Madding played a game, trying to match up the animals with their owners. A man with a crewcut tossed a Frisbee, banking it against the setting sun like a translucent UFO before a bull terrier snatched it out of the air. Two fluffed Pekingese waddled across the path in front of Madding, trailing colorful leashes; when they neared the gorge at the edge of the park he started after them reflexively, then stopped as a short, piercing sound turned them and brought them back this way. A bodybuilder in a formfitting T-shirt glowered nearby, a silver whistle showing under his trimmed mustache.
Ahead, a Labrador, a chow, and a schnauzer had a silkie cornered by a trash bin. Three people seated on a wooden bench glanced up, laughed, and returned to the curled script they were reading. Madding could not see the title, only that the cover was a bilious yellow-green.
“I know,” said the young woman, drawing even with him, as her dog dashed off in an ever-widening circle. “It was at New Line. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve never been to New Line,” said Madding.
“Are you sure? The office on Robertson?”
“I’m sure.”
“Oh.” She was embarrassed once again, and tried to cover it with a self-conscious cheerfulness, the mark of a private person forced into playing the extrovert in order to survive. “You’re not an actor, then?”
“Only a writer,” said Madding.
She brightened. “I knew it!”
“Isn’t everyone in this town?” he said. “The butcher, the baker, the kid who parks your car… My drycleaner says he’s writing a script for Tim Burton.”
“Really?” she said, quite seriously. “I’m writing a spec script.”
Oh, no, he thought. He wanted to sink down into the grass and disappear, among the ants and beetles, but the ground was damp from the sprinklers and her dog was circling, hemming him in.
“Sorry,” he said.
“That’s OK. I have a real job, too. I’m on staff at Fox Network.”
“What show?” he asked, to be polite.
“C.H.U.M.P. The first episode is on next week. They’ve already ordered nine more, in case Don’t Worry, Be Happy gets canceled.”
“I’ve heard of it,” he said.
“Have you? What have you heard?”
He racked his brains. “It’s a cop series, right?”
“Canine-Human Unit, Metropolitan Police. You know, dogs that ride around in police cars, and the men and women they sacrifice themselves for? It has a lot of human interest, like L. A. Law, only it’s told through the dogs’ eyes.”
“Look Who’s Barking,” he said.
“Sort of.” She tilted her head to one side and thought for a moment. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?”
“Sort of.”
“I get it.” She went on. “But what I really want to write is Movies-of-the-Week. My agent says she’ll put my script on Paul Nagle’s desk, as soon as I have a first draft.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s called A Little-Known Side of Elvis. That’s the working title. My agent says anything about Elvis will sell.”
“Which side of Elvis is this one?”
“Well, for example, did you know about his relationships with dogs? Most people don’t. Hound Dog wasn’t just a song.”
Her kelpie began to bark. A man with inflatable tennis shoes and a baseball cap worn backwards approached them, a clipboard in his hand.
“Hi!” he said, all teeth. “Would you take a minute to sign our petition?”
“No problem,” said the young woman. “What’s it for?”
“They’re trying to close the park to outsiders, except on weekends.”
She took his ballpoint pen and balanced the clipboard on her tanned forearm. “How come?”
“It’s the residents. They say we take up too many parking places on Mulholland. They want to keep the canyon for themselves.”
“Well,” she said, “they better watch out, or we might just start leaving our dogs here. Then they’ll multiply and take over!”
She grinned, her capped front teeth shining in the sunlight like two chips of paint from a pearly-white Lexus.
“What residents?” asked Madding.
“The homeowners,” said the man in the baseball cap, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
Madding’s eyes followed a line to the cliffs overlooking the park, where the cantilevered back-ends of several designer houses hung suspended above the gorge. The undersides of the decks, weathered and faded, were almost camouflaged by the weeds and chaparral.
“How about you?” The man took back the clipboard and held it out to Madding. “We need all the help we can get.”
“I’m not a registered voter,” said Madding.
“You’re not?”
“I don’t live here,” he said. “I mean, I did, but I don’t now. Not any more.”
“Are you registered?” the man asked her.
“Yes.”
“In the business?”
“I work at Fox,” she said.
“Oh, yeah? How’s the new regime? I hear Lili put all the old-timers out to pasture.”
“Not the studio,” she said. “The network.”
“Really? Do you know Kathryn Baker, by any chance?”
“I’ve seen her parking space. Why?”
“I used to be her dentist.” The man took out his wallet. “Here, let me give you my card.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “I already have someone.”
“Well, hold on to it anyway. You never know. Do you have a card?”
She reached into a Velcro pouch at her waist and handed him a card with a quill pen embossed on one corner.
The man read it. “C.H.U.M.P.—that’s great! Do you have a dental adviser yet?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Could you find out?”
“I suppose.”
He turned to Madding. “Are you an actor?”
“Writer,” said Madding. “But not the kind you mean.”
The man was puzzled. The young woman looked at him blankly. Madding felt the need to explain himself.
“I had a novel published, and somebody bought an option. I moved down here to write the screenplay.”
“Title?” said the man.
“You’ve probably never heard of it,” said Madding. “It was called And Soon the Night.”
“That’s it!” she said. “I just finished reading it—I saw your picture on the back of the book!” She furrowed her brow, a slight dimple appearing on the perfectly smooth skin between her eyes, as she struggled to remember. “Don’t tell me. Your name is…”
“David Madding,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Hi!” she said. “I’m Stacey Chernak.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“Do you have a card?” the man said to him.
“I’m all out,” said Madding. It wasn’t exactly a lie. He had never bothered to have any printed.
“What’s the start date?”
“There isn’t one,” said Madding. “They didn’t renew the option.”
“I see,” said the man in the baseball cap, losing interest.
A daisy chain of small dogs ran by, a miniature collie chasing a longhaired dachshund chasing a shivering chihuahua. The collie blurred as it went past, its long coat streaking like a flame.
“Well, I gotta get some more signatures before dark. Don’t forget to call me,” the man said to her. “I can advise on orthodontics, accident reconstruction, anything they want.”