The Man Who Died Laughing

by David Handler

  “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.

  “Not served,” corrected Sonny. “How many times I gotta tell ya? The word is … soived.”

  She flashed him a smile and said it again in correct, south-of-the-border Brooklynese.

  “That’s more like it.” He grinned.

  He went to the foot of the stairs and called Wanda. She padded down barefoot in a caftan slit all the way to her thigh, and joined us at one corner of the giant dining table. Dinner was broiled snapper, rice, and steamed vegetables.

  Wanda ate hurriedly and avoided eye contact with the rest of us.

  Connie asked me what my novel was about.

  “I’ll handle that one,” said Sonny before I could answer. “It’s about the death of this small, family-run brass mill in Connecticut. See, it’s been in the family for five generations or so, and now the father runs it, and he wants the son to take it over. Only, it’s the last thing in the world the kid wants to do. See, he and the old man don’t get along. Never did. So the mill dies, because the family has died. It’s all like a … metaphor for the death of the American dream. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Very well put.”

  “See?” He grinned like a proud child. “I ain’t so lowbrow.”

  It seemed important that I think he was smart. I guess because he thought I was smart.

  “Was it autobiographical?” Connie asked.

  “Partly.”

  “Your old man ran a brass mill?” Sonny asked.

  “My old man runs a brass mill.”

  “In Connecticut?”

  “In Connecticut.”

  “Damned good story. Make a terrific picture. This kid can write, he’s real serious. Hey, Wanda, you know a writer named Henry Miller?”

  “Know him? I blew him.”

  Connie’s eyes widened. Then she wiped her face clean of any expression and reached for her glass.

  “Hey,” snapped Sonny. “You know I don’t like that kind of talk.”

  “So don’t ask those kinds of questions.”

  “It’s slutty and cheap and offensive. Apologize to your mother.”

  “Daddy, I’m going to be forty years old this year. I’ll talk as I—“

  “You’re never too old to be polite. Apologize this minute or leave my table.”

  Wanda rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

  “And to our company,” Sonny added.

  “No problem,” I assured him.

  “She’s apologizing, Hoagy!” he snapped.

  Wanda leveled her eyes at me. “I’m sorry if I offended you,” she said quietly.

  The matter closed, Sonny turned back to me. “I disagree with you in one area. I think the dream still lives. This is a great country. I come from nothing. Look what I got. How can you argue with that?”

  “Kind of blew up in your face a little, didn’t it?” I suggested gently.

  He frowned. “I had a setback. But I’m on the road back.”

  “How did your interview go today?” Connie asked him.

  “Total dreck. A lousy, two-bit sitcom about a stupid Great Neck catering house. They wanted me to read for the old headwaiter. Three grunts per episode. Totally one-dimensional. I walked out. They don’t write people anymore. They don’t know how. All they can write is smut and car chases. And they wonder why nobody watches. Hey, Vic brought in a couple old Capra pictures for tonight. We’ll pop some corn. I got celray tonic. Stick around, Connie.”

  “I’m sorry, Arthur. I have an early call.”

  “Wanda?”

  “I’m going out.

  “With who?”

  Her body tensed. “Daddy, I’m not sixteen.”

  “So why don’t you start making more sensible choices in men?”

  “Mind your own—“

  “Who are you—”

  “It’s none of your business!” she screamed.

  “It’s my business as long as you keep trashing your life!” he screamed back.

  She threw her half-full dinner plate at him. Her aim wasn’t much. It missed, sailed across the dining room, and smashed against a wall, leaving a splotch of rice. She ran upstairs. Emotional exits seemed to be a specialty of hers.

  “Sorry, Hoagy,” Sonny said, going back to his food. “She just never grew up in a lot of ways. And she never could stand me. That’s no secret.”

  “I don’t mean to be nosy …”

  “Go ahead. You’re part of the family now.”

  “Why does she live here if it makes her so miserable?”

  Sonny and Connie glanced at each other. He turned back to me.

  “Because she’s even more miserable when she’s not living here.”

  There was a plump new feather pillow on my bed, but I didn’t fall asleep the second my head hit it. Or the hour. Anyone with the approximate IQ of pimiento loaf could see that that knife was meant to scare me off. Yet neither Sonny or Vic seemed the slightest bit ruffled by it. Had Vic done it? He had warned me not to mess Sonny up. Maybe he seriously wanted me gone. Someone from the immediate family did. The grounds were secure. The knife was from Sonny’s kit
chen—I’d checked with Maria. I lay there, puzzled, uneasy, wondering if I should just forget the project and go home. I’m the first to admit it—trouble is not my business. But thinking about home got me thinking about Merilee, and like I said, I was up for a while.

  I had just dropped off at about four when this ungodly wailing woke me. At first I thought it was sirens. But the more awake I became the more it sounded like twenty or thirty wild animals. I put on my dressing gown and opened the guesthouse door. It was animals all right, animals howling away in the darkness.

  Lulu nudged my bare ankle. I picked her up and held her in my arms. She gave me very little resistance. Together we ventured bravely forth.

  Wanda was stretched out in a lounge chair by the pool, still dressed in a shimmering dress and shawl from her night out. She glanced up at me, then went back to the bottle of Dom Perignon she was working on. “It’s the coyotes.”

  “Coyotes? In the middle of Los Angeles?”

  “They’re miles from here—way back in the hills. The sound carries in the canyons. Spooky, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe a little.” I put Lulu down. She stayed right between my legs. Wanda smiled at me. “You must think I’m an awful cunt.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “He just gets to me sometimes.”

  “My father and I don’t get along either.”

  “I know he’s right, about my taste in men. I have … I have a kind of low opinion of myself. But I don’t need for him to tell me, you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nightcap?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Champagne do?”

  “Always has.”

  I stretched out in the chair next to her. She filled her glass and gave me the bottle. I took a swig. We listened to the coyotes.

  “Don’t get too taken in by him,” she said. “He can seem nice, but he’s still as big a shit as he ever was. He’s still crazy. He’s just channeled it differently. It used to come out as meanness and destructiveness. Now it’s peace and love. He’s a bully. If you’re nice to him, he won’t respect you—he’ll run right over you. The only thing he understands is strength. How did you get this job anyway?”

  “By hanging up on him, I think.”

  “What exactly are you supposed to do?”

  “Help him tell his story. Talk to him. Try to understand him.”

  She fingered the rim of her glass. “Good luck. It isn’t easy to understand people when they don’t understand themselves. I suppose he’s trying, though. About before … I didn’t mean to be so negative, I’ll try to help you. We’ve mended a few fences, he and I. Certainly we’re better than we were. That’s something. I’ll do what I can. Just don’t expect a lot from me.”

  “Whatever you can do will be much appreciated.”

  The coyotes quieted down. It was suddenly very peaceful. We drank, looking at the moon.

  “How do you like The Hulk?” asked Wanda, after a while.

  “Vic? He sure seems loyal.”

  “He loves Sonny.”

  “He told me.”

  “And he’s very protective of him.”

  “He told me that, too.”

  “He’s a real sweetie—as long as he isn’t angry. Then he can get… atilt.”

  “Atilt?”

  “Yes. Trust me on this one, Hoagy. Don’t ever let him get mad at you.

  “I’ll remember that.” I looked over at her, stretched out so elegantly there in the moonlight, her lovely silken ankles crossed. She looked damned good. “How come you don’t act anymore?”

  “I never acted. I appeared in films.”

  “I always liked you.”

  “You liked my body.”

  “You have talent. You can act.”

  “I was no Merilee Nash.” She raised an eyebrow. “What’s she like? Is she as perfect as she comes off?”

  “She has flaws, just like everybody else. I never found them, but I’m sure they’re there.” I drained the bottle. “You can act. Really.”

  “Well, thank you. I quit because it was making me too insecure and crazy. Stop, I know what you’re thinking—crazier than she is now? You should have seen me before. You should have seen me when I was doing acid.”

  “Vic said you were …”

  “Locked up. Yes, twice. Once during my famous psychedelic period. Once before, when I was a girl.” She reached for a cigarette. “Why are you really here?”

  “I’m writing your fathers book, remember?”

  “But this kind of work isn’t very distinguished, is it? I mean, if you’re such a serious writer …”

  “I stopped writing.”

  “Why?”

  “If I knew why, I wouldn’t have stopped.”

  She smiled. “We’re really quite a pair, aren’t we? A real couple of exes.”

  “Exes?”

  “Yes. Ex-famous. Ex-talented. Ex-young. Ex-married. We ought to become pals.”

  “Ex-pals?”

  “For real.”

  “I got the impression you didn’t like me.”

  She turned. Her profile, in the pale light, was very like her mother’s. “I was just being difficult. Look, you’re going to be here for a while. We can be friends, can’t we? I’m not such an awful person. I’ll help you, if I can. And we can have dinner sometime.”

  “I’d like that. I’ll buy.”

  She gave me a slow, naughty once-over. She was hamming now, playing a game. “Where will you take me?”

  “You’ll have to pick the place,” I replied coolly, playing along. “I don’t know this town very well.”

  “Would you like to know it better?”

  “I’m beginning to think I would.”

  “How much do you want to spend?”

  “How much are you worth?”

  “More than you can afford.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I’m not.”

  We both laughed. That broke the spell.

  “What’s that from again?” I asked.

  “From?”

  “Yeah. What movie?”

  “Our movie. It’s much more fun to make one up as you go along. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  (Tape #1 with Sonny Day. Recorded in his study, February 14.)

  DAY: WHATSA MATTER, PALLY? You look tired.

  Hoag: I’m just not used to swimming a hundred laps before breakfast.

  Day: Do ya good. Where do I sit?

  Hoag: Wherever you’ll be most comfortable.

  Day: Mind if I lie down?

  Hoag: If you don’t, I will.

  Day: I told Vic to hold all calls. We’re not to be interrupted for anything. I’m all yours. Where do we start?

  Hoag: Let’s start at the beginning.

  Day: Okay … I don’t remember too much, except I cried a lot.

  Hoag: Why?

  Day: Some guy in a mask was slapping my butt around, (laughs) How come you don’t think I’m funny?

  Hoag: Why do you say that?

  Day: You never laugh at anything I say.

  Hoag: You never laugh at anything I say either.

  Day: Comics never laugh at other people’s material. We’re too insecure.

  Hoag: Can we talk about your childhood?

  Day: Sure. Hey, this is just like therapy, isn’t it?

  Hoag: Except we’re getting paid.

  Day: Hey, this is better than therapy, isn’t it?

  Hoag: I’m interested in—

  Day: How about I put a record on? You like Nat Cole?

  Hoag: It’ll end up on the tape. I think we’re going to need some ground rules, Sonny. When we’re in here, I’m the boss. That means no kidding around, no stalling, no role playing. When we work, we work. Understand?

  Day: Yes, I do. Sorry. I needed to warm up.

  Hoag: Now, what kind of childhood did you have?

  Day: Shitty.

  Hoag: You were b
orn … ?

  Day: February 23, 1922. My real name is Arthur Seymour Rabinowitz. I grew up in Brooklyn, U.S.A. The Bedford-Stuyvesant section. Bed-Sty. We lived on Gates Avenue between Sumner and Lewis. There was me, my old man, Saul, my mother, Esther. And my brother, Mel. Mel was four years older than me.

  Hoag: I didn’t know you had a brother.

  Day: Mel died just before the war. Sweetest guy in the world. My idol. A tall, strapping, good-looking kid. Good student. Great musician. The girls loved him. Boy, did I look up to him. During the Depression he was like a father to me really. … He got a staph infection. It got in his bloodstream and bam, he dropped dead. We didn’t have miracle drugs then. I still miss Mel. Sometimes … never mind.

  Hoag: Go ahead.

  Day: Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night and there’s something I wanna tell him and I… I have to remember he’s dead.

  Hoag: That’s interesting. Glad you mentioned it. Your family lived in an apartment?

  Day: What? Yeah. Third-floor walk-up, in the front. Two bedrooms. One for the folks. One for me and Mel. No such thing as a living room in that neighborhood. Everything happened around the dining table. Or the kitchen sink. We did all our washing up and shaving in the kitchen sink. There was no sink in the bathroom, just a tub and a toilet. (laughs) People wonder why families were so much closer in those days. Winters we used to turn the oven on to keep warm. Summers me and Mel used to sleep on a mattress out on the fire escape. Listen to the trolley go by on Gates.

  Hoag: What kind of people were your parents?

  Day: You sure you were never a shrink?

  Hoag: Positive.

  Day: My old man was from Russia. Came over on the boat in I think it was 1906. His English was never great. The old lady was born and raised on the Lower East Side, West Broadway and Spring. Her father was a furrier for the Yiddish show people. Had a shop right across from the Second Avenue Theater. Her folks always thought she married beneath herself, marrying an immigrant.

  Hoag: What did your father do?

  Day: He had a candy store on Nostrand Avenue, not too far from the house. The candy store had belonged to an Irishman named Day. When my old man took it over, he didn’t have enough money for a new sign, so he left it.