The Man Who Died Laughing (9 page)

“And?” the director prodded.

“And you’re the director,” Sonny added softly, like an obedient child.

“Fine. Now let’s run through this, shall we?”

They resumed.

“I’m going to have to split,” I told Vic.

“I don’t blame you,” he said tightly, glowering at the director.

“Think he’d mind if I missed the performance, too?”

“Just tell him you loved it.”

I fled up the aisle.

“How’s my little girl?”

“Getting a little familiar, aren’t we?”

“I meant the one with the short legs.”

“Oh. She’s fine. She’s taking a nap outside.”

“I knew it. She doesn’t miss me. She doesn’t even know I’m gone.”

“I was trying to spare you. She’s actually been woeful and droopy all day.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” I sighed into the phone. “And I do. Did I remember to tell you when to feed her?”

“You wrote it all down. Does she really eat—”

“Did I tell you she might want to sleep with you?”

“No.”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

“She might want to sleep on your head.”

“And I might like it.”

“I thought you would.”

She sniffled. “You didn’t call to see how I am. You called about
her?

She was hamming. That movie of ours seemed to be rolling again.

“And how was school today?” I ad-libbed.

“If you’re nice to me,” she replied, her voice a husky whisper now, “sometime I’ll tell you about …
rezoning.”

“Tell me, how does a sexy, front-page kind of girl like you end up in real estate, anyway?”

“I was fucking a realtor.”

“Was?”

“He blow-dries his body hair. Do you blow-dry your body hair, Hoagy?”

“No, I pay somebody else to do it for me.”

She laughed. There was a pause, and then: “Hoagy?”

“Yes?”

“I’m starting to get a feeling about the two of us. Are you?”

I hesitated, not sure if she were playing now.

“Hello?” she said. “Silence isn’t a great answer.”

“I’m not quite sure how to answer that one.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m getting the same feeling. Only …”

“Only?”

“I make it a point to never mix business with pain.”

Now it was her turn to be silent.

“Whew,” she finally said. “You’re good at this.”

“You’re in the big leagues now, kid.”

“I guess I am. Is it because I’m so old and decrepit? Is that why you’re rejecting me?”

“Let’s talk about it when I get back. Over dinner. And you’re not old and decrepit. You’re about the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I’m flattered.”

“You shouldn’t be. I have terrible taste in men, remember?”

She hung up, laughing. End of scene.

As for me, I took a deep breath and dialed Winnipeg, Manitoba. It took me several calls before I found the hotel where the cast and crew of the new movie by the new genius were staying, but I did find it and the phone in her room did ring and she did answer it. My heart began to pound when she said hello. Briefly I forgot how to talk. She said hello again, a little suspiciously now.

“Hello, Merilee,” I finally got out.

“Hoagy, darling, it’s
you.
I thought for a second it was going to be a breather.”

“Disappointed?”

“Never.”

For years critics have tried to describe Merilee’s voice. It is one of her strongest assets as an actress and as a woman—rich and cultivated, yet feathery and slightly dizzy sounding. To me, she has always sounded like a very proper, well-bred teenaged girl who has just gotten her first kiss. And liked it.

“Hoagy?”

“Yes, Merilee?”

“Hello.”

“Hello, yourself. Something I needed to ask you. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? I’m stranded here watching a hockey game on television. Blood is spurting.”

“Where’s Zack?”

“In New York, wrestling with his new play,” she replied. “Was that your question?”

“No. Is Lulu two or is she going to be two?”

“It’s on the back of her tag. We had her birthdate engraved there, remember? I wanted to put her sign there, too, and you wouldn’t let me.

“Dogs don’t have astrological signs.”

“They do, too.”

“I can’t check her tag. She’s in L.A. I’m in Las Vegas.”

“You didn’t stick her in some kennel, did you?”

“What land of guy do you think I am?”

“Gifted and tragic.”

“You got that half right.”

“Which half?”

“So tell me what Debbie Winger’s like.”

“I don’t know, darling. She never comes out of her trailer. I’m playing her bad side. It’s all very psychological, which I think in this particular case is another word for baked beans.”

“I’ve missed your quaint little expressions.”

“I actually have no idea what’s going on. The director can’t tell me—he’s too busy listening to people tell him how brilliant he is. We wrap in a week. Hoagy, what on earth are you doing in Las Vegas?”

“I’m working on a book with Sonny Day.”

“I saw something about that in
People.”

That was another thing I always liked about Merilee—she never denied that she read
People.
“What did it say?”

“That Gabe Knight isn’t very pleased about their past being dredged up. And that you were doing it.”

“Think it’s sleazy of me?”

“I don’t think you could do anything sleazy if you tried.”

“Why, Merilee, that’s the second-nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“What’s the nicest?”

“‘Are you sure there aren’t any other positions you’d like to try?’”

“Mister
Hoagy, you’re getting terribly frisky, hanging around with borscht belt comics. So let’s hear all about The One. Is he as greasy and awful as he seems?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

She was silent a second. “What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something is wrong?”

She didn’t bother to answer.

“I’m getting involved,” I said. “I’m not sure it’s a good thing. My role here is already so fuzzy. I’m not a reporter. I’m not a shrink. I’m not a friend. There’s really no word for what I am—at least not a clean one.”

“Let yourself go, Hoagy.”

“Let myself go?”

“You always have to hold on to yourself. That’s always been your problem.”

“So that’s it.”

“Give yourself over to the role. Enjoy it.”

“It’s too creepy to enjoy.” I told her what had been going on, and how Sonny had been reacting.

“He’s right not to make a big thing of the sickies,” she said calmly. “I never do. Tell me, darling, is there a novel?”

“There’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Wait, there’s somebody at the door. Hold on.” She put the phone down. I heard voices, and the sound of Merilee’s door closing. Then she returned. “It’s tomorrow’s pages … merciful heavens, I’m going to be in
mud.
It’s twenty-four below zero outside. How does one get mud?”

“With a lot of very hot water.”

“Lovely. I’d better hang up. I have a five-thirty call in the morning and I have to learn this.”

“Take your rose hips.”

“I promise.”

“Merilee … do you ever miss us?”

“I try to not think about us. It makes me sad. I don’t like to be sad.”

We were both silent for a moment.

“It
was
fabulous, wasn’t it?” she finally said.

“It was very fabulous.”

“Hoagy?”

“Yes?”

“Lulu’s going to be three. And she’s a Virgo.”

I hung up and lay there glumly on my hotel bed, staring at the smoke detector on the ceiling.

There was a knock on the door. It was a bellboy—with a bottle of Dom Perignon in a bucket of ice.

“I didn’t order that,” I said.

“Compliments of an admirer, sir.” He parked it on the dresser.

There was a note. Of course. It read:
Challenge excites me—W.

“Shall I open it, sir?”

“What an excellent idea.”

I toasted Wanda in the mirror over the dresser with my first glass. To my surprise, there was almost a smile on my face. She was right. It
was
much more fun this way.

The bubbly gave me just enough courage to watch Sonny’s pageant on TV while I got dressed.

He had a tux, a ruffled shirt, and his mask on. He seemed at home there under the lights—tanned, relaxed, in control. He was kidding around with Miss Tropicana, a big varnished redhead who’d just won the talent category for her impression of Carol Burnett.

“Tell me the truth,” said Sonny. “Ever think you’d be up here like this tonight, honey?”

“Never, Mr. Day,” she replied earnestly.

Sonny’s face darkened for an instant. I could have sworn he was about to say “That makes two of us.” But he didn’t say it. He brightened and said, “Good luck in the overall competition, honey.” The mask had slipped, but it had stayed on. You had to know him to notice it at all.

I put on a white broadcloth shirt, burgundy silk foulard tie, cream pleated trousers, and my double-breasted navy blazer.

The orchestra slammed into “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel. After an introduction by Sonny, each showgirl strutted out to the edge of the ramp clad in bikini and high heels, stopped, smiled, placed hands on hips, swiveled, and strutted back. It was one hell of a testimonial to the wonders of silicone.

I doused myself with Floris and went down to the casino.

There were crowds at the tables now. The wheels were spinning, the dice landing. Winners yelled. Losers groaned. I slid onto a vacant stool at a blackjack table and snapped one of my crisp hundreds onto the green felt. The dealer gave me my chips. I lit the dollar cigar I’d bought at the newsstand.

I won twenty dollars on my first hand by sitting on thirteen. The dealer showed a four, drew on a fourteen, and busted. I let it ride and lost it with a seventeen to his nineteen. I upped my bet to twenty-five dollars, lost it, won it back, let it ride, lost it and three more like it. That took care of my first hundred. I laid down another one, raised my bet to fifty dollars, and lost it in two hands.

I like to gamble, but I’m lousy at it. I’m impulsive and I’m stubborn. I throw good money after bad. It’s no way to win. But then, I don’t expect to win.

I stayed even with my third hundred for a half hour, then got reckless and left it at a roulette wheel. By then it was time to put out my cigar and meet Sonny and Vic backstage.

Photographers and contestants were crowded in the corridor around the winning girl, who was sobbing. I squeezed past them and made it to Sonny’s dressing room, which was stuffed with casino executives, backers, agents, and other forms of carnivorous animal life. They all had gleaming eyes and were shouting words like “wonderful” and “beautiful” at each other. Goblets of white wine were being passed out.

Sonny was shaking hands, patting backs, still very on. He wore pancake makeup. He spotted me in the doorway. “Hey, pally! Like the show?!”

“Loved it!”

“Beautiful!”

I grabbed a wine goblet and joined Vic, who stood impassively against the wall. We stayed there together like potted plants until everybody had gone. Everybody except the director, who was now trying to be buddy-buddy.

“Sonny, it’s been a total slice of heaven,” the kid gushed. “I gave you total shit. You gave me total shit. But that’s cool. It’s only because we both care so fucking much about what we’re …” He trailed off, frowning.

There was this steady dribbling sound. It was my drink slowly being emptied on his Reeboks.

“Oops,” I said. “Sorry.”

Next to me, Vic began to shake from suppressed laughter. Sonny just stood there grinning at me like a proud parent. A feeling passed between us, and just like that I knew the book was back on, Gabe and all.

Red-faced, the director quickly shook Sonny’s hand and ducked out.

Sonny let out a short, harsh laugh and clapped me on the back. Then he turned to Vic and ordered, “Lock that damn door!”

Vic did, and Sonny immediately slumped into the chair before his dressing table, exhausted. Vic helped him off with his tuxedo jacket. The ruffled shirt underneath was soaking wet under the arms. Vic toweled Sonny’s forehead and the back of his neck for him, like a water boy on the sideline.

“God, that was awful,” Sonny moaned. “But it’s over. I did my job. That’s all that matters. I did my job.”

“You’re a pro, Sonny,” Vic assured him.

Sonny heaved a huge sigh and began to wipe the makeup off his face with a tissue. Vic helped him off with his shirt and his trousers. He took his shoes, socks, and boxers off himself and stood before us naked. “Lemme hose off and we’ll get the hell away from this place, okay?” He started past me to the stall shower, stopped, and crinkled his nose at me. “Hey, you been smoking?”

We ate at a quiet Italian restaurant on one of those dark, deserted side streets you land on when you fall off the bright lights of the Strip.

The maître d’ welcomed Sonny with an embrace and led us to a corner table.

“Food’s great here,” Sonny advised me. Then he winked and added, “Funny how there are so many good Italian restaurants in this town, huh?”

We ordered spinach fettuccine and veal chops. Vic and I got a bottle of Chianti. Vic only sipped from his glass, keeping his eyes on the other customers and the door.

“So how ya doing, pally?” Sonny asked me, cheerful now.

“I’m down three hundred.”

He patted my hand. “That’s hysterical. A real Vegas answer. Glad you made the trip. I’m feeling better about us now. Of course, working that shit pageant helps. Boy, I need this book. Let’s face it, I’m at stage four. No kidding around.”

“Stage four?”

“You don’t know the five stages?”

I shook my head.

“Okay. There’s five stages in a performer’s career.” He counted them off on his fingers. “‘Who’s Sonny Day?’
‘You’re
Sonny Day?’ ‘Get me Sonny Day.’ ‘Get me
a
Sonny Day’ And ‘Who’s Sonny Day?’ I’m at stage four. Gotta get back to three. Who would have thought twenty-five years ago …” He shook his head. “I need a shot in the arm. I really do.”

Vic was watching the front. He stiffened. “Trouble, Sonny.”