Dexter's Final Cut (22 page)

“Greetings,” he said, slouching to a stop with one side of his butt perched on the lab’s counter.

“Hey,” Robert said. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘what up’ or something?”

Renny stared at Robert with his head tilted, one eyebrow raised and one lowered. “You gonna teach me how to talk
black
, Robert?” he said. “Damn, that’s great; I been wanting to learn that.”

“Ha!” said Robert, a very artificial sound, even for him. “Okay. My bad. Hey! Take a look at this, Ren.” He held up the graph we had been looking at. “Gas chromography,” he said, pronouncing it carefully even though he was mangling it.

“Uh-huh,” Renny said. “You want to graph
my
gas, you’re going to be pretty busy.” He crossed his arms and looked very pleased with himself, which in my opinion was not justified by the feeble joke. But he stared at both of us with that smug expression anyway, until I was ready to fling a microscope at his head, and Robert finally said, “What’s up, Renny?”

Renny smiled broadly. “Just come from a production meeting,” he said. “For my
special
.”

“Your what?” Robert said. “When did you get a special?”

Renny looked at him and shook his head pityingly. “Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, don’t you read anything but the
Advocate
?”

“Aw, come on, Ren.…”

“ ’Cause it was all over the trades, Bobby.”

“Um, not, you know,” Robert said. “I guess I didn’t see it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Renny said. “You don’t read it unless your name is in there.”

“Heh, heh, yeah, okay,” Robert said. “But when does it tape?”

“Saturday night,” Renny said, looking very pleased.

“Saturday—
this
Saturday night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What?” Robert said. He looked so very alarmed that I had to assume Special Taping was some kind of threat to him personally. “I mean, hey, that’s great, but I mean, you can’t leave, or—you have to be here for the show, right?”

Renny stared at him with a superior expression—not hard, since Robert was practically hyperventilating. “Bobby,” Renny said.

“It’s Robert,” Robert said automatically.

“Bobby, you been sniffing that fart analyzer too long. Don’t you know shit about showbiz?”

I had to give Renny very small props for extending his gas joke by turning gas chromatography into fart analysis, but Robert did not seem to notice. “I mean, sure, it’s great for you,” Robert said, rubbing his hands together unconsciously, “but we have to start shooting, and … does the network know about this?”

Renny showed him a large selection of gleaming teeth. “Yup,” he said. “Their idea.”

“What?!” Robert said.

Renny let him suffer for a second longer before saying, “My special is
on
Big Ticket Network.” He pointed at Robert, still smiling. “That’s the same network the show is on. Did you know that, Robby?”

Robert turned pale. “Shit,” he said. “They pulled the plug on us.”

Renny laughed. In spite of his near-constant joking, this was the first time I’d heard him do that, and I was very glad he had kept it to himself until now. It was a high-pitched laugh, but not terribly merry; the sound of it made me a little uneasy, and I felt a small sympathetic stirring from the Passenger.

But Renny laughed on for several seconds, clapping his hands to keep time, before he finally took pity on Robert. “Oh, Bobby. Oh, Bert. Man. It’s always about you, isn’t it?” He laughed louder, which truly set my nerves on edge. It didn’t seem to reassure Robert, either. “Oh, man. The actor’s life just plain sucks, doesn’t it? Got you all fucked up in the head.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Robert said. “Because, you know. This show is very … I’ve put a lot of my eggs into this …” He frowned
and shook his head, and then looked at Renny with very faint hope on his face. “I mean—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Renny said, “way back when, I was supposed to do the special in Vegas.” He showed his teeth again. “But then I land
this
part? And so
Mr
. Eissen says, ‘Let’s shoot it in Miami and use it to promo the show.’ ” He raised one eyebrow at Robert. “Could mean my part gets a little bigger. I know you like big parts, Bo.”

“Robert,” Robert said.

Renny ignored him. “
So
—we tape it
here, this
Saturday night, with the whole cast in the house. I say I’m here in Miami to tape the show. Make a joke about all the bodies we got to work with here. Camera cuts to Jackie Forrest laughing her sweet white ass off at … 
moi
.” He raised both hands, palms up. “Everybody gets a plug. Everybody happy.”

“Why Jackie?” Robert said. I was glad to see he had already moved on to his next neurotic worry. “Why does
she
get on camera? I mean, I can laugh harder than she can any day.”

Renny looked at Robert, shook his head, and then turned to me. “Glad you’re here, Dexter,” he said. “Robert’s just too easy.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” I said, “but what does all this mean in English?” And because he was staring at me exactly the way he had looked at Robert, I added, “Or in Spanish, if you’d rather.”

Renny folded his hands and looked down at them in mock prayer. At least, I assumed it was mock. “Lord,” he called out, “deliver me from the dummies. Please, Lord—help me out here.” He looked at me and said, as if to a child, “A special, Dexter. A one-hour
comedy
special. Starring me, because that’s what I do. Comedy. Because I am a
comedian
, and that is somebody who
does
comedy. And the network is shooting my special
here
, this Saturday night, and using it to promote Bobby’s show, okay?”

“So wait, so what,” Robert said, sounding jittery but a little hopeful. “So they use
your
special to promo the show—”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Renny said devoutly.

“So the show isn’t canceled?”

“We are
on
, brothers and sisters, and Renny Boudreaux is even
more
on ’cuz he is on
first
and he is gonna make you laugh until you
hurt
—’cuz my shit has been cooking awhile and I am going to
kill
.”

And as he said “kill” he looked at me—and there it was again, that sudden flutter of dark flame—and then Robert interrupted, and it was gone, and once more I was left wondering whether I had seen anything at all.

“Yeah, but …” Robert said. He frowned, and then said, “Oh, well, hey, I guess—I mean, that’s great, you know. I mean, as long as they’re not— Hey, one hand washes the other anyhow, right?”

“Riiiiight,” Renny said. He looked at me.

Since I was new to showbiz, I wasn’t sure what was expected of me here, so I just said, “Congratulations,” and that seemed to go down all right. Renny nodded at me, frowned, and then looked back at Robert.

“Oh,” Renny said. “Almost forgot. Wardrobe wants to see you. They’re at the hotel, suite twenty-four seventeen.”

“Wardrobe,” Robert said, sounding slightly alarmed again for some reason of his own.

Renny looked at him with pity on his face. “Yeah, you know, wardrobe. There’s that mean woman and her two gay friends, and they dress you up for this shit,” he said. “You remember wardrobe, don’t you, Robert?”

Robert looked at him for half a second and then gave his peculiar artificial laugh again. “Ha! Ha! Yeah, okay, well, then, I’m outta here.” He turned and aired out a few bright teeth in my direction. “See ya later, Dexter,” he said. He made a clicking sound, accompanied by that annoying my-finger-is-a-pistol-and-you-are-dead gesture again, and he sauntered away.

Renny watched him go and then shook his head and said, “Can’t decide if that man is dumb as shit or just really weird.” And then he turned and frowned at me. “You’re easy. You just weird.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“But that’s okay; I can
use
weird,” he said. And then he smiled again, and the kind of smile it seemed to be sent a tiny shiver of alarm through the coiled tentacles of the dozing Passenger. “You like to come see my show, Dexter?”

I admit he had taken me by surprise; I had no ready response other than a blink and a very feeble-sounding, “Oh. Well, I mean, it’s
this
Saturday?”

“Good, you been listening. I knew you weren’t a dummy,” he said.

In truth, I did not want to see his show, not this Saturday nor any other. But, of course, if Jackie was going to be there, I would have to go along, too. So I nodded and said, “Well, um, sure, that would be very nice.”

“Oh, it won’t be
nice
,” he said. “But I just might get you to laugh some. And your wife. You got a wife, right, Dexter? ’Cuz I know you want everybody to think you’re
normal
and shit.”

Once again I felt an uncomfortable shifting of coils deep inside; Renny’s dig at me was much too close to home to be entirely innocent, but it was still nothing definite enough for me to be sure. My only real choice was to keep playing Weird Normal—for now.

“Ah, yes, I do,” I said. “I do have a wife.”

“Uh-huh, good,” Renny said. “Mr. Eissen wants the technical advisers there, on camera.” He winked at me. “That’s you. And that really tough lady.”

“Deborah,” I said. “Sergeant Morgan.”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Eissen says it’s like support our troops, show the cops out there laughing. And it gives the show Cop Cred, and it even shows everybody I can get along with cops when I want to. Which, to be honest …” He raised an eyebrow at me, as if I was supposed to say something about that, but I had no idea what, so I just nodded.

Renny shrugged. “Your boss gonna be there, too,” he said. “He wants to make sure you show up,
with
your wife.”

“Well, then,” I said. “I guess we’ll be there.”

“I’ll put you on the list for two.”

“Thank you,” I said. And because that seemed like a slightly inadequate response for being railroaded into accepting two free tickets to a show, I added, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, I would,” Renny said. He straightened up and pushed off the bench. “And that is why I am going to go find a Starbucks and not drink that poison shit you all make here.” He turned and headed for the door. “See you later, man.”

And suddenly, there I was, all alone again.

I
STOOD FOR A MOMENT IN MY ABRUPTLY UNCLUTTERED WORK
space and looked around fondly. It seemed like a long time since I’d been here without Robert leaning over my shoulder and solemnly mocking all my unconscious gestures, and to see the place without him and Renny in it was almost like coming home from a long and exhausting trip. I spent a few minutes tidying up, putting things where they belonged instead of where Robert had moved them because they
looked
better there. And then I just stood for a moment, looking around with quiet satisfaction, and wondering what to do with the rest of my morning. I had been assigned two important jobs: instructing Robert and guarding Jackie. But at the moment I couldn’t do either one; Robert and Renny were gone, and Jackie was off somewhere with Deborah.

For a moment I was at a loss; what should I do when there was nothing to do? I cast my brain back and forth, and came up with nothing more than a reminder that I was supposed to go to a meeting with Cody’s teacher at three o’clock. It was ten twenty-two right now, which left a rather large gap in the day’s activities, and in the meantime, I felt like I should do something positive, powerful, dynamic, and smart, and there was nothing of the kind immediately obvious.
But Dexter is renowned for his resourcefulness, and it took no more than a few moments of deep thought for me to hit on exactly the right course of action. I strode manfully into my own little office space, and with a vibrant and masculine vitality, I sat in my chair, leaned back, and took a deep breath: in through the nose—

And very quickly out through the mouth, and with some irritation. Because in front of me on my desk, where there should have been nothing but a neat blotter, Robert had left his newspaper. I don’t like clutter, especially someone else’s, dumped into my space. I leaned forward to pick it up—and saw that, under it, lying on the blotter when it should have been standing neatly at the back of my desk, was a picture of Dexter and Family.

Last Christmas, Rita had insisted that we all visit a real photographer and pose for a real Family Portrait. It had been quite an ordeal getting everybody to dress up, comb their hair, scrub their faces, and—hardest of all—make a convincingly pleasant face for the camera. But we had done it, and here was the result: Rita and Astor on the left with Cody sitting in front of them, Dexter holding Lily Anne—and if Cody was not actually smiling, at least you couldn’t tell that he was thinking about sticking a knife into the photographer.

I had framed the picture and put it on my desk, because that’s what Humans did. And Robert had been staring at it furtively—and felt guilty enough that he’d hidden it under a newspaper. Of all the truly annoying things he’d done, this one rankled even more, and I could not say why. But I refused to let it ruin my opportunity for unspecified pondering; I polished the picture’s silver frame, rubbed imaginary thumbprints off the glass, and set it back where it belonged, at the back of my desk. And then I leaned back, took a deep breath, pushed Robert out of my mind, and pondered.

Naturally enough, my first thought was about Robert, and it was a somewhat grumpy thought. I had always assumed that actors, writers, artists, and other borderline psychotics were an odd lot—but Robert was in a league of his own, and he annoyed me far more than he should have. People don’t usually bother me very much, since they are, after all, only flesh and blood, and I know very well just how fragile and transitory that is. But there was something about Robert that cut through my customary indifference to the human species,
and it went beyond his apish imitation of my unconscious behavior. Did I really pinch my nose like that when I was reading departmental memos?

And in any case, why should it bother me if I did, and Robert copied me? If all my tics and twitches made it to the little silver screen, wasn’t that a form of immortality—even better for me, anonymous immortality? But even that thought did not make me warm to him, and I wondered whether my dislike for the man was rooted in aesthetics. I had been taught to value originality in art, and when you came right down to it, Robert was trying to make an art out of mere imitation. Art History 102, spring semester at University of Miami, had taught me that this could not be done. Art was creating something new, not mimicking something already in existence. What Robert was trying to do so intently was, in fact, no more than craft. He did no more than copy my tics and twitches—even to the point of staring at my family portrait, a very personal part of my disguise, for his character research—