Wag the Dog by Larry Beinhart Read Free Book Online Page A

does when you’re not home? Do you know how macho it makes a guy feel to turn his briefcase, which is normally full of just paper and numbers, into a shield that will stop a .357 Magnum. That’s a $150 item. Field men like myself get a straight 10 percent on anything we sell.
    What I mean about it’s being a visual is how small and barren my place is. What’s there to look at? I do have one kind of interesting painting on the wall. It’s an original, oil, representational. It’s a woman holding a baby, standing in a California vineyard. When I came home from Nam, I brought back this kid’s stuff. The military has channels and facilities for that—of course they do. But this kid, Kenny Horvath, he was kind of a friend of mine—he died the day before my time was up. I brought his things home. His mother gave me the painting. Kenny painted it. The woman in the picture, she had been his girl. The baby had been his too. But she’d already moved on to another man, even before Kenny died. So that’s the one spot of color in the room.
    There’s a black and white photo of a woman on my desk. Funny that I keep it. The Purple Hearts are in the drawer. Two of them. One of my dad’s, one of mine. Different wars, but the medals and jewelry boxes they come in have remained the same.
    It’s a lonely room. I know that. I can even hear that kind of music they’d run underneath, hear it in my head.
    Then there’s the contrast. Maybe you show the car ride in between, maybe not. I wouldn’t. I’d just cut right to it.
    Even make it a sun-shining day. Back inland, toward L.A., there’s smog, but out here the sea breeze blows it clear. Pacific breakers are rolling in. A couple of kids out on boards. Playing hooky, they’re young enough they should be in school. There’s an old man walking a young dog. He tosses a stick. The dog runs. The old man remembers young legs, exuberance, joy. He is grateful that there is someone to perform those things for him. There’s a Malibu princess with her perfect personal-trainer body jogging along the water.
    There is just one line of houses between the Pacific Coast Highway and the beach. All have fences or walls and a metal gate at the entrance with closed-circuit TV and electronic locks. The building just south of Maggie’s is a Tudor mansion. The house to the north is a hacienda. Maggie’s house is California modern. It has a circular drive. The front yard is filled with thousands of dollars’ worth of cactus and desert plants. The front door is oversized and it’s made of some exotic wood. The fixtures are brass and the brass is polished. She’s replaced her maid.
    The new one opens the door. She’s expecting me. This too says something about Maggie.
    â€œGood day, Mr. Broz,” she says. She’s an older woman. Fifties I would guess. Irish, with a brogue. This one is an illegal, I find out later. But she doesn’t worry much about it. The border patrol isn’t about to snatch her off the street and deport her, nor is she going to be asked for her green card on a routine traffic stop, and she knows it.
    â€œYou can call me Joe,” I say, looking around.
    â€œWe’ll have to see about that,” she says.
    â€œOK,” I say. “What’s your name?”
    â€œMrs. Mulligan,” she says.
    â€œIs there a Mr. Mulligan?”
    â€œThere was, but he’s dead.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œNo need. He isn’t missed. Not by me at any rate. You better make up your mind if you’re coming inside or just gazing at the place.”
    â€œI’ll come in. Thank you,” I say.
    â€œNot at all. Have a seat in the living room. The missus will be right out. Do you want some refreshment? You can have a drink, though to my way of thinking it’s a bit early for it. Or you can have some fresh-squeezed orange juice. The missus is big on