Celestial Dogs: Chapter One

CELESTIAL DOGS

CHAPTER ONE

"Hot enough for you?"

The beer was almost in my mouth. I flinched,

sending a lukewarm, amber wave sloshing over the lip of

the glass and down my wrist. I sighed, then completed

the all-too-familiar motion, draining the flat Budweiser

in a gulp.

I looked over at the sweaty, grinning face of the

fat man to my right. His flesh was doughy and

discolored, flushed red with heat and alcohol. His mud-

brown eyes gaped wide with expectation, his thin lips

curled in a cheap salesman's smirk that screamed

"Gotcha!"

"Fuck off," I told him.

His smile jerked into a twitch and he snorted

something green out one nostril. He quickly wiped it

with the back of his hand then turned away from me, back

to his drink.

"Turd," I muttered.

I rapped on the bar for another beer. The formica

was tacky with the indelible residue of countless spilled

drinks. I reached behind the counter for a stack of

cocktail napkins. They featured crude cartoon sketches

of big-tittied women engaged in oral sex, captioned

"Summer of '69, Summer of Love." I wiped the beer off my

wrist and tossed the crumpled napkins to the floor as the

bartender dropped a more-or-less full glass of beer in

front of me.

"Nice place," I said.

The bartender's nose was bent as a West Hollywood

hustler. He hocked a lugey onto the floor behind the

bar.

"Two-fifty," he said.

I dropped a five on the counter. I started to

inspect the glass, then thought better of the idea. I

downed half the warm beer in a swallow and glanced again

at my watch. I'd give my would-be client another ten

minutes and then bail. Not that I had any place else to

go, but I've always thought it best not to look as

desperate as you really are. Bored, I surveyed the

premises again.

The bar was long and narrow, fronting on Hollywood

Boulevard just up the street from the theatre with the

footprints. I always want to call it Grumman's, but it's

just another multi-plex now and I can never remember the

right name. A rusty old air-conditioner sputtered weakly

in the transom over the front door, but the hot September

day was way too much for it. The place reeked of pine

disinfectant. The actual bar ran three-quarters the

length of the room. A couple of cock-eyed pool tables

with worn red felt stood in the back, wads of folded

newspaper wedged under the table legs to foster the

illusion of level play. A pair of Latino junkies, thin

as Mexican dogs, cheated each other at eight-ball on one

table while a mocha-colored hooker of indeterminate

ethnicity -- just L.A. third-world, I suppose -- lay

passed out on the other. One of the junkies had wedged a

pool ball into the V of her crotch and jammed one of her

gaudy red pumps (right) into a side pocket (left).

My fat friend was the only other early afternoon

customer and he'd slid a couple of stools down the bar

after our delightful tete-a-tete. I stared at the

corpulent little fuck and saw him furtively eye me back.

My name is Marty Burns and once, a million or so

years ago, I was a minor celebrity. Sometimes I think

there isn't any other kind. At the ripe age of sixteen

I'd starred in a situation comedy called Salt & Pepper.

You probably remember. It was one of those godawful

sixties atrocities about two white-bread suburban

families with apple-pie perfect moms and zany, feuding

dads. It's best remembered as the answer to a Trivial

Pursuit question: what show did Russell Johnson star in

after Gilligan's Island?

I played Sandy Salt, the teenage son who was

secretly in love -- a la Romeo and Juliet; ain't TV

writers clever? -- with Penny, the ever-so-perky Pepper

daughter. There was a precocious little sister, a fat

baby brother, a grumpy old grandpa -- Gale Gordon, no

less -- and more pratfalls than you could shake a

keystone kop at.

At least once every episode I was obliged to shriek

the line "Hot enough for you?" to the howling delight of

a goosed laugh track. It became a catchphrase, like

Mork's "Nanu-nanu," or Maxwell Smart's "Sorry about that,

chief." It caught on with the public for a while, too,

at least until Judy Carne and "Sock it to me" came along.

I even got to say it to Carson on the Tonight Show once,

during my brief tenure as a teen heartthrob, but then

Salt & Pepper was sent to its proper resting place in

sit-com hell by All in the Family. And before you could

say "receding hairline" David Cassidy took my place on

the cover of Tiger Beat.

The show did last almost three full seasons. Along

with my personal 900 seconds in the Kleigs, Salt & Pepper

netted me a spiffy Jaguar XKE and more teenage twat than

any horny American boy could ever have dreamed about.

But the money had been blown before the last episode even

aired and my acting career pretty well took to the skids

thereafter. I made a passel of low-budget flicks and a

couple of dreadful network pilots before my scumbag agent

ditched me. I gave up the life for good one day when I

found himself playing yet another pizza-faced high school

virgin in a woeful titty movie opposite one of the girls

from The Brady Bunch. Or was it Family Affair? In any

case, I walked off the set halfway through the shoot and

swore I'd never work in front of a camera again.

I hoped and thought that I'd slipped into

comfortable obscurity only to find Salt & Pepper cursed

with eternal life in cable syndication. I still look

pretty young for my age and thanks to the lovely folks at

Nickelodeon, who run the show every damn night, I still

get recognized all these years after the fact. It's the

only residual I do get. Hardly a week goes by that I

don't run into some pathetic simp thinking he's god's

gift to the art of wit demanding to know if it's "Hot

enough for me." I've been busted twice for assault as a

result, though I was pretty drunk each time and neither

case went to trial.

I usually drink for good reason -- Immanuel Kant's

birthday, the anniversary of my third paternity suit --

but I was just trying to pass the time while I waited for

the client. I generally feel obliged to maintain the

illusion of sobriety on such auspicious occasions, at

least until I have a cash retainer in hand. After all,

who'd want to hire a private investigator who wasn't hard

drinking? God bless that Raymond Chandler for making it

easy for all the woeful sots who've come into the racket

since The Big Sleep.

Most of my work these days consists of serving

subpoenas for the kind of law firms that advertise on

local TV before noon and after midnight. They use old

ballplayers as spokesmen and always hablo espanol.

Sometimes I do sub rosa work as well -- that's

surveillance, for you civilians -- mostly worker's

compensation cases; tracking down the Mexicans filing

false claims with the medical and law mills before they

hightail it back south of the border. But every second

or third blue moon I manage to turn-up an outside client.

Generally it's surveillance work and it's always through

word of mouth. I've long since pulled my ad from the

yellow pages: I learned, through very much heartache,

that people who hire detectives out of the phone book

usually can't or won't pay for what they need and never

like the results when they get them. Also, the yellow

page people won't take my checks anymore.

I glanced up at the harsh sound of a skittering pool

ball. The hooker sat up on the table as an eight ball

rolled to a stop beneath my stool. Not a good omen, I

thought. The whore yawned broadly flashing a mouthful of

sharp yellow teeth and scratched her crotch.

One of the junkies mumbled something to her in

Spanish and she smiled back at him and flipped him the

bird. She caught me looking her way and rolled off the

table with slug-like grace. She sidled over to the bar,

pulling on her orange spandex tights until I could see

the outline of her cunt through the shiny material. She

was bald down below and walked a tad unsteadily with only

the one shoe on.

As she approached, I leaned an elbow on the sticky

bar, resting my cheek on a curled fist. The shy little

thing came right up and pressed her meaty breasts against

me. She ran a hand through her scraggly hair and licked

her chapped lips. Her tongue was coated with white film

and she smelled like Thunderbird.

"Buy me a drink, baby?" she wheezed. She dropped a

hand onto my thigh. Her red fingernails had been chewed

raw.

A cool voice answered from behind my back: "Better

make it a douche cocktail."

I pushed the hooker away and turned around.

Standing beside me was a tall, very pale white man in a

neat linen suit. He had a round face and two weak double

chins. His nose was sharp as his trouser crease and his

silver eyes flashed liked a cat's in moonlight. His

fine, dirty-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight

pony-tail fastened with curved bands of thick silver. He

held his hand out to me.

"Marty Burns! I always thought you got fragged in

The 'Nam," he said.

"I wish," I said shaking hands, "but that was Eddie

Haskell."

"No man, it was the Beaver."

"'Fraid not. But if it makes you feel any better

Walt Disney really is on ice down in Anaheim. He's

planted in a chamber deep beneath Mr. Toad's Wild Ride."

I motioned for the man to sit down. "You'd be Long John."

The hooker snorted. "Ain't so long from what I

hear," she said.

Faster than I could follow the pimp snaked his left

arm out and slapped the whore across the face. Her head

snapped back and she let out a cry that was all the more

affecting for its frailty.

Her cheek started to bleed below the eye from a cut

made by Long John's silver pinky ring. I could see she

wanted to say something, but one look into the pimp's

hard eyes convinced her that it wouldn't be a good idea.

Pressing a hand to the side of her face she went back to

the pool table to retrieve her shoe. She slipped it on

and walked out the door with what small dignity she could

muster. I watched her leave then glanced back at Long

John who beamed broadly at me. The bartender hacked

another lugey onto the floor. The little fat man had

scampered off.

The pimp called Long John sat down next to me and

held up a finger to the bartender who poured him a shot

of Grand Marnier -- on the rocks, yet -- before strolling

back to the far end of the bar.

"I love this shit," Long John said taking a sip.

"Like licking an orange's pussy."

"I look forward to hearing your opinion of banana

daiquiris sometime," I said.

Long John cocked his head then laughed, patting me

on the arm. He had long, thin fingers with finely

manicured nails, but his knuckles were cracked and

swollen and the thumb had once been broken and badly set.

"Hey, I like you man. The Jar said you were all

right."

"I'm not sure I can take that as a compliment."

Joey the Jar worked as muscle for a local shylock

who I'd once pulled from some switches. Joey got his

nickname on account of a jar rumored to sit in his

refrigerator which held the genitalia of recalcitrant

debtors. I hadn't actually ever seen the conversation

piece, but reputable sources assured me of its existence.

"Aaahhhh, Joey's okay. A little spooky sometimes,

but then who ain't. You know what I'm saying?"

I smiled and nodded. The pimp drained the last of

his drink and started chewing on the ice cubes.

"What'd The Jar tell you?" he asked.

"Not much. You're looking for someone to look for

someone."

"That's right, that's the ticket. Let me tell you

what I need," he began. "I got five, six girls I'm

running at any one time, you know what I'm saying? It's

not a big operation, but it's manageable and very

satisfactory from your fiduciary point of view. The

ladies do their thing, I treat 'em good. I keep 'em in

line, you understand, but I don't mess 'em up. Not my

style. If I gotta knock 'em around it's not gonna leave

any marks. I keep 'em supplied with rubbers and I make

sure they get clean works if they got the jones. But I

don't push. You know what I'm saying? It's not my

thing."

"You can't be too careful these days," I said, but

the pimp didn't have an ear for sarcasm.

"You fuckin' said it, my man, you know the score."

Long John waved at the bartender who brought him another

shot and a freshly warmed beer for me.

"Anyways, there's a lot of what-you-call turnover in

this trade. The girls they come and they go."

"But mostly come," I interrupted.

Long John narrowed his eyes at me then started to

laugh. "Hey, you're still a pretty funny guy, huh? I

like that. A sense of humour's an important thing. It's

something you don't see enough of these days."

I was already disgusted with the pimp. I knew that

any job that came by way of Joey the Jar was bound to be

ugly, but it had been a long time since I had seriously

worked the street. I'd almost forgotten the attitude it

demanded, the cold apathy you had to embrace to survive

here. I'd listen to the pimp's story, drink his flat

beer, but whatever the hell he wanted would have to be

done by somebody else. No matter how bad I needed the

money.

Which was pretty bad, actually.

"So anyway, I'm lately playing a string of five very

attractive young ladies when fing-fang-foom one of 'em

decides she's had enough of the life and is going back to

Pittsburgh, which is a hell of a thing if you ask me, but

if they're gonna go they're gonna go, that's one thing I

learned. Then two days later my redhead -- a natural, no

bullshit, tits like a cow and ass like a tea kettle --

she disappears without a word. She was a squirrely

little bitch, Nina was, but she could suck the barnacles

off a steamship and polish the keel at the same time, if

you know what I'm saying. Pussy like a Mack truck."

I had absolutely no idea what the hell that last bit

meant and frankly I was afraid to ask.

"Naturally I'm a little pissed that she takes off

without a word, but what the fuck can I do? I check the

'vine but nobody knows nothing from her.

"So I'm down to three ladies and things are looking

like your grandma's cunt, no offense, and I mean bad.

Then like a gift from the fucking gods I'm sittin' in the

pancake house over Cahuenga when this little piece of

juice with mambos from here to Catalina and a smile like

a sunny day walks in. Says her name is Jenny. She's

this blonde heartbreaker from like South Nebraska or one

of those fucking states and she is oh so ripe for the

plucking, if you know what I mean. So I give her the rap

and fing-fang-foom you know how it goes."

"You turned her," I said looking into my glass. I

didn't really want to hear this.

"No," Long John whispered.

I looked up. Long John turned away from me and

stared at himself in the grimy mirror behind the bar.

The two junkies had gone out via the back door and the

bartender stood stolid and quiet as a bottle of Beefeater

by the front window. The only sound was the terminal

hack of the straining air conditioner. Long John turned

back and looked me in the eye.

"I meant to, man, I won't lie to you about the plan.

But I didn't...couldn't do it." He closed his eyes and

ground his fists into them like a baby who needs a nap.

"She was so fine and so ready for the play. And man

those tits. Her stepdaddy tried to fuck her and she came

to L.A. to make it as an actress and blah, blah, blah.

You know the song, man. It's old as "Happy Birthday" and

twice as dull. So I brought her in and you know what?

She's fuckin' cherry. A virgin, man, right here in L.A.

"I tell you, I done some stuff in my life and I mean

serious shit. I done things I wouldn't tell the devil if

he buried me up to my nose in monkey shit. But you know

what? I ain't never had no virgin before."

Long John took his hands from his eyes and looked at

me again. For the first time I saw something like a

human being sitting there.

"I took her, man. I did. And she cried it sounded

like a little cat or a baby getting hungry for its mama's

tit. But it was sweet, you know? And I looked at her

and thought about all the things I had ready for her. I

thought about how I was gonna teach her to make like she

loved it while three scumbags fucked her up every hole.

And how her soft skin was gonna look after six months of

jabbin' needles in her arm. Or hitting on a rock pipe.

"And I couldn't do it, man. Me. Long fucking John.

I couldn't do it. It would've been like shitting on a

clean sheet, or pissing on new snow. Like, what do you

call it, corrupt."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Poetry from

a pimp was like darkness from the sun: a contradiction in

terms. And I thought I saw a tear forming in Long John's

eye.

"You love her," I said, not quite believing my own

words.

Long John looked away and then down. He nodded.

"I love her. I ain't never loved nothing in my

life, man. Not my whore of a mother, not a goddamn cat

or dog or gold fucking fish, and sure as shit not none of

my girls. But this little thing from Cornhole, Nebraska

turned me inside out. She made me feel like a new way."

He looked back up at me and now there were tears in

his eyes. "But she's gone."

I was embarrassed as hell. I looked past the pimp

toward the view onto Hollywood Boulevard.

"Another sugar daddy?"

"No, man. No way. She loves me, too. She wouldn't

have just run off. We was talking about making a life

together, a clean life. I was even working on getting

her into the business."

I raised an eyebrow.

"I know, man, it sounds like a load of horseshit,

another rap, but it's true. I been around town, you

know. I got some connections with agents. Some of 'em

legit, nearly. I got her some readings. Even a couple

of parts. Titty work, but legit."

Everybody in L.A. is in -- or thinks they're in --

The Business. Every bag lady's got a screenplay, is what

they say in this town, and that may or may not be true.

But they do all have agents. Long John clearly saw the

doubt on my face.

"It's no shit man. I'm talking for real. She's

pretty good, too. It's the tits that sell her, no

denying, but she's got some talent. Believe me, I know a

thing or two about acting."

He handed me a couple of photos, a color candid shot

and a standard studio glossy. She had the requisite blue

eyes and corn silk blonde hair, the inviting lips. And,

oh yeah, a rack Betty Page would have envied. Posed

glossies all look the same -- kind of like dummies in wax

museums if you ask me -- but I had to admit, even in

wallet-size, Long John's girl radiated something.

Freshness and vitality; that all-American, girl-next-door

look that's pure bullshit, but somehow still works on the

screen even after all these years. Looking at her I

could almost smell the breeze of a summer night in the

country.

"She know anyone else in the city? Friends,

relatives?"

"Uh-uh. Just me. I didn't even introduce her to

any of my other girls. She was stayin' with me, but not

in my fuck pad."

I thought for a minute. It was just insane. A

pathetic pimp who had probably been taken in at his own

game. Or a scared little girl who went running back to

the farm when she realized what her supposed savior

really was. Finding one tiny blonde on the run in

Southern California was like sifting Death Valley for a

particular grain of sand.

"She's my out, man. Can you understand that? Out

of the life. Out of the shit and the junk. My chance."

I still hesitated.

"Please. She's everything."

I looked into the pimp's pleading eyes and back down

at the photo. I saw something I hadn't seen in my own

mirror for a very long time: I think it's called hope.

"Okay," I said, shaking my head. "Okay."