The Boy Who Never Grew Up (66 page)
“That he hated them. Why?”
“Because the kind of incorrigible behavior you’re describing, that just doesn’t happen in a kid on its own. Lyle Hudnut is a product of the household he grew up in. You ask me, he’s not telling you the whole story.”
“Possibly he doesn’t remember the whole story,” I suggested.
Vic shook his head. “No way. You’re not dealing with memory loss here. You’re dealing with fabrication and denial.”
“This is, after all, a memoir.”
“How does this connect up with him getting caught waving his wienie in Times Square?”
“He claims that was done to him, too. That he was set up.”
“More persecution, huh?”
“That part’s not so farfetched. A lot of people would like to see him get dumped from the air.”
“Count me in,” said Vic. “I’ve never understood his appeal. There’s nothing funny about being gross. At least that’s my opinion.”
Vic Early always had a lot of those.
Central Park West hadn’t changed a bit. It never does. Lulu speeded up when we got to Merilee’s block. She always does. The lights were on in the eight windows overlooking the park, and the Jag was parked out front by the awning with its top up, beads of rain glistening on it in the streetlights. Happily, there were no paparazzi about.
Ned, the doorman, got all excited when he spotted us. “Why, Mr. Hoag,” he exclaimed. “What a delight to see you again, sir.” He bent and patted Lulu. “The both of you.”
A kid delivering pizza pulled up on a bike. Ned intercepted him and rang upstairs.
I stood there under the awning, gazing at the Jag. If it’s possible to love a machine, I loved that one. It seemed to glow. “Do you rub them for her, Vic?”
“Rub what, Hoag?”
“Her feet.”
“Who, me? Heck, no. Pam rubs them. Pam and no one else. She’s real upset about this whole business, Pam is. She’s taking it hard. Hey, why don’t you come up and say hello?” Vic offered. “She’d love to see you. She misses you.”
“Are we still talking about Pam?”
“You know who we’re talking about,” he said softly, pawing at the ground with his size fifteen-EEE black brogan. He was a bit large to be a matchmaker, but I guess there’s no height or weight requirement.
“Look, I know you mean well, Vic,” I said gently, “but she’s messed up my whole life. I’m not going to let her ruin my day, too.”
Lulu had other ideas. She was scampering toward the elevator with the pizza delivery man. I asked her not to. She ignored me. I told her not to. She ignored me. She wanted to see her mommy. She even started to get in the elevator.
“Lulu, get your ass back here
now!!”
She froze, shocked and terrified. I usually didn’t raise my voice at her that way. Didn’t have to. Slowly, she skulked back to me with her tail between her legs. She slithered the last few yards until she was between my feet, trembling, a soft whimper of hurt and confusion coming from her throat. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong. She hadn’t had an accident on the rug. She hadn’t stayed out past her curfew. She didn’t understand. How could she?
I picked her up. “Sorry, girl. I’ll explain it to you someday when we all grow up.”
She brightened and nosed my left ear. I put her down and said, “Good night, Vic. Good to see you.”
“Same here, Hoag.”
I started back home in the warm rain, my mind on Lyle Hudnut. By his own admission, the man was a total control freak. How much of the truth about his own life story was he trying to control? How much hadn’t he told me? How much was I prepared to fight him over it? Lots of questions, and no easy answers. I expected this. This was why they paid me the big bucks. Not for banging out the words. That part’s easy. The hard part is separating the truth from the bullshit. To do that means wading around inside my celebrity’s head, hip boots required. Particularly with actors, who are the most gifted liars on the face of the earth. That’s what they do for a living—they make us believe in make-believe. A trait they share with most politicians and heads of Fortune 500 companies.
Why had Lyle Hudnut undergone ECT? What wasn’t he telling me? And what, if anything, did this have to do with his arrest at the Deuce Theater? Questions. I had lots of them.
I stopped at the Red Apple on Broadway for a six-pack of Bass Ale. There was a deep, ominous rumble of thunder as I got closer to home. Lightning crackled over the Hudson and the rain started coming down harder. Lulu speeded up the last hundred yards or so. We both did. My building has no doorman or lobby. Just a vestibule between the outside door and locked door, large enough for the mailboxes, the buzzers, and one person.
There was one person in there. The person was Marjorie Daw. She was ringing my buzzer.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1992 by David Handler
978-1-4532-5971-9
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