The Man Who Died Laughing (4 page)

“You really don’t have to.”

“You don’t need this bottle. You’re fine the way you are. Know what I learned at Betty Ford? Your problems, your fears, your personal bogeymen—they’re not unique. Everybody’s got ’em. So don’t hate yourself. Pat yourself on the back. And siddown, will ya?”

I sat down. He poured me some orange juice from a pitcher.

“Fresh squeezed from my own trees, no chemicals.” He sat back with his hands behind his head. “Look, I went through a very bad time. I wouldn’t reach out for help. I suffered because of it. I don’t want you to make the same mistake I made, okay?”

“Let’s get something straight, Sonny. I didn’t come out here for therapy. I’m here to work on your book. Do a job. Just leave me be, or—

“Or what? You’ll quit? Let’s put our cards on the table, pally. I checked you out. You
need
this book. You need it as bad as I do. Know what’s on my calendar next week? I’m emceeing the ‘Miss Las Vegas Showgirl Beauty Pageant.’ For
cable.
That’s it. One day of work. This pad is paid for from the old days, when it was coming in like you wouldn’t believe. Otherwise, I’m out on the street. We’ve both seen better days, so let’s not pull each other’s puds, huh?” He softened, put a hairy paw on my arm. “Tell me if I’m butting in—”

“You’re butting in.”

“—but I want us to be close friends. It matters to me. And if it matters to me, it
matters,
understand? We’re gonna be spending a lot of time together. I expect to tell you pretty personal things. If I’m gonna spill my guts to you, I need to feel you’ll also confide in me. I need for us to have a relationship, okay? Drink your juice.”

I hadn’t been wrong—here was the job. But what was that knife all about? Had Sonny left it? If so, why? If not, who
had
left it? I sipped my juice and went to work. “Okay. Just don’t push me.”

He stuck out his lower lip. “I know. Sometimes I come on too strong. I apologize.”

“No problem.”

“I take it from your book you’re not too close to your people. Or am I pushing too hard again?”

“No, that’s okay. I … Correct. I’m not close.”

“Brothers? Sisters?”

I shook my head.

“So who do you confide in then? Your friends?”

“My writing is my outlet.”

“I don’t get you book guys. Gag writers I’m used to. They’re all nuts, but I can relate to ’em, because deep down they’re performers, like me. But book guys—why would somebody want to spend their whole life all alone in a room, just them and a piece of paper?”

“Ever read Henry Miller?”

“Smut artist, wasn’t he?”

“He once wrote, ‘No man would set a word down on paper if he had the courage to live out what he believed in.’”

“What do you believe in, Hoagy?”

“Nothing much, anymore.”

“Know what I believe in? Human beings. We’re all in this together. We’re all afraid. I believe in human beings. I love ’em. I even love you.”

“You’re not going to hug me, are you?”

“I’d like to, but I sense it would make you uncomfortable.”

“That’s very perceptive.”

“Boy, you’re gonna be a
project”
He grinned. “You are gonna be a project!”

The housekeeper brought us out our lunch. Marie was short, chubby, and in her fifties. Lunch was cold chicken, green salad, whole wheat bread, and fruit. Sonny ate with his face over his plate, shoveling with both hands.

“Do me a favor, Hoagy?” he asked, food spraying out of his mouth. “It’s a personal request. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but … how’s about you join the exercise regimen me and Vic do every day? You’ll feel like a million bucks. And it’ll be good for the book, too, don’t you think? The two of us, breaking a sweat together? I don’t know. You’re the writer …”

I sighed inwardly. What the hell, I hadn’t been too crazy about how I looked in the mirror anyway. “Okay. If you’d like.”

He beamed. “Great. You won’t be sorry. And hey, while you’re at it, it might be a good idea to cut back on the poison just a little bit. You’ll need the energy. Good thing you don’t smoke. I quit totally. Tough, believe me. I used a cigar in my part of my routine—it was part of my rhythm.”

“Poison?”

“A couple of beers after work feels good, I know. Wine with supper. Even a nightcap. But a bottle in your room, that’s very low class, ain’t it?”

“Think I need a haircut, too?”

He whinnied in exasperation, his famous whinny. “I’m very serious, Hoagy. Do you
have
to keep it there?”

“No, I don’t
have
to keep it in—”

“Great! It’ll be in the bar. Anytime you want it. You’ve made me very happy, Hoagy. I have a wonderful, wonderful feeling about us now. Really. We’re gonna make a beautiful book.” He sat back and belched, his plate clean. Even the bones were eaten.

A shadow crossed the table. Vic. He tapped his watch.

“Thanks, Vic,” said Sonny. “Gotta go, Hoagy. Some folks at Paramount TV wanna talk to me about a part in a sitcom pilot.”

I cleared my throat, nudged the pillow toward Sonny.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, as if he’d completely forgotten it. “Hoagy found this in his room, Vic. Whattaya think?”

Vic checked it out, his face blank.

“Any idea who might have done it?” I asked him.

I thought he and Sonny exchanged a quick look. Maybe I imagined it. I’m not used to drinking that much OJ in one sitting.

Vic shook his head. “No idea, Hoag.”

“Maybe I know,” mused Sonny, scratching his chin.

“Who?” I asked.

“The tooth fairy,” he shot back.

Vic laughed. I didn’t.

“Hey, relax, Hoagy boy,” Sonny urged me. “Enjoy the sun. Connie’s coming by for dinner. She’s anxious to meet you. We’ll get to bed early. First workout is from seven to nine. Then we’ll start on our book, okay?”

“Look forward to it,” I replied. “Wait, what do you mean,
first
workout?”

“Are you Stewart?”

It was a woman’s voice, a husky, familiar woman’s voice. I was in a lounge chair by the pool with my shirt off, working my way through a collection of E. B. White essays, which is something I do every couple of years to remind myself what good writing is. I looked up. She stood before me, silhouetted by the sun, jangling her car keys nervously.

“Are you Stewart?” she repeated.

I nodded, squinting up at her.

“I’m Wanda.”

We shook hands. Hers was thin and brown. Wanda Day was taller and leaner than she photographed, and her blonde hair, which she used to wear long and straight, was now cut short like a boy’s, with a part on one side and a little comma falling over her forehead. She wore a loose-fitting red T-shirt dress with a big belt at the waist and high-heeled sandals. She still had those great legs and ankles—nobody had looked like she did in a microskirt. And she still owned that wonderfully fat, pouty lower lip that became so famous when, she was the Yardley Lip Gloss girl. She’d painted it white then. Now it was unpainted. She wore very little makeup and no jewelry and looked just the tiniest bit knocked around. I guess twenty years in the fast lane and two nervous breakdowns will do that to a person. There were lines in her neck and crow’s-feet around her eyes, which were dark brown, slanted, and at this particular moment, wary.

She sat down in the canvas director’s chair next to me. It had Sonny’s name printed across the back. “We have to talk, Stewart.”

“Nobody calls me Stewart except my mother.”

“What do they call you?”

“Hoagy.”

“As in Carmichael?”

“As in the cheese steak.”

Her nostrils flared. “I should warn you—children of famous comics have very little sense of humor. We cry too much to laugh.”

“Why does everybody out here talk like a Barry Manilow song?”

“You’re not very nice, are you?”

“Lulu likes me.”

“Is she your wife?”

“I’m divorced.”

“Girlfriend?”

“One and only.”

Lulu was lying on her back on the pavement next to me, paws up, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. I scratched her belly, and she thumped her tail.

Wanda thawed a couple of degrees. “Oh, I see.” She reached down and patted Lulu and spoke to her intimately in some kind of baby talk. Then she made a face. “Say, her breath smells kind of icky …”

“Lulu has strange eating habits.” I noticed the thick textbook in Wanda’s lap. “I understand you’re studying for your real estate license.”

“Yes. I may even go through with it, too. Ever find yourself envying terminal cancer patients, Hoagy?”

“No, not lately.”

“I have. What a release, what a
rush,
not having to worry about how to spend the rest of your life. There is no rest your life. Your days are limited. You can just relax and enjoy them. And then die. That’s so beautiful.”

“It might not be so beautiful.”

“Why not?”

“There might be tubes sticking out of you. It might hurt.”

“It can’t be any worse than this,” she said quietly, looking around at Sonny’s memorial park for famous comics of the fifties.

“I thought the two of you had sort of patched things up.”

“Oh, we have.”

“I’d like to interview you sometime.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. You should know I’m against this book. It’s his thing, not mine. I don’t want to be involved at all. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me out entirely.”

“That won’t be possible. You’re a big part of his life.”

“I’d make it worth your while financially.”

“No, thank you. I have a contract. But how come?”

“How come?” She took a cigarette and matches from her bag and lit one. “Because some things are better off left alone.” She took a deep drag, let the smoke out slowly. “Look, Hoagy. I’ve done a lot of pretty spacey things with a lot of pretty spacey people. I’m not ashamed or anything, but I don’t necessarily want the whole world reading about who I fucked, either. It isn’t their business. Can you understand that?”

“Of course. I’m not interested in exploiting you, nor is Sonny. This won’t be a sleazy showbiz book at all. You have my word.”

“There are other people to think about. People who would be hurt.”

“Who?”

She didn’t answer me. She looked down at the cigarette in her fingers, which were shaking.

“I was hoping for your help, Wanda. Your insights.”

“It’s out of the question. Just forget it.”

“Does Sonny know how you feel?”

“Yes, but one thing you have to learn about Daddy is how self-centered he is. If something matters to him …”

“It
matters!’

“Correct.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way about it. I hope you’ll change your mind. This book is pretty important to him.”

“Fuck him!” she snarled with sudden ferocity. “He’s a dominating, manipulative
shit!”

She jumped to her feet and stormed off to the house, high heels clacking on the pavement. Watching her go, I thought about how glad I was I hadn’t been around when the two of them
weren’t
getting along.

“I think it’s wonderful that you and Arthur are doing this,” Connie Morgan told me on the living room sofa before dinner, while we sipped white wine, nibbled on raw cauliflower, and listened to the brook babble. “He has come so, so far.”

“Yes. He seems to have made a genuine effort,” I said, smiling politely.

Connie Morgan was the sort of woman you were polite to. She was gracious and well-bred Virginia old money. She and Sonny had met when she played the gorgeous blond homecoming queen in
Big Man on Campus,
Knight and Day’s second movie. In the movie, Gabe got her. In real life, Sonny did. She retired soon after they married to raise Wanda. She went back to work after the divorce. These days she was bigger than she’d ever been before. She played the proud matriarch in one of those prime-time TV soap operas. Connie was at least sixty, but she was well-kept, willowy, and she carried herself with style. She was exactly who she’d always been—the quintessential Hollywood good girl. She had on a khaki safari dress with a blue silk scarf knotted at the throat.

“I’m anxious to talk to you about what went on,” I said.

“I’ll make the time,” she said. “You know, the set might be the best place. I have a lot of free time there, since I’m not one of the people hopping in and out of bed. Mostly, I get everyone together for a sensible breakfast. And do a lot of knitting.”

Sonny put an Erroll Garner album on. The Elf was his favorite musician. When I think back on our collaboration, it’s always set to Garners sweet, fluid piano.

“Look at her, Hoagy,” he said, sitting next to me on the sofa. “She’s still the best-looking broad in town, ain’t she?”

Connie blushed. “Now, Arthur …”

“It’s true. The others can’t hold a candle to you. Name one. Little Michelle Pfeiffer? Little Jamie Lee Curtis? They’re Barbie dolls. This is a real woman, Hoagy. A very special woman. And I’ll tell you why. I’m a comic, see? A performer. I’m trained to hide behind my professional personality. My mask. In fact, that’s what I wanted to call the book—
Behind the Mask.
Publisher preferred
The One.
Anyway, it ain’t easy to drop that mask for nobody, let alone a broad. Connie’s the only one I could drop it for. Ever. She’s the only one who ever knew the real me, who wanted to know the real me.”

“Arthur, you’re embarrassing me.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s true. You stuck by me, baby. Always. I had to
drive
you away.”

She swallowed and looked away. I gathered he was referring to Tracy St. Claire.

“And someday,” he went on, “I’ll earn your trust again, Connie. That’s all Ï want.” He took a piece of cauliflower. “You and Hoagy getting acquainted? This here is a talented boy. He and I have a lot in common, you know.”

“We do?” I said.

“Sure. You’re just like me. You hold back. You hide behind your own mask. I’m gonna pull it off you, though. Know why?”

“Let me guess … because you love me?”

“Right.”

He started to crush me in a bear hug. I flinched.

“Gotcha!” He laughed.

Maria appeared to announce dinner was served.