to act as your agent.”
“And I have to get to New Jersey, and fast.”
“I’m not sure it’s legal to take dogs across state lines without making a lot of arrangements weeks ahead,” Guilfoil said, glancing at Java, who was seated near Braddock’s left leg. Java returned his glance and smiled at him.
“You don’t leave me any choice,” Braddock said again, even more despondently. “I’m offering to sell you Java.”
“And your end of the deal?”
“You mean Java’s contract?”
“That’s it, kid.”
Java wasn’t smiling now.
“Not for a million bucks!” Braddock said.
“I was thinking twenty thousand.”
Java seemed to be listening carefully, glancing from one man to the other as they spoke.
“That isn’t nearly enough!” Braddock cried.
“It’s enough if it’s the only offer you’re going to get. And it is, since we’ve been keeping this dog act under wraps before springing it on the public.”
Braddock hung his head. “Okay. Twenty thousand. Cash, so I can catch a plane for Newark tonight. But it’s a lousy offer.” He gazed mistily at Java. “It’s a stinking damned world for people and dogs!”
“Show-biz, kid,” Guilfoil said, reaching into a desk drawer for a contract form and cash box.
“Take care of Java,” Braddock told him minutes later, trying not to break into a run as he went out the door.
HE SHOULD HAVE left town five minutes sooner. Braddock’s suitcase was packed and he was hefting it down from the bed when there was a knock on his apartment door.
His landlady to check on the place and make sure all the lights and gas burners were off, he figured.
But when he opened the door, there was Guilfoil and Java. And a uniformed policeman. And a plainclothes cop who flashed an L.A.P.D detective’s badge and said he was from the Bunko Squad.
Java couldn’t meet Braddock’s eyes. Guilfoil could. He looked furious. “You sold me ownership in a talking dog that doesn’t talk!” he said.
“Maybe he just won’t talk for you.”
The detective looked dubiously at Braddock, shaking his head. “It appears that what you did was illegal, Mr. Braddock.”
Braddock couldn’t believe this. “Then I want to cross charges! Arrest this man!”
“What?” Guilfoil said. “Cross what?”
“This Guilfoil isn’t any kind of producer, like his card says! He wasn’t really going to do a film promo for me and Java.”
“I never said I was,” Guilfoil told him.
“That you were going to make a film?”
“That I was a producer. You just assumed.”
“Your business card says you’re a producer!” Braddock fished his wallet from his pocket, rooted through it, and pulled out Guilfoil’s card. He handed it to the plainclothes detective. “It should say con man.”
“It doesn’t say producer,” said the detective, “It only says produce.”
“He writes, edits, and produces,” Braddock said.
The cop stared at him. “Produce, as in fruits and vegetables. Produce is what Mr. Guilfoil sells. He has a produce stand near Malibu.”
“About to open a second,” Guilfoil said proudly. “With the all the money I’m going to have garnisheed from your future salary. We’ll see now who’s the con man!”
“And you can have your dog back,” Guilfoil added, as Braddock was led away in handcuffs. “The kennel bill will be waiting for you.”
BRADDOCK WAITED UNTIL after the arraignment, when he was out on bail, before finally admitting to himself that this had actually happened. His future was set, and it was bleak. As for his present, it was just as bleak. Here he was back in his crummy apartment with his dog that couldn’t talk, unemployed and maybe going to prison. The best he would get was probation and a ruined reputation. Maybe house arrest, if he was lucky. Difficult to land a job when you’re behind bars or wearing one of those electronic anklets.
The decision wasn’t a hard one. Not in Braddock’s state of mind. Before they put something around his ankle, he put a rope around his neck. He climbed up on a chair and tied the other end of the rope to a sturdily mounted ceiling fixture.