“It’s lunch,” he said.
“I heard,” I said. “Can I talk to you for a second or two? Won’t take long.”
“Can’t take long,” he said, waving at me to follow him. “We’ll go to my dressing room.”
I followed him to his makeshift dressing room, which was normally an office complete with desk, file cabinets, In and Out boxes with dusty paper. He opened the file cabinet, pulled out a bottle and a sandwich. The bottle was bourbon.
“Drink?” he said, turning to me.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Good.” He tossed me the sandwich. “You take the liverwurst. I’ll take the bourbon, and I’ll be in Forest Lawn before you.”
I caught the sandwich as he opened the bottle, poured himself an unhealthy glassful, and sat in the wooden, creaking swivel chair, his little hat still on his head. He took a drink and looked at me.
“Let me guess,” he said “I owe somebody money and you’ve been sent to collect it?”
“No,” I said, opening the wrapping of the sandwich, leaning against the wall and taking a bite.
“If you’re looking for a job,” he went on, “you’ve come to the wrong studio.” He looked around the dusty office. “This production is so cheap we have to finish shooting a two-reeler by four o’clock so we don’t have to buy coffee and sinkers for the six-man cast and crew.”
“I’m not looking for a job,” I said. “This sandwich is pretty good.”
“I’ll tell the chef,” Keaton said, toasting me and taking another drink. “I’m out of guesses.”
“What did those two men bring in here? The ones who just left?”
Keaton rubbed his nose and considered another drink. The question the bottle had asked him was more important than mine.
“You want to hear a confession and a declaration?” he said. “This”- his eyes went around the room and looked beyond the door toward the set-“is the bottom. From this, it can only get better. You’re not a reporter, are you? No, you’re not a reporter. You are …”
“A man who wants to know what two men just brought in here in a wooden crate,” I said, my mouth full of liverwurst.
“You’re a cop,” Keaton said, his eyelids drooping slightly.
“Private investigator,” I said. “Name is Peters.”
“And they’re dognappers,” he said. “I’ve played a detective once or twice, done a lot of crime movies, mostly two-reelers for Educational.”
“I’ve seen some of them,’’ I said. “Why did you say they were dog-nappers?”
Keaton took off his hat and balanced it on end on the tip of his finger.
“Some of those shorts weren’t half bad,” he said. His lower lip came up over his upper as he concentrated on balancing the hat.
“Dogs,” I reminded him.
“Not all of them,” he whispered.
“I didn’t mean the movies,” I said.
“I know it,” he answered. “A joke. Those two guys sold me a dog. Now I suppose I’ll have to give it back. My own money too. There’s not enough in the budget to hire a dog, and I’ve got a humdinger of a gag.
“Little dog comes running in, in the last scene, little black Scottie, and the camera moves over to show me, with little glasses and a cigarette holder, a Roosevelt gag. I play Roosevelt and Elmer, my character. We’re in the same shot. Most expensive thing in the movie. Can’t carry it off without special effects and a dog, and you want the dog back.”
“I think he might be the real thing,” I said.
“I wouldn’t buy a fake dog,” said Keaton, flipping the hat in the air. It turned over three times and landed neatly on his head.
“I mean it might really be Roosevelt’s dog,” I explained, pushing away from the wall. “I’ve got reason to believe the guys who sold it to you took the dog. Now things are getting hot and they have to get rid of him.”
Keaton didn’t say anything, just looked at me blankly, but even in that whithered blankness I could see that he was considering whether I was a special movie nut or a general all-around nut who happened to be sleeping one off in the corner of the warehouse when the movie woke me up.
“That’s Fala?” he said.
“I think it could be,” I replied.
“I was going to call him Fella,” said Keaton. “Why would someone take the president’s dog and then sell it?”
“That’s what I’m working on,” I said. “Can I see the dog?”
From beyond the door a woman’s voice called out, “We’ve got it working, Buster. Ready to go again.”
“Coming,” said Keaton, getting out of the swivel chair. He stepped over to me, almost nose to nose, and looked into my eyes. Then he shrugged and waved for me to follow him again. We moved back out the door and to the right, away from the set, down a dark row of shelves to a caged room that looked like a tool storage space. The dog was sitting in the middle of the room, looking up at us and wagging his tail.
“I’ll have to take him,” I said.
“That’s fifty bucks and a good gag ruined,” he said. “And how do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“I’ve got a number you can call. Ask for Eleanor Roosevelt. Tell her who you are and ask her if she knows who I am,” I said, reaching for the cage.
“I’ll trust you,” sighed Keaton.
“Buster,” came the woman’s voice from across the warehouse.
“Coming,” said Keaton, opening the cage door.
The dog came running to us wagging his tail and leaped up in Keaton’s arms. The dog stuck his tongue out and licked the actor’s face.
“Likes the taste of makeup,” Keaton said.
“Looks that way,” I said, holding out my arms.
He shrugged and handed me the dog, which was heavier than I thought-which surprised me-but smelled like a dog, which didn’t surprise me. The dog didn’t like me as much as he did Buster and let out a whining sound.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” Keaton said, petting the dog. “Think you can get my fifty back from those two guys?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
We had reached the front door through which I had come. The rain was still coming down hard and Keaton reached over to pet the dog once more. “I’ll need a cab,” I said, remembering that Jeremy had taken the car.
“Wait here,” Keaton said, “I’ll have April call one for you.”
Before he could turn, I glanced out the window in the door and got what was probably the shock of my not-young life. The rain soaked hulk of Bass shot up from below the window, blotting out the outside light and glaring at me. I almost dropped the dog, which let out a yelp, and Keaton turned to see Bass stepping through the door.
Bass, a dripping monster, hulked into the warehouse accompanied by thunder and the sound of dark pouring rain. I backed away clutching the whimpering dog and bumped into Keaton.
“The dog,” Bass said. His hands were out reaching for the dog.
“You owe me fifty bucks,” Keaton said solemnly.
“Let’s let that drop for now,” I said, backing away as Bass, his yellow hair dripping down in front of his eyes, reached out an arm to swat Keaton away.
Keaton dropped to a squat so quickly that Bass’s swinging arm cracked into a metal shelf. Bass’s face showed no sign of pain or feeling.
“The dog,” he repeated.
“Why does Lyle want the dog back?” I asked reasonably. “He just sold it, got rid of it.”
“The dog,” Bass repeated as I backed into a stack of crates and felt the rough wood against my back.
“Excuse me, Keaton interrupted, tapping Bass on the shoulder. “I paid fifty bucks for the dog. I say Peters takes it and you give back my fifty.”
Bass turned his head to the little actor, who barely came up to his chest. Keaton’s jaw jutted out the way it did in Spite Marriage and almost collided with Bass’s chest.
“He’s a killer,” I warned.
“Don’t worry,” said Keaton. “I won’t hurt him.”
Bass was surprisingly fast for a big man, but Jeremy had told me he was. But that was fast for a wrestler. He had never met a Keaton. Bass reached for Keaton’s scrawny throat, but the actor dropped to the floor, rolled over once and came up on Bass’s rear. The dripping killer had a moment of confusion and then turned suddenly as Keaton ducked under his arm. Bass’s hand took the little hat, crushed it, and threw it at the actor, who caught it expertly.