Denis Leary Murdered His Agent?

The Talk Show

Timothy Olyphant looks nervous but Billy Bob Thornton is cool as ice. It's the second take of a daily show attempt with Tim as a Conan-like host and Bob as his Andy, and they've been hard at it like a couple of too real for life cowboys stuck in LA traffic.

"Okay, I don't really know what else to say." Tim scratches his scalp and hams to the camera.

"Well, you can't fill an hour with a shit-eating grin." Bob snorts like a donkey and a producer calls cut.

I zoom out. Not nearly as interesting as I thought it would be. My finger slides along the wide and long touch screen of a smartphone prototype. I hope they stick to scripts.

Justified was great and Deadwood ended a season too early. They should dump this show and do a Western for Netflix. Bob does do a decent Davy Crockett, and I want to see Tim in a wide-brimmed hat again.

I tap another famous name, and Denis Leary comes into focus. Cheer me up you Irish prick. He has a line of younger men and women in a half circle around him. Everyone, including him, are dressed in house painter onesies.

I adjust for sound and Denis says, "Then your vacation can start now. Ladies get two paid days off, and boys you get one, but I'll pay you overtime tomorrow. Fair? Great!"

He claps his hands and after a few chuckles the crowd breaks up. One woman lingers. The front of her one piece is open to a belly button exposed under a too tight tank top.

"Can I get an extra half-day, Uncle. I've gotta see my vag doctor."

"Jesus Christ, yeah. Take the whole day off. I'll pay you to never bring up your lady business again. My wife gives me more than enough material thank you very much."

She claps her hands and says, "Thank you, Denny."

As she runs away Denis says just barely loud enough for his phone to pick up, "Last time I hire family." He shakes his head. "Being hit on by my sister-in-law's kid. I'm sure my wife will understand." He coughs and lights a cigarette. "Like I'm not the dirty uncle."

I zoom out of audio range and rub my eyes. Battery low. I plug in the adapter and pick up the hand-written note that accompanied the morning delivery.

"Marty, I made it. It's real and now I'm scared. They'll know what I did soon, and of course I should destroy it. But, my God, how can I destroy my Stradivarius? I have to let at least one other person see that I could.

Don't mess with the settings, try to install anything, or screw up the password Sn0wd3N. Unless you're done with it. I tamper proofed this straight out of MI as an ode to our youth."

Marty Harbor lives next door. I wasn't paying attention when I opened the package because my name's Martin Arbor, and I'm a recovering alcoholic.

I knock over an empty bottle. And a liar and a thief. After spending the better part of my adult life unemployed and getting more screen time than sunlight, I'm also a little addicted to pop culture.

I stretch the phone cord across a stained sofa and tap in the former NSA contractor's name, careful to get the classic number substitutions and capitalization right. My stomach's rebelling against left over pizza, and my bladder is full of Mexican beer, but I gotta dive back in.

Denis has changed into sweats and is jogging like a mailman being chased by a chihuahua. He keeps glancing at his ankles and kind of hopping forward.

I zoom in and increase the audio. He's cursing like a proper Irishman. Maybe he didn't steal as much of Bill Hicks' act as everyone says. I mute him and watch an old interview with Bill on the Dennis Miller Show.

I swipe back to Denis Leary as he leaves his private driveway and pulls a gray hoodie over his sandy hair. The image gets blurry in a patch of woods and then clears when a pair of joggers pass him on a trail, but I leave the audio off and take the phone with me into the bathroom, cord dragging.

A man is chasing him. I stop pissing and plug the power cord into a wall socket. Short, balding, and with layers of designer gear out of place on his car salesman frame, the man catches up to Denis and then collapses.

I zoom in and up the audio in time for Denis to say, "Oh shit! Shit, shit shit!" His hands are covered in blood and the bald man grabs Denis's sweat pants. "Get off me!" He jerks his leg back, but the man hangs on. "Fucking let go!"

Denis kicks the man loose and runs. I stay on the sprawled man as he rolls onto his back, chest red on a cream colored shirt with "Champagne" spelled in cursive gold glitter.

The blood doesn't stop flowing, and the pair of joggers from before run to him. "Denis Leary killed me," the man has just enough breath to say.

~

Denis's niece in law is more attractive in person. It's her eyes. She isn't nearly the airhead she plays for her uncle.

"I'm Martin. I need to speak with Mr Leary."

"Oh hi, Marty." She points across the street. "You see that police car?" I turn and she slams the door and then her voice says, "Go find the rest of your paparazzi circle jerk at his fucking mansion, and leave me the fuck alone!"

I wet my lips. "I'm a witness... kind of. I saw that bald guy fall, and I didn't think Mr Leary did it."