The Man Who Died Laughing (24 page)

The bodyguard finally took a left off Ventura and we eased into a neighborhood of apartment houses left over from the Fabulous Fifties. Like a lot of buildings in Los Angeles, they hadn’t aged well. Things that aren’t made well seldom do. The one we pulled up at had the letter C missing from the words
Casa Esperanza
that were affixed in fancy script to its dingy white face. The tiny kidney-shaped swimming pool crowded into the front yard was cracked and discolored. The palm tree at the curb looked dead.

We pulled in and took the driveway around back, where there were carports and storage closets for maybe a dozen units. We got out and climbed the outdoor staircase toward one of them. I could hear several TVs blaring. I could still hear them after Gabe’s bodyguard had unlocked a door and the three of us had gone inside and he had closed it behind us. He remained there with his arms crossed. He was bigger than Vic.

The apartment had a plastic sofa, dinette set, pole lamps, gold shag carpeting. There was a bedroom.

“I always find it useful to keep a small apartment for myself,” Gabe said.

“I know,” I said. “Connie told me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “In case you’re getting any ideas, young friend, there’s no point in raising a fuss. I own the building, and I rent exclusively to old widows who can’t hear too well—especially over their soap operas.”

“Okay, what do you want?” I tried to keep the quaver out of my voice. I failed.

He motioned to his bodyguard, who came up behind me, pinned my arms together, and sat me down gently in a dinette chair. Then he produced a couple of lengths of clothesline. Soon my hands were bound tightly behind me with one piece, my ankles with the other.

Gabe went into the bedroom and came back holding a black leather thong, the kind they sell at the rough-trade sex shops. He approached me, stopped, and coolly looked me over. Then, he whacked me flush across the face with it. He hit me so hard the impact would have bowled me right over if the bodyguard hadn’t been holding me from behind.

My cheek caught fire and one whole side of my face started to twitch all by itself. Then blood began to ooze from where the leather had struck. I could feel it trickling down my cheek.

“You didn’t heed my warning, young friend,” Gabe said softly. “I advised you to back off or pay the consequences. You ignored me. I’m extremely upset.”

He got himself a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen and held it up to the light to see what was floating in it. Satisfied it wouldn’t kill him, he took a gulp. Then another. Then he dabbed delicately at his mouth with the sleeve of the pastel sweater still tied around his throat.

“Nobody seems very afraid of old Gabriel Knight these days,” he said. “I warned
him,
too. And he ignored me.”

“The letter,” I said. “You sent him that letter.”

“After all the ugly incidents he’d been through, I was certain he’d back away from a threat. Especially an anonymous one. I misjudged him.”

He motioned to his bodyguard again. I heard the door open behind me, then close. The building shook as he went downstairs to the car. Gabe put the thong down on the coffee table, sat on the sofa, and crossed his legs, minding the crease in his trousers. “What did Connie tell you?”

“The truth.”

He laughed. “The truth? Young friend, I’ve been in show business for over forty years. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the truth is whatever you want it to be. I repeat, what did she tell you?”

“About the two of you.”

“What about us?”

“Your affair. How Wanda caught you on the bed at Sonny’s birthday party. And how you and he fought over it.”

A flicker of something crossed his face. “I see. And she’s letting you print this in the book?”

“She’s left it up to me to decide what’s right.”

“And?”

“I was planning to ask you how you felt about it.” The ropes were digging into my skin. My fingers were going numb. “But you’ve given me a pretty good idea. I suppose you’re going to have to kill
me,
too.”

He smiled, amused. “You think I killed Arthur.”

“Why else would you threaten me? Tie me up? Use your little toy on me?”

He nodded. “It does look bad for me, doesn’t it?”

“One thing confuses me.”

“Only one?”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?” he repeated.

“Yes. You slept with his wife thirty years ago. So what? Nobody believes politicians are perfect anymore. I can’t imagine this would affect you.”

Gabe scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “There’s more at stake here than you seem to realize, young friend. I have an
image
to protect. I’m a clean-cut, small-town boy. That small town takes a lot of its pride from being my hometown. I have children there from my first marriage. Grandchildren. Think of the effect this would have on them. And think of Connie. She’s a very proper, very old-fashioned Southern belle. Times have changed. She and I haven’t. The public doesn’t want us to. We are simply not the sort of people who do that sort of thing—and get caught doing it by a ten-year-old girl whose subsequent psychological problems have been well documented. That’s why it matters.”

“You can’t possibly believe it’s a matter of life and death. It’s still image. It’s not real.”

“Oh, it most certainly is. Pick up the newspaper, young friend. Look at who’s running the whole country. Don’t tell me there’s a difference. There’s
no
bloody difference anymore.” He got to his feet and began to pace, his hands clasped behind him. “I certainly wish I could figure out what to do with you. I could smack you around all day. I could offer you money. But I’ll not talk you out of printing this story about Connie and myself. I can tell that about you. You’re a moralist, a lapsed moralist who has found himself a cause again. Not much of one, but certainly more than you’ve seen in some time. You won’t be put off course easily, will you?”

“If at all.”

“Plus, I understand you and Wanda …”

“What about us?”

“Don’t get uppity. I have a right to ask. I’m her godfather, you know. That makes it even more difficult for me. I’d hate to hurt her.”

“For your information, she’s
for
the truth coming out.”

“Is she? That’s interesting.”

He paced around some more. Then, abruptly, he went to the door, opened it, and stepped outside. The building shook again as the bodyguard came back upstairs.

To untie me.

Gabe stood there watching us, his lips pursed.

“You’re letting me go?” I rubbed my wrists, surprised.

“You’re right,” he said. “It was thirty years ago. No one will care. Besides, I can’t go through with this. The plain truth is, I’m just not a violent man.”

They led me down to the limo and drove me back to the studio. Gabe sat next to me, but he was very far away. He seemed lost in his memories. He barely reacted when we reached Wanda’s car and I got out. Just waved a couple of fingers at me. Then they drove off.

My cheek was throbbing. I checked it out in the Alfa’s rearview mirror. It was split open and looked like rare tenderloin. Blood still oozed out. By the time I finished this project I was going to look like an aging middleweight. One who had led with his face.

I tried to come up with some answers while I drove home, but I didn’t get much past the questions. Questions like: Why did Gabe suddenly back off and let me go? What had changed his mind?
Was he
Sonny’s killer? What was I going to put in the book?

I didn’t have to wonder for long. While Gabe and I were busy having our little chat, Connie was busy making it easy for me. Sort of.

Wanda was the one who answered the phone. I had just walked in, and she had just asked me what the hell had happened to my cheek when it rang. She picked it up and said hello and listened. Then her eyes widened. She didn’t say anything more. She just put the receiver down tenderly, like it was an egg, and walked away.

I called after her but got no response. I picked up the receiver.

“That you, Hoagy?” It was Lamp. He sounded a little shaky. Behind him, I could hear voices and phones and typewriters.

“It is.”

“It’s Connie Morgan. She telephoned me from her studio. Said she had something to tell me. By the time I got over there, I found her dead in her dressing room. Overdose of sleeping pills. There was a letter in her hand. A letter for me in which she confessed that she’s the one who blew her husband away. Seems he was going to tell you about this secret affair she had going with Gabe Knight in the old days. You know, for the book. She went up there that night to talk him out of it. She said they quarreled and that a lot of repressed anger and jealousy came out of her. And so she went and got his gun. Instead of saying good-night out on the front lawn, she shot him. Wiped the gun clean and drove on home. She set the fire, too. To scare you off, get you out of there. Really something, huh, Hoagy? You there? Say something.”

I cleared my throat. No words came out.

“Her letter says you interviewed her this morning and you’d pretty much figured the whole thing out about her and Gabe. That meant the secret was going to come out anyway, even though Sonny Day was dead. She couldn’t do anything to stop it. And she couldn’t live with her guilt. Her grief. So she took her own life, too. Can you imagine?
Connie Morgan
a
murderer.
What next, huh? What next?”

“I really don’t know.”

“That notion of yours you were working on, Hoagy. Was this it?”

“Kind of.”

“Well, I’ll send a couple of men over to keep the press from chewing your fence down over there. They’ll be back. You can count on it.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You’ll be wanting to see to Miss Day now.”

I found Wanda by the swimming pool, staring into the water, not blinking. I said her name. She didn’t hear me. She didn’t know I was there. I remembered something Sonny once said about her: She was such a fragile little child he was afraid she’d crack if he squeezed her too tight.

She’d cracked.

I phoned her doctor. He arrived within fifteen minutes, a rumpled, weary little man with wire-rimmed glasses. He gave her a shot and we carried her upstairs to bed. He told me not to be too concerned, that she was probably just in shock. The shot would keep her out until the morning, when he’d be back. Then he put something on my cheek that hurt like hell and bandaged it. The wound took a long time to heal. I still have the scar.

The phone started ringing. It was the same old gang. Newspapers. TV. The
Enquirer.
The
Star.
The gossip columnists. I finally left it off the hook.

I put some Garner on and poured myself a Jack Daniel’s. Then I sat down at Sonny’s desk and looked out at the little eucalyptus tree.

It was over. The story had ended. And what a satisfying ending it was for everyone. Lamp had his murderer. The press had a juicy crime of passion and a suicide. The public a chance to see some idols smashed. My publisher had a book that would sell even more copies. Everyone was satisfied.

Everyone except me. Now I felt like I was somehow responsible for
two
deaths. I also had this funny feeling just like I used to get when a scene I’d written didn’t work. Oh, it would seem solid enough on the surface. But I’d have this feeling, this sense that somehow something was off. I’d turn the scene over again and again, searching for the flaw. Eventually, if I looked hard enough from every possible angle, I’d find it. This was just like that.

Something here was off.

There was still Gabe. Something was still gnawing at me about him, the something Sonny had once said that I couldn’t seem to find anywhere. And then there was his behavior. The flicker that had crossed his face when I told him I knew the truth about him and Connie. The abrupt turnaround he’d made. Why had he let me go? Why was it suddenly okay with him for me to reveal the true story about Knight and Day’s breakup?

Simple explanation: I didn’t have the true story. I thought I did, but I didn’t. The flicker that crossed Gabe’s face, that was him registering an emotion—relief. Relief that the secret was going to stay a secret.

So what was it?

I poured myself another drink and started searching through the transcripts one more time. Sonny had told me something about Gabe. Something that mattered. I had to find it. I read slowly and carefully. I read every word Sonny had said to me in our sessions, hearing his voice again, his inflection, his pride, his hurt.

It got dark out. Lulu padded in, hopped up on the sofa, and went to sleep. I kept at it, line by line. I pored over everything, even the sections that weren’t about Gabe. The Gates Avenue stuff. The Catskills.

Whatever it was, I couldn’t find it. Nothing.

It was late now, and I was bleary eyed. I looked in on Wanda. She was fast asleep in Sonny’s bed. She looked like a little girl asleep there, secure and innocent. I went back downstairs and into the kitchen. Maria had left me a salad before she turned in. I had some of it, standing there in the kitchen, and washed it down with a bottle of beer. I returned to the study with a second beer and tucked a shot of Jack Daniel’s into it. Then I sat back down at the desk.

Whatever it was Sonny had said to me, he’d said it off the tape. When we weren’t working. When we were eating. Or exercising. Or … or what? What else had we done? Nothing. Where else had we gone? Nowhere. Just Vegas.
“A lotta shtick under the bridge.”
Vegas…

And then it hit me. Hard. What he had said about Gabe, and why it had been gnawing at me. Because it did matter. It mattered, all right. It explained everything. It explained the way Gabe had acted. It explained why Connie had been in such a hurry to confess. And to take her life.

Now I knew the secret. Now I really knew why Sonny Day had died.

(Tape #1 with Wanda Day. Recorded in Sonny Day’s study, March 21.)

D
AY
: GOD, YOU LOOK
like Daddy sitting there behind the desk.

Hoag:
Are you sure it’s okay for you to be up?

Day:
I’m fine.