The Man Who Loved Women to Death

by David Handler

  “You’ll have to excuse me a second—duty calls.” Tuttle got to his feet and squared his shoulders. Cleared his throat. Jutted his jaw manfully. Then he threw open the door and went striding through that doorway like it was a hole in the line of scrimmage and there was nothing between him and the goal line but daylight. He was King Tut now. And, outside, there were whoops and hearty hellos at the sight of him, jokes and laughter all around.

  Briefly, I recalled with horror my trip out to the coast after the first novel got hot. An agent with a taste for kitsch took me for a drink to Alan Hale’s Lobster Barrel on La Cienega. When the two of us walked in we found the burly, white-haired actor who’d played the Skipper on Gilligan’s Island hunched over a drink at the bar, staring morosely into it. When he heard us he struggled heavily to his feet and gave us a grin and a hearty handshake, followed by a booming, “Ahoy, little buddies! Welcome to my restaurant!” Then he went back to staring morosely into his drink.

  I suppose, in one way or another, we all end up as actors playing ourselves. I knew that then and I know it now. But that doesn’t stop it from being sad. After all, I’d seen Tuttle when he was something swift and sure and beautiful out there.

  Me, I searched the man’s desk. Those pills in the top drawer were Valium. Vitamin V and Courvoisier—the unofficial adult Happy Meal. There were a couple of business cards in there. One belonged to an editor at Sports Illustrated, the other to an HBO executive. Both were women. I found no account books or receipts or anything that had to do with the running of a restaurant. I did find his address book, of worn tan leather. I searched through it quickly. There was no listing for a Laurie London. Or a Diane Shavelson. I kept hunting. I found a pair of bifocals, a sewing kit from the Sheraton, a shoe rag, an electric razor. I found pills, pills and more pills—Naprosyn for his knee, Zantac for his stomach, Urispas for his prostate, Prozac for his head.

  His topcoat, a hooded navy-blue duffel coat, was tossed over the filing cabinet. I checked the pockets. Nothing but a package of condoms.

  Then I heard voices and I sat back down and he returned.

  “A couple of advertising execs from Chicago,” he said, shutting the door behind him. And dropping the golden smile. “One of them was a year ahead of us.” He made his way back behind the desk, limping slightly from the pain in his knee, and sat. “What were we saying?”

  “Women. I was asking if you were holding up your end.”

  “Nobody special. The models who come in here want guys twenty years younger than us. The women our age want security, which I can’t offer them. I have nothing to offer them, actually. Them or anybody else.” His face tightened grimly. “The truth is, I can’t even figure out who the fuck I am anymore.”

  “Oh, hell. If you’re going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, I’m going to leave.” I started to get up.

  “Please don’t, Doof!” he begged, suddenly panicky.

  I remembered the gun in my pocket, and what he’d been doing with it when I came in. I settled back down. There, I was good and sucked in now. “Who do you want to be, Tuttle?”

  He didn’t seem to hear that. He was lost in his thoughts now. “These guys, they come in here with their fancy jobs, their six-figure salaries, their stock options … and all they want to do is suck my dick because of some tackle I broke twenty fucking years ago against Dartmouth.” He shook his head in befuddlement. “I’ve had to declare bankruptcy, Doof. I’m three months behind on my rent. I haven’t bought a new suit in I don’t know how long. I take all my meals here because they’re free. I need another operation on my knee, only I got no health insurance. My only luxury is the health club, because I have to keep up appearances. And I’m not even doing a very good job at that.” He reached for the bottle of Courvoisier and poured himself some more. “I feel like shit. I look like shit. I am shit.”

  “Try water if you want to sober up.”

  “Who wants to sober up?” he said harshly.

  “Okay. Fine. Just checking.” He’d gone through a quarter of the bottle just in the short time I’d been there. How many bottles in a whole day and night, I wondered. “How’s the Triumph running?” I asked. It was a ’79 Spitfire, dark blue. Nice car. Not much trunk space, but Diane Shavelson was small.

  “I wouldn’t know,” he replied. “Sold it to some stockbroker last summer. Aren’t you listening—I’m broke!”

  “I can let you have a couple thousand to tide you over.”

  “I don’t want your money, man.”

  “Good. It wasn’t a sincere offer.”

  He let out a laugh, a real one, like the old days. And for a second there was a spark of life in his blue eyes. But then it flickered and went out. And he sat there slumped in his chair, quietly stewing in his own melancholy.

  “Are you doing any writing these days?” I asked.

  He gave me a puzzled look. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “You were good at it. You got pleasure from it.”

  “I get no pleasure at being ordinary at anything in life.”

  “In that case, you must take no pleasure at being alive.”

  “My own sorry conclusion, before you so rudely interrupted me.”

  “Maybe I should just give this back to you,” I said, taking the gun out of my pocket. Until I saw the way he was staring at it—like it was a T-bone steak, medium rare, with onion rings and creamed spinach. The man was practically salivating. I put it back in my pocket. I’m not a big believer in author-assisted suicides. At least, not this author. “My wheels are right outside, Tuttle. Maybe we should run you over to Smithers. Let them have a look under the hood.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Doof.”

  “C’mon, it won’t hurt a bit. There might even be a lollipop in it for you.”

  “No,” he snapped, his jaw hardening. “I said no!”

  “That’s right. You did.” We stared at each other across the desk. I swallowed. My heart, I discovered, was pounding. “Tuttle, are you sure you’re not writing something?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” He sat back in his chair, flexing the bad knee gingerly. It made a nasty popping noise. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

  “Someone’s been sending me chapters of a novel they’re writing. Anonymously. Quite good stuff, actually. I rather thought it was you.”

  “I wish. But it’s not. I haven’t written a thing in years.”

  “About that old Olivetti of yours …”

  He furrowed his brow at me. “My typewriter?”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Christ, no. Got rid of it years ago.”

  “You sold it?”

  He shrugged his big shoulders. “I really don’t remember. No, wait … I do. I put it out on the street so some homeless guy could sell it, maybe make a couple of bucks. Why are you so fucking interested in my old typewriter?”

  “Where were you last Monday night, Tuttle?”

  “That’s my night off. I was home.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I watched the football game. Raiders-Chiefs. Good game for a change.”

  “What else?”

  “I did my laundry.”

  “What else?”

  “I folded my laundry,” he replied, with growing impatience.

  “Were you alone?”

  “Does that sound like a hot date to you?”

  “You still have the same place?”

  “On East Sixty-fifth. Yeah.”

  “What about Friday?”

  “What about it?”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was here.”

  “All evening?”

  “Of course all evening. I was working. Ask Mal if you don’t believe me.” He’d had just about enough of this. A vein in his neck was beginning to throb. His eyes had turned to chilly blue slits. I knew this face well: This was his game face. “Why did you come here, Doof?” he said between gritted teeth. “What do you want?”

  “This guy who
is sending me chapters of his book—he’s doing some pretty terrible things to beautiful young women.”

  “Like what?” Tuttle demanded.

  “Like, they’re dead.”

  “He’s killed two women?” This stopped him cold. Or seemed to. “Whew, bad business.”

  “Couldn’t be worse from their point of view,” I said. “He calls himself the answer man. He’ll be all over the news tonight, in case you want the gory details. For now, the details that may be of interest to you are as follows: He’s a master pick-up artist, recognized wherever he goes. He likes women with nice legs and nice smiles. He’s a big fan of mine. Even uses some of my favorite expressions. He’s not picky, though. He uses some of yours as well. He uses an Olivetti that is a dead ringer for your Olivetti—”

  “I told you—I don’t have it anymore.”

  “And he’s a huge Ring Lardner fan. Help me out here—didn’t you used to like Lardner?”

  Tuttle didn’t reply. I studied his face for a reaction. Something. Anything. He just sat there, thumbing his square jaw, listening. He wasn’t about to make this easy for me. Not that I had expected him to.

  “His novel-in-progress,” I went on, “is an updated version of You Know Me Al. Except his correspondence is between E and T. As in, say, Ezra and Tuttle.”

  Now he shifted in his chair, sniffling. “I see … okay,” he said slowly. “And, naturally, your first thought was to come see me. Especially after what I did to Tansy. I get where you’re coming from, Doof. Only—”

  “Only?”

  His eyes met mine across the desk. There was pain in them. There was hurt. Or at least a pretty good imitation. “If I were this guy, this answer man, do you honestly think I’d be stupid enough to use my own first initial?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Tuttle.”

  “But you think it might be me, don’t you?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I repeated. “Help me.”

  He looked away, blinking rapidly. Outside, I heard hearty male voices. The buzzer went off again. He ignored it, ran a hand over his puffy face. “I—I guess this answers any questions I might have had about where I stand with you. Not that I ever doubted.”

  “Tuttle, I haven’t said anything to the police yet.”

  “That was big of you,” he said bitterly.

  “I had to talk to you myself first. I had to ask, under the circumstances.”

  “Sure, sure,” he conceded, turning gracious. Maybe a bit too gracious. “No offense taken. You’ve behaved admirably. You’re a true friend, Doof. And as far as I’m concerned there’s no need to shield me any longer. Go ahead and tell them everything you know. I don’t care. Hell, what difference does it make? What difference does any of it make?” He stared down at the desk, pulled the top drawer open, then pushed it shut. Open, then shut. Open, then …

  Then he grabbed a pair of scissors out of the drawer and dove across the desk at me with them. We went over the back of my chair together—me wedged against the door with him on top of me trying to stab me in the chest with those scissors, his breath hot and sour in my face. I fought him off, gripping his stabbing arm by the wrist, grappling with him, but he had his knee in my groin. And he was still so goddamned strong.

  “You pimp,” he spat. “You whore.”

  “Make up your mind which it is,” I gasped, straining against him, “so I’ll at least know how to dress.”

  “You squat to pee!”

  “Well, that narrows it down some.”

  And then suddenly the door flew open and we went tumbling into the doorway and Malachi was pulling him off me, clucking at us. “Will you two lunatics cut it out? It’s happy hour, for crissakes. You should be out front, Tuttle, not horsing around in here.”

  “You’re right, Mal,” Tuttle panted. “You’re absolutely right.”

  Lulu wandered in now, too, speaking of hot and sour breath. She seemed totally unfazed. She was used to finding me sprawled out on various floors in various states of consciousness.

  Tuttle got to his feet slowly, massaging his knee. He dropped the scissors on the desk. He straightened out his clothes, smoothed his hair. “It was good to see you again, Doof,” he said, gazing down at me there on his worn office rug. “But don’t ever bother coming back here.” Then he went out front to play host.

  Malachi helped me up from the floor. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, but you sure did save his butt. Another minute and I would have lost my cool.”

  He let out a laugh. “You? That I’d pay to see.”

  “Mal, did you just call me unfailingly cool or unfailingly wussy?”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he pointed out, brushing carpet lint off my back.

  “Okay, I won’t.” I took the gun out of my pocket. “Don’t let him play with this anymore, all right?”

  He eyed the Smith & Wesson with concern, his tongue flicking at his lips. “Sure thing.” He stuffed it in the waistband of his slacks, under his vest. Then he stood the chair back up and started to straighten out the mess we’d made.

  “Was he here Friday night, Mal?”

  Malachi hesitated. “Dunno, that was my night off.”

  “He said you could vouch for him.”

  “He’s confused.”

  “That’s certainly one word for it. I understand he takes Mondays off.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Ain’t as if he keeps to a regular schedule. What can I tell you—he’s The King. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “Is that why the partners are …?”

  Malachi’s face dropped. “Oh, he told you, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “All they want out of him is a good day’s work for a good day’s pay. That’s not asking so much, is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. My last steady job was delivering newspapers door to door. What are his hours, Mal? When he shows up, I mean.”

  “Four until whenever. Usually one or two. Depends on the crowd.”

  “Will you call me if he takes off?”

  “When?”

  “Today. Tonight. Any time between now and two.”

  He stuck out his lower lip. “Why?”

  “For old times’ sake.”

  “Which old times are those?”

  “His and mine. I need to know, Mal. It’s important.”

  A smile creased his round pink face. “You’re worried about him, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll call you.”

  “Friday’s a pretty busy night around here, isn’t it?”

  “Busiest night of the week.”

  “Since when do you take it off?”

  “Since the kids have all moved out. The wife don’t have nothing to do, nobody to talk to. She gets lonesome.”

  “You two have been together a long time.”

  “Twenty-seven fan-fucking-tastic years,” he answered cheerfully.

  “I meant you and Tuttle.”

  He got busy again straightening the top of the desk. “That’s right. We have.”

  “I suppose you’d do just about anything for him.”

  “That’s right. I would.”

  “Would you lie for him?”

  Malachi didn’t touch that one. Just kept on cleaning up. When he was all done he stood there rubbing his pudgy hands together. He glanced at the door. I was blocking it.

  “Is Tuttle seeing anyone special these days?”

  “Not really,” he replied. “Not since Luz. She dances over at Ten’s. Only that ended two, three months ago. He told me he broke it off with her so he could devote more time to his writing.”

  I tugged at my left ear. “Oh?”

  “But I didn’t buy it.”

  “What did you buy?”

  “That she’s the one broke it off—on account of Tuttle wasn’t good enough for her. She got wise, that’s all.” He shot another glance at the doo
r. He was getting anxious.

  “Why don’t you get wise, Mal?”

  “Who would take care of him?”

  “Maybe he’d have to take care of himself.”

  “Maybe you see more than is there, Hoagy. Ever think of that? Maybe his real problem is that he’s the second smartest man in the whole wide world.”

  “Who’s the smartest?”

  Malachi winked at me. “Everyone else.”

  I let him go. Outside, the place was filling up. A gang of out-of-town sportswriters were in for the Heisman Trophy presentation. John Madden was seated at a table with a trio of network executives, regaling them with stories. Dave DeBusschere and Walt Frazier, two of the Knicks from their glory days, were deep in conversation together at the bar. Tuttle was over by the pool table with the two Yushies who’d been there when I came in, all three of them flushed with drink. All three of them laughing the forced, hearty laugh that men laugh when they are telling dirty jokes. I made my way through the crowd to the front door, Lulu on my heel. Something made me stop when I got there. Stop and turn around.

  It was Tuttle. He was staring at me from across the restaurant, his eyes boring into me. I stared back at him, our eyes locking together. His expression was utterly blank, his face like stone, hard and unyielding.

  Until he relaxed into that familiar, lopsided grin. “Hey, Doof, who’s The King?” he called out to me.

  This was a thing he’d taken to doing as he got older. He needed to hear the words out loud. Kind of sad, but as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, there wasn’t much about Tuttle Cash that wasn’t sad.

  I left it hanging there in the smoky air for a second. Just long enough for him to wonder if I wasn’t going to respond. “You are, Tuttle!” I called back finally. Strictly for old times’ sake. Then I went out the door as fast as my feet would take me.

  THE PRESS THING had happened.

  The sidewalk outside our building was jammed with reporters and cameramen, all of them shouting and shoving and jockeying for prime position. The local TV crews were there. The tabloid TV rat crews were there. The newspapers were there. Everybody was there—spilled out onto Central Park West, their vans double-parked up and down the block, cables snaking everywhere. I’m talking pandemonium. This was no mere cash-for-trash scandal, after all. This was a bona-fide serial killer on the loose in the streets of Manhattan, some nut who had killed two beautiful single women and branded their foreheads with orange lipstick and written me detailed accounts of his exploits.