Read Online Wag the Dog by Larry Beinhart - Free Book Online

kid’s bedroom. And this is the guest bath, not the master bath. I step into the shower and run it hot and full. The room steams up. The water pounds into my back. I wash. I wait for Maggie to open the door and enter through the mist. I wait in vain.
    I’m dry and dressed in time for Ray Matusow. He’s there to check the house for bugs. I could do it myself, but it’s more impressive and more expensive to have Ray come in. Plus, he’s better at it. One of the best in the business. I haven’t mentioned it to Maggie because if someone is listening—which is possible, but I don’t really expect so—why warn them? Some devices can be made passive and, if passive, possibly undetectable. There are essentially two methods of finding listening devices. One is an impedance test. Is there more resistance on a line than there should be? The other is a broadcast test. Make a noise; use a receiver or a set of receivers; at the same time sweep rapidly through all the appropriate frequencies and see if your noise is being transmitted.
    Ray is thorough. He checks all the phones. He pays special attention to all the places we normally would plant a listening post: the outlets, stereo, lamps, and any other electronics. He checks the cars. He spends four hours at it.
    â€œClean,” he says.
    â€œNice job. Thank you, Ray.” I say. One less thing for Maggie to worry about. And it means that if what I am so quickly becoming obsessed with comes to pass, we will have the privilege of doing it in privacy.
    She dresses for dinner. Does her hair and makeup.
    â€œDid you do all that to impress somebody?” I ask her.
    â€œAll of them. We all watch each other.”
    â€œIt’s working,” I say.
    â€œThanks, Joe.”
    There are three cars in the garage. Her Porsche, the Seville, and my old Ford. We take the Porsche. Again, at Morton’s, she starts to apologize for my having to wait.
    â€œIt’s the way things are,” I say.
    â€œYou should be coming in with me,” she says, getting out of the car.
    When she’s out of earshot, I say, “Damn right.”
    She is subdued after dinner. We don’t say anything. She does smile at me. She turns on the radio. We get lucky. It’s Patsy Cline.
    Mary Mulligan does not appear to have waited up for us. That’s good. We feel alone in that big empty house. There’s even a moon over the water, a broken silver line, white foam.
    If I were writing this movie, I would be tall and thin and elegant. I would be Fred Astaire and I would take her in my arms and waltz her out on the deck and we would dance for each other and each other alone.
    But I’m short and I’m thick. Thick as a brick wall. She kisses me lightly on the lips. An “excuse me” kiss. An “I’m sorry” kiss. A “you’re sweet, but I’m not going to fuck you tonight” kiss. We all learned about that kiss very early. It’s not my favorite kiss. But I certainly do recognize it.
    She goes upstairs. I watch her go.
    Then I follow. For all my running and sit-ups and pushups, every one of my years weighs like the lead of an old man’s life around my ankles and the climb is an effort that leaves me short of breath. I undress, wondering what sort of fool I am.
    I can’t sleep. I try to review the events of the day in my mind. I go over it all. From the packing and the thoughts that drifted up from my groin and washed over my mind, to the drive over through the bad air of L.A., to the look of the house. The maid. The cars. The fresh-squeezed juice. The conversation, verbatim, with Maggie. The run. Ray, doing the sweep. Maggie Krebs, dressed for dinner, becomes Magdalena Lazlo, movie star. Ray, doing the sweep. There’s something about Ray doing the sweep. I don’t know what it is. I play it back again.
    Now it’s at least four in the morning. I’ve been tangled in my sheets and have kicked my