“He wasn’t here,” said Bill, while the two ladies discussed Mr. Bieber’s singing qualities or lack thereof. “We had Daddy Crawfish, though. I don’t know the genre, but it’s like the stuff they sing on cruise ships. Very mellow and fun. They had to cut the show short, though. Somethingabout his ticker.”
“How old is Daddy Crawfish?” asked Scarlett.
“Eighty-eight, but still going strong. Though last thing I heard was that he’ll be joining us again, only this time as a resident.”
“Oh, whoopee,” Scarlett murmured.
10
“Such a pity none of these people have pets,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, it would make our lives a lot easier, not to mention our mission,” I said.
With a fellow pet it’s much easier to communicate, and find out what’s going on. But then we’d faced tougher odds than these, and since most of the residents at Happy Home left their doors open at all times, and didn’t seem to be annoyed when we walked in and out, it wasn’t all bad.
“So Brian is having a lot of affairs, is he?” asked Dooley as we trudged across the corridor to see what Henry was up to. “At least two, but there could be more. That makes him some kind of Casanova, doesn’t it?”
“It certainly seems that way,” I agreed. His wife wouldn’t be happy. Or maybe she would, cause now she would be able to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that her husband was cheating on her.
Henry wasn’t alone in his room, but this time it wasn’t Kirsten who kept him company but a fellow resident named Bob.
“Look, it’s going to be great,” Henry was saying. “With your contacts in the business, and the kind of life I’ve lived, you and I are going to write a bestseller, buddy.”
“I don’t know, Henry,” said Bob. “I’m afraid my writing days are over.”
“Nonsense. Once a writer, always a writer. So what do you say? All you have to do is write down my life story, and turn it into something readable. And then once you’ve managed to snag us a publisher, we’re in business.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Bob, who was a smallish man with a bulbous sort of head and a hangdog look about him.
“Great. I’ve got all these notebooks, and they’re filled with the stories I want to write about.” He chuckled freely. “You’d be surprised by some of the stuff I’ve lived through, Bob. And it’s all highly entertaining! And I do mean entertaining. We’re going to give that James Patterson fellow a run for his money, you and me!”
“That’s wonderful,” said Bob, looking particularly glum all of a sudden.
“He doesn’t look happy to give James Patterson a run for his money,” said Dooley.
“No, he certainly does not,” I agreed. “More like unhappy that he’s going to have to write Henry’s autobiography.”
“But it’s not going to be his autobiography, is it? Since he’s not going to write it himself.”
“Well, technically I guess Henry is using a ghostwriter to write his life story, but it is still going to be his autobiography since he’s the one dictating the story.”
“He’s going to use a ghost to write his life’s story?”
“Not an actual ghost,” I hastened to say. “It’s called a ghostwriter, since the so-called ghost does all the work but his name is never mentioned. In other words, he remains invisible, like a ghost.”
“Oh, I see,” said Dooley. “So I could write your life story, and be your ghost?”
“Yeah, if you were an actual writer, you could be my ghostwriter.”
“Gee thanks, Max,” said Dooley, bringing a paw to his chest. “That means so much to me.”
I glanced up at Henry’s notebooks, which were thick and presumably handwritten, and wondered if we shouldn’t organize a mission to take a look at those. They might tell us something about this guy, and why he was targeting Kirsten. Though after hearing Harriet and Brutus’s detailed field report about what Brian Brooks was up to, the motivating factor behind what a lot of men are up to could probably be summed up in one word: libido.
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Bob left Henry’s room feeling a little out of sorts. On and on the man talked about his autobiography, and how keen he was on Bob writing it. The truth was that Bob had given up writing a long time ago. His arthritic hands wouldn’t support the habit, and neither would his failing eyesight. And besides, even when he was still a full-time professional writer, he preferred to write his own books, not other people’s stories. And to be perfectly honest he didn’t think Henry’s story was all that interesting.
Henry might think he’d lived an eventful life, but if Bob got a penny for all the people who’d walked up to him at some point and told him they had the most interesting life story to impart, only to turn out to be complete and absolute bores, he’d be a very rich man.
And having to sit there and listen to Henry drone on and on about that boring life while he took notes? No. Just no. All he wanted was to be left alone and spend the final years of his life in peace.