Beauties and the Beast by Eric Scott Page B

studied him.
    â€œMy records show you lived with a lot of dishonesty in your life,” she said.
    Mickey gave a short, brittle laugh. “You have to shoot a few lines don’t you? You can’t always get by on good looks and charm.”
    â€œNo Mickey,” cut in Angela. “We don’t mean the lies you told your women. They were almost white.”
    â€œThen I don’t get you.” Mickey was genuinely puzzled.
    â€œWe’re talking about the lie you call your life.”
    â€œYou’ve lost me,” said Mickey, exasperation creeping in.
    Angela gave a clear, bell-ringing laugh. “You lost yourself, Mickey.” She exclaimed.
    Diana cut in. “Once you create a lie that big, you have to keep on creating new ones to cover up the old ones until they take over your life completely. Remember Pinocchio’s nose?”
    Mickey’s hand moved involuntarily to his nose. What were they on about?
    â€œYou stole another man’s act - your friend from the Gang Show. That was the lie that started small and snowballed until it took over your life. Who is Mickey Finnegan?”
    â€œYou’ve got it all wrong,” protested Mickey. “I made the act work. It’s not just material that makes a comic you know. You have to know how to deliver it. He never could have made it work the way I did. The words would have been wasted.”
    â€œBut he never got the chance to try did he?”
    Mickey stopped. His eyes dropped. “No,” he murmured. Then he looked up again. “But I looked after him. I always looked after him. Nobody could say I didn’t. He got more from me than he would have earned as a comic. He had no timing you see. No timing. If it wasn’t for me he probably would have starved. I looked after him.”
    Diana studied the printout. “Is that what you’d call it?
    Mickey sighed. “I wish you’d stop talking in riddles. I haven’t a clue what you’re on about.” And he didn’t.
    Diana honed right in. Her voice was the crack of thunder, the crack of doom. “If you want it straight, Mr Finnegan,” she barked, you helped your friend to become an alcoholic and then kept him in a semi-permanent state of drunkenness. You let him out when you needed his brain.”
    â€œHe did it to himself,” protested Mickey. “I didn’t have to teach him to be a drunk. He was one. Yes he sobered up enough to write some good material. That was the deal. I paid him good money and he wrote me good gags.”
    â€œYou see?” There was more mental thunder. “The constant lie; they were his words. It was his words that took you to the top. And you let the people think they were yours. You never gave him a credit did you? Who knew who he was?”
    Mickey snapped. “What do you want me to say?” He exploded. Face red, lips quivering. “He was a weak bastard.” He paused and then said, sneering. “If I’d have been as weak as him I’d have spent my life working smokos and stag nights.”
    â€œLike you do now?” Angela’s beatific smile belied the words.
    Mickey leapt to his feet. “That’s a lie. I’m still a big name. I only work the big clubs. You know that. I get top money. The public remembers me. I’m still a star.”
    â€œThe booking are getting thinner though aren’t they, Mickey? There was one stag night wasn’t there? And won’t there be more?”
    Look,” said Mickey desperately. “That stag night, as you call it, was a men-only night at the biggest sporting club in Sydney.”
    â€œWho wrote your gags?”
    â€œNobody, I just used old jokes, like I always used to. But if I wanted to I could go back on TV. They’re always begging me to star in a new show.”
    â€œNot since your writer died.” Diana’s voice was soft.
    â€œOkay, okay, so I’ve been struggling a bit for material. Maybe