The Man Who Died Laughing (13 page)

“That’s right.”

“You might want to reconsider that.”

“Another professional courtesy?”

“It isn’t a pretty world we live in, young friend. Honesty is not always the best policy. Do I make myself clear?”

I went right back to the typewriter when Vic and I got home. It was peaceful working out there in the guesthouse, Lulu snoozing under my chair with her head on my foot. I was used to the quiet now. I was even getting to like it. What I didn’t like was Gabe’s popping up to issue his cordial, tasteful threats and his unsettling suggestions.
Had
Sonny made up the death threat?

I had been working about an hour when Vic burst into the guesthouse. He was perspiring heavily.

“He should be home by now, Hoag.”

“Maybe his shrink was running late.”

“I called there. He left over two hours ago.”

“Maybe he went to visit Connie.”

“I called her at the studio. She hasn’t seen him.” He paced back and forth, wringing his hands. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. “I should call the police. I’m
gonna
call the police.”

“If it turns out to be nothing—“

“He’ll kill me, I know. But I don’t know what else to
do,
Hoag. I shouldn’t have let him go by himself. I
knew
it.”

Just then Vic’s beeper sounded. Someone had triggered the front gate. He tore out of the guesthouse and double-timed it to the main house.

Lulu and I followed at a more gracious pace. By the time we got to the house, Sonny was pulling up in the limo, which seemed to be considerably muddier than it had been when he left.

He got out, wearing a nervous, boyish grin. “How you guys doing, huh?” he asked cheerfully.

Vic cried, “Sonny, where the hell have you—”

“Took a drive up through Topanga Canyon. Felt like being by myself for a while. Relax, I’m fine. Totally fine. Just lost track of the time, okay?” Sonny kneeled on the grass to rub Lulu’s ears. There were small, fresh scratches all over the back of his hands, as if he’d been tussling with a kitten. “How
you
doing, Hoagy?”

“Other than having a caged lion in my room with me,” I replied, indicating Vic, “I’m quite well.”

“You should have called me, Sonny,” said Vic.

“Who are you—my mother?”

“I was worried.”

“You
are
my mother. Calm down. Everything’s cool.”

I went back to the typewriter, but I found it hard to concentrate now. Sonny hadn’t fooled me. Not with his yarn about taking a scenic drive to who knows where. Not with his cheery front. Not with any of it. I knew him too well now.

Something had shaken Sonny. Shaken him but good.

Sonny kept the front up all evening. We spent it celebrating his birthday quietly at home. Wanda made it a point not to be around—she was off in Baja visiting friends. Connie came by and fixed him his favorite dinner—her Southern-fried chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, and greens. He ate three platefuls, smacked his lips, and pronounced it the greatest meal he’d ever eaten in his entire life.

After dinner he opened his presents. Connie’s wasn’t ready yet. She apologized. He assured her that her belief in him was a greater gift than he deserved. Vic gave him one of those fancy new rowing machines. Sonny tried it out right there on the floor of the study like a gleeful kid on Christmas morning.

My gift was out on the patio—a small, potted eucalyptus tree, suitable for planting.

Sonny gaped at it for a full minute before he broke down and cried. “God bless ya, Hoagy,” he blubbered, throwing me in a smothering bear hug. “God bless ya.”

As a special treat, we got to watch Sonny’s infamous 1962 tour de farce,
Moider, Inc.
I had never seen it before. Few people had—the studio pulled it out of release after only a week. I was sorry to see it now. It was juvenile, tasteless, and self-indulgent. Gabe hadn’t been there to rein Sonny in. One of the five roles he played in it was that of a temperamental crime czar whose name was—I swear—Sudsy Beagle.

But it was his birthday, so I laughed all the way through it. We all laughed, and we all agreed with him when he said “the public just wasn’t ready for it.” Then it was time for Connie to head home. Sonny proclaimed this the greatest birthday of his entire life.

Lulu had finally forgiven me for not taking her to Vegas. She consented to curl up next to me when I climbed into bed to read some E. B. White. And when I shut off the light, she circled my pillow several times and assumed her customary position with a contented grunt.

Her barking woke me in the middle of the night. Followed by laughter. The laughter was coming from the foot of my bed. I flicked on the bedside light to find Sonny standing there swaying, red-faced, giggling to himself.

“What’s going on, Sonny?” I mumbled.

“Have a drink with me, pally. Huh? All alone. No fun to drink alone. Not like it used ta be. Used ta drink with Francis. Dino. Ring-a-ding-ding.” He laughed. “And Gabe.” He stopped laughing. Now he looked sad. He began to hum their theme song. Then he went into an unsteady version of the soft shoe he and Gabe did when they played down-on-their-luck vaudevillians in
Baggy Pants.
He danced and hummed his way from one side of the bed to the other, clutching an invisible cane. Abruptly, he stopped. “Have a drink with me.”

“I’m putting you to bed.”

I started to get up. He shoved me back down with a hairy paw.

“Whassa matter, don’t like me no more?” he demanded, sticking out his chin like a bullyboy.

“No, I just don’t believe in pouring gasoline on a fire.”

“Oooooh,” he sneered, swaying. “Whassat, writer talk? Well, don’t get upper crusty with me. I’m Sonny Day, ya hear me? I hired ya. I can fire ya, ya … ya dickless, washed-up son of a bitch!”

“I see you’re very sensitive when you’re sloshed.”

“Don’t like what ya see? Huh? Don’t like it? Well, that’s tough.” He thumped himself on the chest with his fist. “I’m the
real
me now. Take a good look. Time you see for yourself. See who I am.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m trouble. I’m pain. I’m … I’m not a very nice person, is who I am.”

“Could have fooled me the other night. That was a good talk we had in your hotel room.”

“That was
bullshit.
Total bullshit. Need ya happy. Need a good book outta ya. Need a best-seller. Need this.”

He sat down heavily on the bed. Lulu jumped off and scratched at the door. She wanted out. I didn’t blame her. I got up and opened the door.

Sonny sat there, hunched, staring at his bare feet.

“What happened, Sonny?”

“The limo …”

“What about the limo?”

“Somebody … they left something in it when I was at the shrink. Freaked me. Freaked me good,” he moaned.

“What was it?”

He stuck out his lower lip.

“Tell me,” I ordered.

“Ages ago … I-I had this dummy made up, see? Of Sonny. Sonny-size. Sonny. Looked like Sonny. Just like him. Used to keep him behind my desk at Warners after they gave me and Gabe offices. A gag, see? Clothes and all. Only somebody, they ripped him off. And … and … today, there he was, waiting for me behind the wheel of the limo!”

“How do you know it’s the exact same dummy?”

“His head. On his head h-he had on my beanie. My beanie from
BMOC.”

“The cap you wore. I remember it.”

“That was ripped off years ago, too, see?” Tears began to stream down Sonny’s face. “A cigar in his mouth, he had. A-A
lit
cigar. And … and …”

“And what?”

“Holes in his chest. Like from bullets. Fake blood all over him. I’m freaking, Hoagy. I’m freaking. Never been so …”

“What did you do with him … it?”

“Took him away. To Topanga. Pulled off on a fire road and found some twigs and sticks. Lots of twigs and sticks. And burned him. Had to. Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t.”

That explained the muddy car and the scratches on his hands. Maybe.

“Was the car locked when you were at the shrink?”

He shook his head. “Parking garage. People around.”

“Sonny, why won’t you call the police?”

He didn’t answer me.

“Do you know who’s doing all of this? Is that it?”

He shrugged the question off, like a chill. “Got anything to drink out here, Hoagy boy?”

“You took my bottle away, remember?”

He winked at me. “How about the ol’ bottle in the drawer, huh?”

“There isn’t one.”

“C’mon, all you writers got a bottle in the drawer.”

He stumbled toward the desk and started to rummage through the drawers, throwing out notebooks, tapes, transcripts, manuscript pages.

“Stop that, Sonny. There’s no bottle in there.” I put on my dressing gown. “Come on, I’m putting you to bed.”

But he kept looking. He even threw open the shallow middle drawer and started digging around in it. That’s when he found Gabe’s card. I could tell when he spotted it. His body stiffened and then he recoiled from the drawer in horror, as if he’d just found a severed human hand in there,

“You son of a
bitch!
” he screamed, pelting me with flying spittle. “You been going behind my back! Telling him everything! Selling me out!”

“No, Sonny. I haven’t.”

“You
have!”

I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Listen to me! Gabe approached
me
today. He wanted to know what the book was about. I told him nothing. That’s all. Do you hear me? That’s
all.”

“So why ya got his
card?
! Why ya hiding his damn
card?!”

“I saved it for my files. Throw it away. Go ahead.”

I took it out of the drawer and gave it to him. He stood there clutching it, frozen with rage. Then he fell to his knees and began to wail. Gut-wrenching sobs came out of him, ugly sobs of hurt, of self-pity. I couldn’t tell if this was an act or not. If it was, it was better than anything he ever did on screen.

“I bared my soul for you!” he cried. “Gave you my love! And look what ya done to me!
Look what ya done!”

“Sonny—”

“I wanna die! I wanna die! Oh, please. Let me die!” He jumped up and went for the bathroom. “Gotta have a razor blade! Gotta die!”

I ran after him. “Sonny, for God’s sake stop this! You don’t want to die!”

“Razor!” He grabbed the leather shaving kit Merilee had bought me in Florence on our honeymoon and dumped the contents on the floor. Bottles smashed. “Razor!”

“It’s no use,” I said. “They’re Good News! disposables. The head pivots.”

Frustrated, he tore the kit apart and hurled the pieces against the wall. Then he grabbed the shower curtain and yanked it off the rod and plopped down on the toilet amidst it, rocking back and forth like a bereaved widow, moaning.

I headed for the phone.

“Where ya going?!”

“To wake up Vic.”

“No, don’t!” There was fear in his voice now. “Please! He’ll be mad at me!”

“He won’t be alone.”

“Do it and you’re fired!”

I phoned Vic and quickly filled him in. Instantly alert, he said he’d be right out.

“Okay, Hoag,” Sonny said, quietly now. “That’s it. You’re fired. I warned ya. Stay away from Gabe, I said. But no. Ya wouldn’t. Get off my property. You and your smelly dog. Take your stuff and git. You’re through.”

“I
am
through. But you’re not firing me. I’m quitting. You hear me? I quit.”

Vic came rushing in now, brandishing a hypodermic. Sonny screamed when he saw him and tried to fight his way out of the bathroom cursing, flailing, sobbing. Vic wrestled him to the floor. Still he continued to writhe and thrash.

“Pin his arms, Hoag,” Vic ordered, his face set grimly. “Pin ’em.”

I did. Sonny rewarded me by spitting in my face. Vic gave him the injection.

“Doctor gave me this in case this ever happened again,” Vic told me. “It used to happen almost every night. He’ll quiet down in a few minutes. Sorry you had to see it.”

I wiped off my face with a towel and began to pack.

I booked the last seat on the noon flight to New York. Said good-bye to Vic. Left Wanda a note, asking for a rain check on our dinner date. A cab picked me up at the gate.

I didn’t say good-bye to Sonny. He was still out cold.

I made it to the airport. Got my ticket. Read the national edition of
The New York Times.
Got on the plane. Apologetically stowed Lulu under me in her carrier. Fastened my seat belt.

I’d had enough of Sonny Day and his creep show. I was going home. I really was. The stewardesses were even closing the doors.

Until The One bulled his way on board.

He wore terry sweats and shades. He found me immediately.

“Where the fuck you think you’re going?!” he demanded. Heads swiveled.

“Home,” I replied calmly.

“You can’t. We’re not done.”

“I’m done.”

“Nobody quits on Sonny Day!”

“I am.”

“You son of a bitch! You’re nothing but trouble. I wish I never hired ya!”

“I wish I’d never met you.”

“You’re a fucking coward!”

“You,” I returned, “are a fucking asshole.”

“I hate your fucking guts!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

We went on at this mature level—at the top of our lungs—for quite a while, everyone on the plane watching and listening. And most of them recognizing Sonny.

A jumpy steward sidled over to us and cleared his throat. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?”

“Creative differences!” I told him.

“This is your idea of creative differences?!” screamed Sonny. “Getting on a fucking plane?!”

“Gentlemen, perhaps you could deplane and continue this—”

“All right, I unfire ya!” shrieked Sonny, ignoring him. “Okay?!”

“You can’t unfire me, Sonny. You didn’t fire me in the first place. I quit. I’m leaving. Understand?”

“Uh, gentlemen—“

“You’re not leaving! Nobody’s leaving until you do. This plane is not leaving this goddamn airport until you get off it!”

“Okay. Fine. You want to make a jackass out of yourself, get yourself arrested for air piracy, go right ahead. You doubt me. You abuse me. You actually, literally, spit in my face. As far as I’m concerned, people have been right about you all along—you are a pig.”