Actors’ Day in Van Nuys was supposed to be a harmless holiday—parades of washed-up thespians, discount makeup at the drugstore, and free coffee for anyone who could quote Hamlet without stumbling. Jonny M. and Boris the pug had finally scored something rarer than a fair fight in this town: a night off. They even had tickets—actual paid-for tickets—to see the legendary tragedian Jehoshaphat Merlin give his 5,000th performance as Romeo with his ramshackle traveling Shakespeare Company. Merlin was eighty-three if he was a day, with more wrinkles than a bulldog and a voice that shook like a cheap neon sign in the rain, but the crowd came anyway. Folks didn’t watch Merlin for Romeo—they watched him for the ham. And he served it thick, with gravy.
Juliet was played by the stunning blonde starlet Juliet Valentina, a woman so beautiful she made the moon look overpolished. Acting, however, was not one of her gifts. She couldn’t “cat her way out of a paper bag,” as the critics liked to say, but no one cared—as long as she kept glowing like she’d been dipped in stardust. The rest of the company tried to claw their way through the performance blind, because the only light on the stage was the follow-spot glued to old Merlin’s face. Everyone else lurked in total darkness, save for Valentina, who shimmered on her own like some celestial stage prop. It was the kind of theatrical disaster only Van Nuys could love.
Then the night cracked wide open. Merlin had just launched into one of Romeo’s longest soliloquies—something about love, death, or maybe indigestion—when a gunshot ripped through the auditorium. The old actor staggered, gasped, and collapsed in a heap of brocade and bravado. The stage went pitch black. A collective scream rose from the audience. Then, just as abruptly, the house lights snapped on and the curtain dropped like a guillotine. The theater manager trotted out, sweating like a sinner in church, and announced that the great Jehoshaphat Merlin was “indisposed,” the show was cancelled, and refunds were “not an option in these difficult financial times.”
But before the stunned audience could finish booing, a final message drifted from behind the curtain—Merlin’s voice, weak yet unmistakably theatrical, requesting, “If Jonny and Boris could please come backstage… to investigate an urgent matter.” It was the old showman’s last line, and he delivered it with all the pomp he had left. Jonny looked at Boris. Boris looked at Jonny. Actors’ Day had turned into murder night, and it looked like the Jonny & Boris Detective Agency was clocking back in.
