Page 39 of Get A Fix

“She said to make my own choices where he was concerned, but I know her, and she was thrilled when I told her I didn’t take a dime from the man. She always sent me monthly care boxes from home. That was all I really needed. And Pop, I think he was pleased as well. He never said anything, but he likes being my father, whom I took with me one year to the Academy Awards and the after-party.”

“Oh, I want to hear more about this. G’head.”

He looked pained all of a sudden. “You haven’t lived until you’ve seen your father lead a conga line. I wanted to go home, he wanted to party until the next morning. He was a wild man.”

“What did your mother say?”

“That he used to dance in a mosh pit when he was younger. I had no idea.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re saying Sherman was the life of the party?”

“Don’t let the name fool you,” he said, shaking his head over the memory. “He drank people under the table. The last time I saw Brad Pitt, the first thing he said to me was, how’s your old man, Len?”

“I love this.”

He groaned.

“Okay, so when did everything happen with the trust?”

“Two years before Walder passed, he asked if he could put me in charge. And as I mentioned, it’s been a bumpy ride, with the likes of Hunter popping up on occasion.”

Something had been nagging at me, and it suddenly occurred to me what it was. “Where’s Benny?”

“Well, now, I think somebody’s been following me on Instagram,” he said, grinning crazily.

“I do. Yes. He’s a cutie.”

“Benny’s my boy,” he gushed, pulling his cell phone from the breast pocket of his suit jacket, opening it, and showing me yet another picture of the black pit bull mix—I’d seen so many over the years, just like all the rest of his fifty million followers. “He just turned four.”

I had seen him in a birthday hat and scarf, and watched the reel of him demolishing a piece of cake while lots of celebrities clapped in the background.

“And he normally travels with me everywhere, but the inn has a no-dogs-allowed policy.”

“Who’s watching him now?”

“He’s in Denver with my mom and pop and their three demon dogs.”

“Demons?”

“You sounded skeptical there,” he said haughtily, “as though you think I’m overstating the facts. I am not.”

I loved this playful side of him.

“Sir, I must inform you that my parents have chihuahuas,” he said with a shudder. “And they are a horror.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Six months ago, Benny and I were there visiting, and Benny had to get an allergy shot. My mother made the appointment, and when I walked in with him—and not my mother with one of her dogs—the receptionist nearly wept with relief.”

I shook my head at him. “You’re such a liar.”

“No,” he insisted. “I’m telling you; the vet was so relieved to see Benny instead of one of my mother’s dogs, she hugged him, then me, and didn’t charge me a dime.”

“Could that be because you’re you?”

“No. Not at all. If I had brought one of the trinity of evil, she would not have been so nice to me.”

“They can’t be that bad; chihuahuas are tiny and supercute.”