get.’
‘Well?’
‘Yes. A reporter has been sniffing around the bar. Several times. He said he knew you went there and that apparently you had committed lewd acts in public. That’s not really fair, I said. After all, some of your films aren’t that bad.’
‘Were there any cameras?’
‘He offered money to the barmen. The Panama Canal said no way, but the Argentinean slut said yes. He thought he could get famous. By the way, you didn’t tell me you had him too.’
‘Not on camera.’
‘You’re screaming.’
‘You would be screaming too if your whole career was about to go down the drain.’
‘OK. Keep your hair on! Anyway PC persuaded AS not to talk, and the penis cam has been broken for two years – typical Miami – so it looks like you’re safe. Incidentally, the reporter is the same one that busted Britney Spears for doing coke in the loo of the Delano. So in one sense you’ve really made it.’
‘Who is this journalist?’
‘A dwarf living in Kendall. I got his address – 433 West 110th Street.’
‘We should go there and break his legs.’
I reported all this to Barry who immediately dispatched a thousand-page letter to the
Enquirer
, saying that if they published the story they would have to pay me the money I would lose from NBC, which could run into millions of dollars, and anyway there was no film. So the story was never printed, but I was completely drained. On the other hand at least the NBC deal was still in place.
A year or so later David and I stalked the Kendall dwarf to his clapped-out bungalow in the Everglades. It was a hot sticky afternoon in a tumbledown street carved into the edge of the swamp. Weeds grew out of the cracked sidewalk and biblical swarms of mosquitoes hovered in clouds ready to attack.
We found the dwarf’s residence and rang the bell. A little dog barked in the house next door, which had a for sale sign on a pole that had snapped in half. And then the door opened and there was the dwarf, only he wasn’t a dwarf, just a small roundish man with thinning ginger hair and thick glasses. His eyes jumped out on stalks when he saw us and he visibly recoiled as if I was going to hit him, but I breezed in like Matron, pretending not to notice, asking about the house next door: did it get the sun – sure; how was the neighbourhood – OK; was there a gay bar near by – yeah, maybe for alligators. That was quite funny and I was rather warming to him but David, who was hell-bent on retribution, produced the big round cake we had purchased on the way and threw it at his face. It missed, needless to say, and landed at the dwarf’s feet. There was a pause. I think we were all shocked.
‘That’s for Britney,’ David finally screamed and ran off to get the car, leaving the dwarf and me in a face-off during which I was meant to squirt him with the washing-up liquid I was hiding behind my back. It all seemed rather pointless now. This innocuous blob blinked and sighed, bracing himself for whatever was coming next, and it was rather touching. I was lost for words.
‘Would you mind awfully not writing stories about me for the National
Enquirer
?’ I asked finally.
‘OK,’ he replied, looking at me with owlish eyes.
‘You have no idea just how much these things can fuck one up.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Thanks.’
Another pause. The sun was sinking over the vast green swamp and it suddenly tinged the dwarf’s head with radiance as if he were a saint. He was instantly surrounded by a cloud of leggy mosquitoes and the effect was rather mesmerising. The for sale sign, the long blades of grass on the ratty lawn, the windows of the bungalow, were all momentarily lined in gold and the whole thing looked heavenly.
‘Oh look …’ I said. ‘It’s going to be a lovely evening.’
The dwarf looked up and agreed as David screeched around the corner in the car.
‘Quick. Get in!’ he screamed.
I looked at the dwarf and aimed my Mr Dazzle at his face, pulling the
‘Well?’
‘Yes. A reporter has been sniffing around the bar. Several times. He said he knew you went there and that apparently you had committed lewd acts in public. That’s not really fair, I said. After all, some of your films aren’t that bad.’
‘Were there any cameras?’
‘He offered money to the barmen. The Panama Canal said no way, but the Argentinean slut said yes. He thought he could get famous. By the way, you didn’t tell me you had him too.’
‘Not on camera.’
‘You’re screaming.’
‘You would be screaming too if your whole career was about to go down the drain.’
‘OK. Keep your hair on! Anyway PC persuaded AS not to talk, and the penis cam has been broken for two years – typical Miami – so it looks like you’re safe. Incidentally, the reporter is the same one that busted Britney Spears for doing coke in the loo of the Delano. So in one sense you’ve really made it.’
‘Who is this journalist?’
‘A dwarf living in Kendall. I got his address – 433 West 110th Street.’
‘We should go there and break his legs.’
I reported all this to Barry who immediately dispatched a thousand-page letter to the
Enquirer
, saying that if they published the story they would have to pay me the money I would lose from NBC, which could run into millions of dollars, and anyway there was no film. So the story was never printed, but I was completely drained. On the other hand at least the NBC deal was still in place.
A year or so later David and I stalked the Kendall dwarf to his clapped-out bungalow in the Everglades. It was a hot sticky afternoon in a tumbledown street carved into the edge of the swamp. Weeds grew out of the cracked sidewalk and biblical swarms of mosquitoes hovered in clouds ready to attack.
We found the dwarf’s residence and rang the bell. A little dog barked in the house next door, which had a for sale sign on a pole that had snapped in half. And then the door opened and there was the dwarf, only he wasn’t a dwarf, just a small roundish man with thinning ginger hair and thick glasses. His eyes jumped out on stalks when he saw us and he visibly recoiled as if I was going to hit him, but I breezed in like Matron, pretending not to notice, asking about the house next door: did it get the sun – sure; how was the neighbourhood – OK; was there a gay bar near by – yeah, maybe for alligators. That was quite funny and I was rather warming to him but David, who was hell-bent on retribution, produced the big round cake we had purchased on the way and threw it at his face. It missed, needless to say, and landed at the dwarf’s feet. There was a pause. I think we were all shocked.
‘That’s for Britney,’ David finally screamed and ran off to get the car, leaving the dwarf and me in a face-off during which I was meant to squirt him with the washing-up liquid I was hiding behind my back. It all seemed rather pointless now. This innocuous blob blinked and sighed, bracing himself for whatever was coming next, and it was rather touching. I was lost for words.
‘Would you mind awfully not writing stories about me for the National
Enquirer
?’ I asked finally.
‘OK,’ he replied, looking at me with owlish eyes.
‘You have no idea just how much these things can fuck one up.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Thanks.’
Another pause. The sun was sinking over the vast green swamp and it suddenly tinged the dwarf’s head with radiance as if he were a saint. He was instantly surrounded by a cloud of leggy mosquitoes and the effect was rather mesmerising. The for sale sign, the long blades of grass on the ratty lawn, the windows of the bungalow, were all momentarily lined in gold and the whole thing looked heavenly.
‘Oh look …’ I said. ‘It’s going to be a lovely evening.’
The dwarf looked up and agreed as David screeched around the corner in the car.
‘Quick. Get in!’ he screamed.
I looked at the dwarf and aimed my Mr Dazzle at his face, pulling the
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