The Man Who Died Laughing (19 page)

“That’s no problem.”

“Great. Well, I’ll be going now.”

“Time to watch
Lassie
and hit the hay, huh?”

He laughed. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.” Then he cleared his throat. “Listen, I think I’d better keep somebody outside your door.”

“What for?”

“I like to be careful. Chances are it’s Early. He probably got mad about something and grabbed the gun from the study and shot his boss. But you never know. There’s still our little theory to consider. And if that’s correct, you may be in danger.”

“I told you I don’t know anything.”

“The person who shot Sonny Day wouldn’t necessarily know that. Not for certain.” He grinned reassuringly. “Hey, not to worry, Hoagy. You’re in good hands. Haven’t lost anybody yet.”

“I feel better already.” In fact, I was starting to feel seriously dizzy.

“I still can’t believe I’m actually talking to
the
Stewart Hoag. Maybe … maybe sometime you’d autograph my copy of your book?”

“Love to.”

He started to go. So did I. He caught me just before I hit the floor.

I slept off and on through the night, never fully awake. A nurse woke me once to feed me a pill, a doctor to peer into my eyes with a bright light. In the gray light of early morning I had a little juice and hot cereal and two sips of the worst coffee I’d ever tasted in my life. The dizziness was starting to fade, but I still felt lousy. The kind of lousy that comes with losing a good friend and feeling like maybe you were partly responsible for it.

Overnight I’d become a hot commodity. The
Enquirer
offered me $50,000 for my story of Sonny’s last days. The
Star
offered to top it.
Good Morning America
wanted me on as a guest. They’d even come to my hospital room for the taping. So would
Today.
So would
Entertainment Tonight.

I was hot again. Everybody wanted me, just like in my glory days. Only this time I told all of them no. That confused them. They didn’t get me. To them, I was one lucky son of a bitch—a has-been writer who stumbled into a major-league showbiz murder and had a golden opportunity to clean up on it. That’s what I would have thought, too, if I was on the outside. But I wasn’t.

I got hold of the dignified old gent who ran the publishing company. He didn’t sound so dignified right now. There was too much greed in his voice.

He informed me they’d decided to rush Sonny’s book into print as soon as possible. It would be made up of the one hundred or so pages of fleshed-out transcripts I’d turned in, plus what I could make out of the remaining tapes. There would also be photos and a lengthy postscript—by me—detailing the circumstances and aftermath of Sonny’s death.

He coughed uneasily. “I have one very important question for you, young man,” he said.

“No, he didn’t,” I said.

“No, he didn’t what?”

“No, he didn’t tell me what the fight in Chasen’s was about.”

“I see. Too bad. Well, find out as much as you can. Continue your interviewing. See if you can talk to that fellow they’re holding, that bodyguard. He knows you. Maybe he’ll confide in you. And make yourself available to the press as an authority on the subject. It’ll be a big help for you when it comes time to go on tour. Just don’t give them too much. We can’t have them stealing any of our thunder, can we.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to get someone else. I have no interest in continuing.”

“You’re under
contract.”

“My contract was with Sonny.”

“But … but we’ve acted in good faith. We’ve taken good care of you.”

“I’ll pay you back for the hospital bills.”

“Money is not the point, young man.”

“Really? Then what is?”

“There
will be
a book, with you or without you. If you don’t finish it, someone else will. A stranger. Is that the way you wish to see this project end for you? I can’t believe it is. Stay out there. Stay and finish what you’ve started.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I simply can’t believe that,” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “You must not be yourself. That head injury. Why don’t you think it over? We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

I hung up and called Wanda. I had to go past the head of my agency to get to her. Harmon Wright was there at the house screening all calls. He didn’t ask how I was.

“How are you?” she asked me, out of breath. She sounded lot like that little girl on the beach again.

“Groggy. You?”

“Every time I hear footsteps I look up and expect him to come walking through the doorway. I guess I … I still can’t believe it happened. Mommy’s here. Heshie. Gabe even came by for a few minutes.”

“He did?”

“He was crying, Hoagy. He said Sonny’s murder was a crime against all Americans. They … the police think Vic maybe did it.”

“Maybe.”

“And after all Sonny did for him.”

“Vic’s just a suspect. Nothing’s for certain.”

“When can you leave the hospital?”

A nurse came in with more pills. I swallowed them with water.

“Tomorrow, maybe. Listen, Wanda, I want you to know I’m … I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye.”

“Forget it. You’re here. That’s all that matters. Lulu’s fine, but she misses you. And so do I. Come home.”

“They want me to finish the book.”

“So do I.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely. He’d have wanted you to. Besides, if you don’t, some sleaze will write one. You have to finish it, Hoagy.”

“Say I did. It would all have to come out. Chasen’s. The affair. I wouldn’t be able to fudge anything. I’m not made that way.”

“Good.”

“But there’s your mother to consider. It would hurt her and … wait, I’m sorry I brought it up. Now isn’t the time to discuss this.”

“No, it’s okay,” she assured me. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I really have. That fight between Daddy and Gabe happened thirty years ago. It’s ancient history. I think it’s time the truth came out. I really do. No more secrets. No more damned secrets. That’s how people get hurt—by secrets. Not by the truth.”

“What if Connie doesn’t feel that way?”

“She does. I know it. Finish the book, Hoagy. Stay and finish. Wanda wants you to.”

I moved back into the guesthouse two days later, ears ringing, ribs taped, the very model of a modern ghostwriter.

That was the same day the publisher announced I would be finishing Sonny’s book. Their press release hinted that I was privy to never-before-published disclosures concerning Knight and Day’s breakup. The L.A. papers played up the story big. After all, there wasn’t much else new to report on the case, other than that Vic was still being held for observation. The
L.A. Times
even ran that old jacket photo of me from
Our Family Enterprise,
the one where I’m standing on the roof of my brownstone in a T-shirt and leather jacket, looking awful goddamned sure of myself.

Emil Lamp, boy detective, gave me a lift from the hospital in his unmarked police sedan, which was as spotless as he was. He gripped the wheel tightly, hands at the ten-of-two position, and observed all the traffic laws.

“I thought you were going to cooperate with me, Hoagy,” he said. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“We do.’“

“Then why the grandstanding? Why do I have to pick up the newspaper to find out your plans?”

“That’s the publisher’s doing, not mine. I was planning to tell you.

“Yeah?” he said doubtfully.

“True story,” I assured him. “I gave it a lot of thought and decided I could best protect Sonny’s interests by sticking around and finishing. I need a final chapter. I don’t have one right now.”

“I see.”

“I also want to do whatever I can to help.”

“Sure, sure. Tell me about these disclosures of yours they’re talking about.”

“They exaggerated a little. All I’ve got is an idea.”

“Share it with me.’“

“That I can’t do.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a touchy matter. I have to handle it a certain way.”

“What way is that?”

“The right way.”

Lamp frowned. “I’m not happy about this, Hoagy.”

“Look, if it ends up having anything to do with the murder, you’ll be the first to know. Believe me, I want Sonny’s killer brought to justice as much as anyone.”

We crossed Sunset on Beverly Drive and cruised past all of those giant houses on all of those tiny lots. A city work crew was pruning the towering curbside palms from atop a five-story motorized ladder. My idea of a terrific job for someone else.

“Besides,” I said, “I do have something for you. It came to me when my head started to clear.”

“What is it?”

“Somebody tried to spook Sonny on his birthday. Left him a particularly ghoulish little surprise in his car.”

I told Lamp about the dummy with the beanie cap and the bullet holes. Then I told him about the rest—the eight-by-ten glossy with the carving knife in it, the ripped-up tapes, the curious nonresponses of Sonny and Vic. I didn’t mention that I’d once thought Sonny himself may have been behind it all.

When I was done, Lamp shook his head and said, “Boy, this is a spooky one. I’m gonna get nightmares from this case.”

“Sleep with a night-light.”

“Already do.” Lamp grinned. “This business with the keepsakes, props, whatever from his past—this interests me. Especially since they were items that hadn’t been seen for a while. Whoever was behind it is someone Mr. Day went back a ways with.”

“He knew who did it.”

“He did?”

“He was frightened, but he wouldn’t bring you fellows in. He was protecting someone. What we don’t know, I suppose, is if the same person who was trying to scare him also killed him.”

“You think it might be different people?”

“I’m no expert, but it seems to me there’s an entirely different personality profile between someone who sneaks around leaving sick little threats and someone who has the nerve to face a person and pull the trigger.”

“You’re right—you’re no expert. That talks good, but so does succotash.”

“Succotash?”

“It’s like that old theory that people who keep attempting suicide really don’t want to die. Succotash.”

“Succotash. I wonder if my ex-wife has heard that one.”

“I’ve seen plenty of repeaters make it. If they want to die, they eventually do.”

I glanced over at him, wondering how it was possible that what he’d seen hadn’t in any way rubbed off on him.

“But that’s good info, Hoagy. I’ll see if I can check it out. Thanks. I owe you one.”

“How about letting Vic go to the funeral? It would mean a lot to him.”

Lamp’s lips puckered. “You don’t think Early did it, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Sonny was like a father to him.”

“People kill their fathers all the time. Almost as often as they kill their mothers.”

“
You
think he’s guilty?”

“I really don’t know, Hoagy.”

“What about that theory of yours?”

“I still like it. But Early’s tempting. He’s in hand, and he’s a fruitcake. Be awful easy to pin it on him. An ambitious, unscrupulous cop would do just that—wear him down and bully a confession out of him. Be a hero.” He grinned. “Maybe even get a nice fat book contract out of it.”

“You’re not that kind of cop, are you, Lamp?”

“Oh, heck, no.”

“But you must be pretty good. This is a big case to get assigned.”

He blushed. “I get results.”

We hit the circus a good three blocks down the canyon from the house. It was bigger than before. It wasn’t just the press now. Now there were also curiosity seekers, gawkers, people who couldn’t wait to drive by the dead man’s house. People, I was reminded, make me sick.

Lamp pulled over and stopped.

“This is as far as I go,” he said.

“You’re not coming in?”

“Never like to bother folks when they’re grieving.”

“Kind of a sensitive guy, huh?”

“The job gets done.”

“That’s nice, Lamp.”

Wanda greeted me in the entry hall with a bear hug that did my rib very little good. She cupped my face in her hands and said, “I’m so glad you’re here, Hoagy.”

She was very calm and composed. She wore a knit dress of black cashmere and black boots. She had a pearl necklace on, and her hair was brushed and shiny and there was a bit of makeup on her eyes. She took my hand and led me toward the living room.

From the study came the sounds of Harmon negotiating Sonny’s funeral on the phone.

“We’re talking about burnished mahogany here, you greedy cocksucker! Not fucking gold!”

The man was still being Sonny’s agent, looking out for him even after death did them part. After forty years, I don’t suppose you just shut it off.

Connie sat on the living room sofa, staring into the brook. She looked pale and shaken. She looked old. I sat down beside her and told her how sorry I was. She kept looking into the brook. I felt like an intruder, so I started away.

Softly, she said, “He told me how much you meant to him, Hoagy. He was lucky to know you.”

“I was the lucky one.”

Lulu was so happy to see me she whooped and moaned and tried to crawl into my shirt. The guesthouse was as I’d left it. My bags were on the bed. I unpacked and stretched out and listened to my ears ring for a while. Then I turned on the TV. One of the local stations was playing a special retrospective of Sonny’s movies. I watched a few minutes of
Jerks—
one of the classic scenes, where Sonny tries to figure out the blender and gets a malted in the face. He was so young, so full of talent and life that he practically jumped off the screen. I turned off the set and went back inside the house.

I helped as much as I could over the next day and a half. I drove over to Connie’s and fetched her mail and messages for her. I took care of some of the funeral arrangements. I spelled Harmon on the phone. The reporters were dismayed when they discovered I was the one screening their calls. They tried everything to get info from me—flattery, sympathy, bribery. One of them even said, “C’mon, Hoag. You’re one of us. You
owe
us.” But the family didn’t want any statements issued. They got nothing from me.

Sonny was buried at Hillside Memorial over near the airport on a brilliant, cloudless day—a sunny day, as all of the papers would report. He joined the company of Al Jolson there, among others. The closed-coffin service was held in a chapel on the grounds. Sonny once told me it had been fifty years since he’d been in a temple. Now he was back, and everyone came to see him off.