HOLLYWOOD—“Frankie, that does it,” said Miguel seated in front, his voice soft and effeminate. “You spoiled 12-year-old brat. No more Nintendo for you. Stabs him three times with the kitchen knife.”

“Miguel,” Mr. Leonard sighed, “That's a stage direction. I'll read that. Take it from the top.”

“Frankie, that does it,” Miguel read again, uninflected as before. “You spoiled 12-year-old brat. No more Nintendo for you.”

Frankie, played by Eraclito, coughed and closed his eyes.

“Now that I die, Mr. Leonard, can I leave stage?” Eraclito asked.

“Go ahead,” he said, waving him away while focusing intensely on Miguel. Now Eraclito went around the room, snapping pictures. From a corner Jules Kaminsky observed, curious and bemused, a bony index on his temple. Seated beside Jason, his daughter fidgeted and Candy stared dreamily.

“Take that, dog!” Miguel read. A short perky bright-eyed woman kneeled, she barked and panted. “I lunge at you with my knife. Shut up, dog. No more barking. No more neighbors' complaints!”

Gladys flopped over on her side. Laughs rose from those seated, none louder than Miss Fenwick's. Jason noted that there was a second woman lying on the floor, script pages masking her eyes.

Mr. Leonard turned to the short lady, “Where's the subtext? Get over here, Jasmín. I need you to translate for Gladys.”

Some rapid-fire words passed in Spanish and produced snorts in Gladys. At length, she responded in a flood of Spanish.

“What is Gladys saying?” Mr. Leonard asked.

“It's ridiculous, she says. A dog could never comprehend the concept of subtext.”

“Listen, I want subtext whatever it takes,” Mr. Leonard said, “And I don't want to have to send in a Hubble telescope to find it. Take five.”

The woman who'd been lying down got up from the floor. When the papers came off her face Jason saw it was Gudelia, his old nemesis from Jefferson. The perky woman who'd played dog wiped sweat from her brow. She and Gudelia migrated to the coffee pot.

Grinning broadly, Jason approached Mr. Leonard.

“You're late,” Mr. Leonard said. He immediately turned to Miguel, patted him on the back and said, “How's my Abel?”

“Who's Abel?” Jason asked.

“He's the hero of the story. . . the anti-hero. You see the stage at this point is littered by a stabbed wife, a 12-year-old stepson, and now a bleeding golden retriever. Back when I was on 'Cops and Robbers' I used to talk to real cops, and that's where I got the idea for this screenplay. I think it will make a good play,” Mr. Leonard showed his laser-white teeth. Miguel squinted as if it would help him to understand Mr. Leonard's fast talking.

“Abel is this guy who works three jobs,” Mr. Leonard went on. “It's been building up all week. Every night he gets home from one of his three jobs and his wife complains to him for not being home, neglecting his family and working too hard. He gets home one night and right away she starts in on him, chipping away. And the tamales are cold. That's why the play is called Cold Tamales,” said Mr. Leonard. “Pretty good, huh? Instead of hot tamales, it's cold tamales. Miguel's character Abel takes bite, spits out the cold tamales. 'These are cold, Marta,' he calmly says to his wife. He then grabs a kitchen knife and sticks it in his wife as far as it will go. He takes it out and then sticks it in six more times.”

“I can't wait to do this with fake blood,” Miguel said.

“Miguel, you just said that with real passion. When we go back, read like you said fake blood right now,” said Mr. Leonard.

“Hey Joey,” Jason remarked. “I didn't know you wrote comedy,” Jason remarked.

“I don't. This is a tragic opera.”

“More like soap opera,” said Gudelia, the snoopy nasal know-it-all. For the first time ever Jason was on her side.

(To be continued...)

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