Read Online Even the Butler Was Poor by Ron Goulart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron Goulart
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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living with you again?"
"Just for now, because it's safer."
"I'd wish you good luck," said Sankowitz, "but I think it's too late for that."
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B en's agent had gotten him a leading role in a French farce, one of those plays where there are a half-dozen doors that are continually opening and shutting. The problem for Ben was that whenever it was his turn to open a door, a corpse would come falling into the room. They weren't farce corpses either, but realistic ones splattered with blood and gore and sporting repulsive wounds. Taking the job had obviously been a mistake and he decided to quit.
He hadn't been aware that his agent had moved her offices, but here she was doing business in the cemetery on the old Universal set. Her cluttered desk was set up in the middle of a shadowy marble tomb, the fog machines were sending thick, chilly swirls of mist all around Elsie Macklin and her filing cabinets.
Somebody nudged Ben in the back, requesting him to hurry up and pay his last respects to the deceased.
He didn't especially feel like walking up to look into the open coffin, but he knew he'd be embarrassed if he didn't and he'd also disappoint the dozens of mourners who were lined up impatiently behind him. He stepped forward.
"Jesus, you weren't supposed to be home this early." H.J. was lying naked in the coffin, making love to a naked red-haired midget.
"Close the damn lid, will you, buddy," requested the little man.
"I can't even trust you after you're dead, H.J."
Nope, this was definitely not the part for him. He'd have to get hold of Elsie right away to have her break the contract. Maybe if he shouted loudly enough, his agent would hear him and do something.
He started yelling.
"Easy now, Ben."
"Anyway, farce isn't my strong. . . Hum?" He awoke to find his former wife, wearing a faded grey sweatshirt and jeans, sitting on the edge of his bed.
"Do you have nightmares often these days?"
"First one in three years." He sat up, shaking his head.
"You okay?" She put her hand against his forehead.
"Nothing more than a touch of black water fever, old girl," he replied in his Nigel Bruce voice. "No, I'm fine. What time is it?"
"Almost eleven, which is why I popped in to wake you. If you're going to catch the 12:33 from Westport, you'd better start getting ready."
He swung out of bed, then remembered he'd been sleeping in his shorts. "Oops, excuse me."
"I'm family, more or less."
Shrugging, he headed into the bathroom off his master bedroom. "Modern science tells us man can get by with four hours sleep."
"I apologize again for keeping you out all night, Ben," she said. "But I wasn't, you know, anticipating all the complications we ran into over there."
As he plugged in his electric razor; he studied his face in the mirror. "Gosh, I seem to have turned into Spanky McFarland overnight," he said. "I'll join you for coffee in the kitchen in a few minutes, H.J."
She came over to lean in the open doorway. "I do appreciate all the help you've been."
"It's okay, the new stresses you've brought into my dull routine will no doubt make a better person of me."
"But seriously." Leaning in, she kissed him on the cheek.
Â
I t was a pleasant spring afternoon and Ben didn't encounter anyone he knew on the train platform at Westport. The 12:33 pulled in at 12:31 and he got a window seat by himself. After opening the bottle of passion fruit-pineapple juice he'd bought at the small store across from the station, he took the three My Man Chumley scripts out of his attaché case. Sipping the juice, he read over the scripts again. He was set to play, according to Les Beaujack's cover letter, the part of the First Muffin. A character described as "self-confident Cockney who's justifiably proud of being part of My Man Chumley's New $1.99 Kipper 'N' Muffin Bargain Breakfast."
Using his closed case as a lap table, Ben started marking his scripts with a red Pentel. He underlined all the speeches of the First Muffin. Then, trying
"Just for now, because it's safer."
"I'd wish you good luck," said Sankowitz, "but I think it's too late for that."
Â
B en's agent had gotten him a leading role in a French farce, one of those plays where there are a half-dozen doors that are continually opening and shutting. The problem for Ben was that whenever it was his turn to open a door, a corpse would come falling into the room. They weren't farce corpses either, but realistic ones splattered with blood and gore and sporting repulsive wounds. Taking the job had obviously been a mistake and he decided to quit.
He hadn't been aware that his agent had moved her offices, but here she was doing business in the cemetery on the old Universal set. Her cluttered desk was set up in the middle of a shadowy marble tomb, the fog machines were sending thick, chilly swirls of mist all around Elsie Macklin and her filing cabinets.
Somebody nudged Ben in the back, requesting him to hurry up and pay his last respects to the deceased.
He didn't especially feel like walking up to look into the open coffin, but he knew he'd be embarrassed if he didn't and he'd also disappoint the dozens of mourners who were lined up impatiently behind him. He stepped forward.
"Jesus, you weren't supposed to be home this early." H.J. was lying naked in the coffin, making love to a naked red-haired midget.
"Close the damn lid, will you, buddy," requested the little man.
"I can't even trust you after you're dead, H.J."
Nope, this was definitely not the part for him. He'd have to get hold of Elsie right away to have her break the contract. Maybe if he shouted loudly enough, his agent would hear him and do something.
He started yelling.
"Easy now, Ben."
"Anyway, farce isn't my strong. . . Hum?" He awoke to find his former wife, wearing a faded grey sweatshirt and jeans, sitting on the edge of his bed.
"Do you have nightmares often these days?"
"First one in three years." He sat up, shaking his head.
"You okay?" She put her hand against his forehead.
"Nothing more than a touch of black water fever, old girl," he replied in his Nigel Bruce voice. "No, I'm fine. What time is it?"
"Almost eleven, which is why I popped in to wake you. If you're going to catch the 12:33 from Westport, you'd better start getting ready."
He swung out of bed, then remembered he'd been sleeping in his shorts. "Oops, excuse me."
"I'm family, more or less."
Shrugging, he headed into the bathroom off his master bedroom. "Modern science tells us man can get by with four hours sleep."
"I apologize again for keeping you out all night, Ben," she said. "But I wasn't, you know, anticipating all the complications we ran into over there."
As he plugged in his electric razor; he studied his face in the mirror. "Gosh, I seem to have turned into Spanky McFarland overnight," he said. "I'll join you for coffee in the kitchen in a few minutes, H.J."
She came over to lean in the open doorway. "I do appreciate all the help you've been."
"It's okay, the new stresses you've brought into my dull routine will no doubt make a better person of me."
"But seriously." Leaning in, she kissed him on the cheek.
Â
I t was a pleasant spring afternoon and Ben didn't encounter anyone he knew on the train platform at Westport. The 12:33 pulled in at 12:31 and he got a window seat by himself. After opening the bottle of passion fruit-pineapple juice he'd bought at the small store across from the station, he took the three My Man Chumley scripts out of his attaché case. Sipping the juice, he read over the scripts again. He was set to play, according to Les Beaujack's cover letter, the part of the First Muffin. A character described as "self-confident Cockney who's justifiably proud of being part of My Man Chumley's New $1.99 Kipper 'N' Muffin Bargain Breakfast."
Using his closed case as a lap table, Ben started marking his scripts with a red Pentel. He underlined all the speeches of the First Muffin. Then, trying
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