The Man Who Died Laughing (20 page)

It was a major-league Hollywood funeral. Sinatra was there. Hope. Burns. Lewis. Martin. Berle. Sammy Davis, Jr. Gabe Knight, of course. Shirley MacLaine was there. Gregory Peck. Danny Thomas. Gerald and Betty Ford. Tommy Lasorda.

And Vic Early was there, too, wearing a navy-blue suit. A police officer stood at his side. I went over to the big guy before the service.

“Hey, Hoag,” he said softly. He seemed to have trouble focusing his eyes.

“How are you doing, Vic?”

“Sorry about going after you. I saw red. Couldn’t help myself.”

“Forget about it.”

“I know you had nothing to do with it. You were good for him.”

“Thanks. What’s going to happen to you?”

“They’ve been giving me tests. The lawyer says they’ll have to let me go pretty soon. Either that or charge me, and they got no grounds to do that.”

“No idea what happened that night?”

“I was asleep, Hoag. He needed me, and I was asleep. I swear.”

“I believe you. Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Without Sonny, I’ve got no place. Nobody.”

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

“Okay, Hoag. Sure. No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.”

He smiled. “’Poon one for me, huh?”

“I’ll do that.”

Sinatra read a personal message from the President calling Sonny’s death “a tragic loss” and Sonny “a true American, a man whose humanity, generosity, and love of his country and its people served as a beacon in the darkness.” Sinatra did not break down and sob, as was reported by a
New York Post
reporter who wasn’t even on the grounds, let alone in the chapel. It was Gabe Knight who cried. Gabe gave the eulogy. In a shaky voice, he described Sonny as “a man who never lost a child’s wonder at the joys and pains of life.” He called him “a man of vulnerability, of emotion, of greatness—a man who was, and would always be, The One.” Gabe concluded by reading the final stanza of “their” song:

In the roaring traffics boom

In the silence of my lonely room

I think of you.

Night and day.

Then he broke into tears and had to be led away by the cantor, who was Monty Hall.

The pallbearers were Gabe Knight, Harmon Wright, Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Bob Hope, and Dean Martin.

Afterward, Connie and Wanda sat shiva for Sonny at the house. Chairs were set up in the living room. There was food and coffee in the dining room. A lot of the celebrities from the funeral fought their way through the press outside the gate to come in for a brief chat with Connie and Wanda, and with each other.

Sinatra commandeered the sofa: he and his wife sat on either side of Connie to comfort her. Harmon Wright and his wife would probably have been a greater comfort, but who was going to be the one to tell Francis that?

This was some gathering. Just a few impressions:

—A gaggle of comics standing in a corner swapping Sonny Day stories. Shecky Greene saying, “One day, I was down to my last six cents, not a booking in sight, Sonny slipped a fifty in my pocket and told me something I’ll never forget: ‘Be yourself.’” And Jackie Mason firing back, totally deadpan: “And
still you
made a living.”

—Sammy Davis, Jr., telling people about a premonition of death he’d gotten while flying over the Bermuda Triangle only two days before Sonny’s murder. “If I’d have
knowed
it was gonna be Sonny,” he said, “baby, I’d have
jumped
out.”

—Milton Berle, standing alone near the coffee urn, his hand shaking badly as he raised his cup to his lips. He snatched a furtive glance around to see if anyone noticed. No one was looking at him at all.

The phone kept ringing. I took a lot of the calls in Sonny’s study. That’s where Gabe Knight found me. He poured himself a brandy from the decanter at the bar and raised it inquiringly. I nodded. He poured me one and brought it over to me. He seemed quite cool and collected now, a far cry from his emotional behavior at the funeral.

“I understand you’re continuing with Arthur’s book, my young friend,” he said quietly. He looked past me out the window and sipped his brandy.

I sipped mine. “That’s right.”

“Admirable. He’d like that.”

“I think so.”

“Though possibly unwise.”

“Really? Why?”

“You could get hurt.”

“That’s already happened,” I said, fingering my still-tender nose.

“Even worse.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Gabe smiled, or at least his mouth did. His eyes never joined in. “Let’s say I’m trying to be helpful.”

“If that’s the case, then tell me why you and Sonny fought at Chasen’s.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So he didn’t tell you?”

“He didn’t get a chance. Somebody stopped him.
What
was he going to tell me?”

“Believe me, the less you know, the better off you are, young
friend.
Go home to New York. Back away from this thing.”

“Or what?”

“I speak with your best interests in mind. One man is already dead. Don’t jeopardize your own life. Go home.”

“Not until I know the whole story. Tell me and I’ll go.”

Someone called Gabe’s name from the living room.

“Coming!” he called pleasantly. Then he turned back to me. “I warned you, my young friend. Remember that.”

Gracefully, he strode back into the group. I reached for my brandy and discovered my own hand was shaking now.

I retired to my guesthouse early. There were still fifty or so people in the main house, but the guesthouse was far enough away that their coming and going didn’t bother me. I took one of the pills the doctor had given me, but I didn’t need it. I passed out the second my head hit the pillow, Lulu comfortably ensconced in her usual position.

I don’t know whether it was the smoke or Lulu’s nosing at me that woke me. All I know is I opened my eyes sometime later to find my room on fire. The desk had been thrown open and dumped—transcripts, notes and tapes were in flames. The drapes had caught. So had the bedspread. Fire crackled all around me. Lulu was huddled at my side, trembling.

Quickly, I grabbed her under one arm, and threw a blanket over the papers burning there on the floor. As the blanket began to smolder, I dashed across it, through the smoke and flames toward the door. Tears streamed down my face. Flames licked at my skin. I collapsed on the lawn in my boxer shorts, singed and choking. One of the cops from the gate was running toward me. So were a few of the mourners.

“You okay?” asked the cop.

I nodded, gasping for air, coughing.

“Anybody else—?”

I shook my head.

He ran inside anyway, to see if he could put out the fire. But it was too late. We watched the little cottage burn. All of the mourners were out there now on the lawn, watching.

Gabe Knight was one of them. But he wasn’t watching the fire. He was watching me.

The fire trucks arrived in time to keep the flames from spreading to the trees and the main house, but the guesthouse was gone. So were my clothes. They gave Lulu some oxygen. Me, too. Coughing, like laughing, is no fun with a cracked rib. Wanda, after she made sure I was okay, ran into the big house and brought me out Vic’s flannel robe to wear. It smelled like Ben-Gay, but it was warm.

They were still hosing the charred wreckage down when a voice behind me said, “Smoking in bed again?”

It was Lamp, wearing a windbreaker.

“Mom know you’re out this late?” I asked.

“I got a permission slip. What happened?”

“Somebody made a bonfire out of all my papers.”

“Any idea who?”

I shook my head. “Everybody thinks they’re a critic these days.” I glanced up at him. “I suppose your little theory pans out.”

“I think we can assume somebody’s trying to scare you real good,” he agreed calmly. “Was your door locked?”

“Yes. Not that it’s ever done any good.”

“Well, we’ll go through this mess in the morning. Maybe we’ll find something. Does this kill the book?”

“No. I made a copy of the tapes when I was in New York and sent them to the publisher. I suppose,” I said, “it could have been set by anybody who was here.”

“Or not.”

“Or not?”

“It could also have been someone who knew the security system here, knew how to get onto the property without being spotted, and then how to hightail it out of here.”

“Like who?”

“Like Vic Early. Early escaped on his way back from the funeral this afternoon, Hoagy. He’s presently at large—and a prime suspect, I’m afraid. Get some sleep. I’ll be by in the morning.”

Lamp headed off to his car. Wanda appeared next to me.

“I guess,” she said, “we’ll have to find you a bed.”

The last place I wanted to sleep was in Sonny’s room.

Too much of him was there. The yellowed photo over the fireplace of him and his brother Mel standing in front of Pine Tree Lake with their arms around each other. The vast walk-in closet with the 500-odd pairs of new shoes in a custom-built wall rack. The bathroom, with his colognes and tonics still laid out beside the sink.

I would have preferred another room, any other room. But Wanda insisted. She said she wouldn’t sleep a wink unless she knew I was right, there across the hall from her. So I gave in. I was too weary to argue.

I opened the doors to the small terrace and let some fresh air in. The breeze carried the stink of the fire on it. There were cops on the gate and the front door of the house. Harmon had driven Connie home. The caterers had cleared out. It was very quiet. I eased into Sonny’s big bed and lay there on my back in the darkness with Lulu, my wheels still turning.

It couldn’t be Vic. Sure, it didn’t look terrific for him right now. But he couldn’t have wanted Sonny dead. Or me. It was Gabe. Gabe was the one who told me to back off. Gabe was the one who threatened me. But why? To save his ambassadorship? I doubted it. So what if he had slept with his partner’s wife? That was thirty years ago. Ancient history, Wanda had called it. Who could possibly care now?

Way in the back of my mind, something began to gnaw at me. Something Sonny had once said. An odd fact that didn’t fit anywhere. What was it? And why was it gnawing at me?

For the second time that night, I fell into a deep sleep. And for the second time I was pulled out of it.

This time it was by the rustling of the sheets and the feel of a warm, smooth body there in the bed with me, a long, lean body over me, astride me….

“Wha—”

“Ssh.”

It was her famous scene, the one from
Paradise.
She was in her movie again. She was performing.

I felt her hot breath on my face, her hands on my chest. And I felt something else.

I was performing too.

Who cared if she was nuts? Who cared if this wasn’t strictly, one hundred percent real. I didn’t. If this was her movie, I wanted to be in it, cracked rib or not. God, did I want to be in it.

It wasn’t until dawn that we collapsed, spent. Lulu padded in from the terrace and sniffed at us, jealous and disapproving. I patted the bed and she jumped and lay between us, nuzzling my hand for attention.

“I was wrong,” Wanda murmured.

“About what?”

“I
would
want to be that woman the first night.”

(Tape #1 with Detective Lieutenant Emil Lamp of the L.A.P.D. Recorded by the pool of the Sonny Day estate, March 7.)

H
OAG
: SURE YOU DON’T
mind my taping this? It’ll make it easier for me to remember the details.

Lamp: (garbled)

Hoag:
Could you please sit a little closer? I’m not sure how strong this mike is.

Lamp:
I said, it makes me feel like I’m the one being interviewed. Lost the other recorder in the fire, huh?

Hoag:
Yes. Had to buy all new clothes this morning, too. Wanda took me down to Lew Ritter, along with my police protection and about fifty assorted members of the press. I felt like a Kennedy. They followed me right up to the underwear counter. One of them even asked me whether I wear boxers or briefs.

Lamp:
Which do you?

Hoag:
Hey, you want to know, buy a newspaper. They … they practically have Vic strapped in the electric chair. Any sign of him?

Lamp:
None. He’s flat out disappeared. And doing himself no good either.

Hoag:
Orange juice? Fresh squeezed. No chemicals.

Lamp:
Thanks. Where’s Miss Day?

Hoag:
Real estate class. She should be back any minute.

Lamp:
I’m surprised she went back to school so soon.

Hoag:
Said she wanted to get things back to normal. Or what passes for it around here.

Lamp:
And you? Back to work?

Hoag:
My publisher is express-mailing me a copy of everything that burned. I have to rent another typewriter. Be back into it tomorrow. Your men find anything yet?

Lamp:
Ashes. You must be a pretty sound sleeper.

Hoag:
Very.

Lamp:
I asked around at the parking garage where Mr. Day found the dummy. The attendant remembers him, of course, but not anything unusual about that day—nobody asking about the car or placing a life-size Sonny Day doll in it or anything.

Hoag:
I suppose that would be too easy.

Lamp:
Never hurts to ask. I don’t suppose he told you where in Topanga Canyon he stopped to burn it. There might be some remains.

Hoag:
Just a fire road.

Lamp:
A million of those. We could look a year and not find it.

Hoag:
Assuming it’s there at all.

Lamp:
What’s that mean?

Hoag:
His ex-partner told me the man was not above spinning yarns to get attention. He also said he was paranoid.

Lamp:
Think he could have actually made up something that screwy?

Hoag:
With one hand tied behind his back.

Lamp:
Do you think he did?

Hoag:
No, I don’t. He was genuinely scared. But I thought you should know that it is a possibility.