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.”
“Who?”
“I think he strings for the Enquirer” Vic replied.
There were two of them. The reporter was a fat slob with a scraggly goatee and shades on his head. He carried a tape recorder that looked as if it had been run over by a car. It probably had been. The photographer was an old-timer with two cameras around his neck and a cigarette in his mouth.
“Ahh,” I declared, inhaling deeply. “Nothing like a breath of stale air.”
They pushed past the maître d’ and headed urgently for our table. He trailed after them, protesting.
Vic started to get up.
Sonny stopped him. “Relax. Stay calm.”
The photographer began to snap pictures of us eating. He used a flash attachment. The other customers turned and gaped.
The reporter stuck his tape recorder mike between Sonny’s face and Sonny’s pasta. “Is it true you’re going to tell all, Sonny? You gonna talk about why you and Gabe went at it?”
“I’m sorry, Mister Day,” apologized the maître d’. “I couldn’t keep them out.”
“That’s okay, Carmine,” said Sonny. “The plague couldn’t stop em.
“Why now, Sonny?” the reporter persisted. “You looking to fuck over Gabe’s political future? Pretty vindictive, isn’t it?”
“Look, pally,” Sonny said pleasantly. “I don’t have nothing to say. We’re trying to have a quiet meal. Show a little consideration. If you want pix, take ’em and leave, okay?”
“What about the death-threat rumor? Is that true?”
“What death-threat rumor?” Sonny demanded sharply.
The reporter grinned, smelling blood. “So it’s true?”
Sonny reddened. “I got nothing to say.”
“What does Gabe say about it? He trying to stop you?”
“You’re not hearing me,” Sonny said, an edge in his voice now. “I still got nothing to say.”
The repeated explosions of the flashbulbs were becoming more than a little irritating. Sonny put a hand over his face to shield his eyes.
Vic took over. “You’re bothering us.”
“Come on, Sonny,” pressed the reporter. “I need a statement.”
“You’re bothering us,” Vic repeated, louder this time. “Leave!”
“I got a job to do,” he insisted.
Vic shoved his chair back and stood up. The reporter’s eyes flickered when he saw just how long that took.
“And you’ve done it.” Vic stepped between the reporter and our table, arms out, a human wall. “You got your pictures. Now leave!”
“You have to answer me, Sonny,” the reporter said around Vic’s bulk.
“I don’t have to do nothing, bub,” snapped Sonny.
“You can’t avoid me.”
“I’m making a real effort not to lose my temper.”
“So am I,” said Vic, sticking a large index finger in the guy’s chest. “Beat it.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want it,” said the reporter. “I got my story anyway: ‘Sonny Day falls off the wagon.’”
“What?!” demanded Sonny angrily.
“There’s wine on your table. You’re drinking again. We have the pix to back it up. You even tried to cover your face. It’ll be in every supermarket in America, Sonny. But it doesn’t have to be. I’m perfectly willing to work with you. I’m on your side.”
“You’re scum,” spat Sonny. “Do everybody a favor—get AIDS.”
Vic, I noticed, had begun to breathe oddly—quick, shallow gasps, in and out, in and out.
The reporter shrugged. “Okay, Sonny. If that’s how you want it.” He nodded to the photographer. “Let’s go. We got our story.”
Vic grabbed the reporter by his shirt. The guy’s feet dangled two inches off the floor. Vic was gasping for air now. “You’re not … not gonna do this!”
“Try and stop me, dumbo.”
And then I found out what Wanda meant when she said to never, ever, let Vic get mad at you.
He blew. He just plain went into a blind rage. He wrenched the photographer’s camera from its strap, tore it open, and yanked the film out. When the reporter tried to wrestle it away from him, he punched the guy flush on the face, sending him backpedaling onto a neighboring table, where food and dishes flew. Blood splattered. A woman screamed.
“No, Vic!” cried Sonny. “Stop, Vic. Enough!”
But this wasn’t Vic. This was a wild man, an animal growl coming from his throat. He pulled the reporter off the table, slugged him again, breaking his nose, sending him up against a wall. There he grabbed him by the throat with both hands and began banging the guy’s head against the wall. The reporters limbs began to flop helplessly. His face got purple, his eyes glazed over.
It took Sonny, me, and every waiter and busboy in the place to pull Vic off him. There’s no question in my mind he would have killed him if we hadn’t.
“Vic!” screamed Sonny. “Look at me, Vic!”
But Vic was still heaving and straining to get at the reporter, who had now slumped to the floor, bleeding from his mouth and nose, dazed but conscious.
Sonny looked around, grabbed a bucket of ice that had been cooling a neighboring table’s white wine, and dumped it over Vic’s head. The big fellow sputtered, and then abruptly, he came around. He shook his head a few times to clear it, then stood there dumbly, his chest still heaving, ice water streaming down his head.
“Everything okay, Sonny?” He was gasping, looking around at the damage like someone else had done it.
“No, everything’s not okay,” sobbed the reporter, who was dabbing at his bloodied face with a napkin. He pointed it at Sonny. “I’m going to sue your ass,” he wailed.
“Get out while you still can, you piece of shit!”
The photographer helped him up. They left, the photographer clutching his ruined camera, the reporter snuffling and moaning. Everybody in the place watched them go, then turned to watch us.
“I’m sorry about this, Mr. Day,” apologized the maître d’, as he and his staff scurried to clean up our mess.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Carmine,” said Sonny, slipping him some bills. “Please give everybody another bottle of whatever they were having.”
“Yessir, Mr. Day.”
Sonny turned back to me. “C’mon, let’s eat.”
“Maybe we should go,” I said, eyeing Vic, who was still standing there in a half daze.
“Nonsense,” said Sonny. “We came here for dinner and we’re gonna have it.”
We sa
t back down at our table.
“Sorry, Sonny,” Vic mumbled. “Just couldn’t help myself.”
“That’s okay, Vic. He asked for it. Why don’t you go towel off and comb your hair. You look a mess.”
“Okay,” he agreed meekly.
We watched him as he headed for the men’s room. He moved slowly, like he was shell-shocked.
“He’ll be fine in a couple minutes,” Sonny assured me. “It’s that damned plate in his noggin. He almost killed a guy in a club once. Cost me plenty to get the charges dropped.”
I took a gulp of my Chianti. “Think that guy will sue?”
“He’ll try. Make more of a name for himself that way. I’ll call Heshie tonight. He knows the right people to lean on. Cash settlement ought to take care of it. Can’t stop the story though. Not with my rep. It’s news. It’ll be in tomorrow’s papers. On Entertainment Tonight. Wires’ll pick it up. By the end of the week they’ll have it that I was drunk out of my mind and I punched the jerk. I guarantee it.”
The waiter brought us our veal.
“Something a little different for you tonight, huh, pally?”
“Lot of fun eating with you guys,” I said. “We’ll have to do it again real soon.”
“Look at it this way—you’ll be famous now. You’ll be in every newspaper in America.”
“I will?”
“Sure. You’ll be the unidentified third man.”
“Terrific.”
My luck at blackjack finally turned at a little past three a.m. Maybe it was just the odds evening out. Whatever, I kept on doubling my bets and I kept on winning. I won so many hands in a row that I actually climbed all the way back up to even for the night. Then I lost five straight. I decided it was time for bed.
Somebody was sleeping in my bed. She had blond hair and a nice shape and no clothes on under the single sheet. The light woke her up. She was pretty. She stirred, then sat up and stretched, the skin tightening across her breasts. Then she lay back on the pillow and smiled at me, all warm and cuddly and inviting.
“Are you in the right room?” I said.
“Are you Hoagy?” she purred, in a slight Southern accent. “Yes. Who are you?”
“Yours. For the whole night.”
“Whose idea was this?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Put your clothes on,” I said. “You just had an easy night’s work.”
I went across the hall and pounded on the door to Sonny’s suite. After a minute Vic came to the door and wanted to know who it was. When I told him, he opened up. He wore a robe. One hand was rubbing sleep from his eyes. The other held a gun.
“Hey, Hoag.” He yawned. “What’s up?”
“Trouble?” I asked, eyeing the gun.
“All quiet. Routine precaution.”
“I have to talk to Sonny.”
“He’s asleep.”
Sonny appeared behind him in the doorway. “It’s okay, Vic. Go back to bed.”
Vic went back to his room and closed the door.
Sonny grinned at me. “Get your present?”
“Sonny, I—”
“She’s supposed to be the best in town. A graduate of Tulane University.” He winked. “Do ya some good. I mean, there ain’t a whole lot of action around my house, except for Wanda. And for her you need a butterfly net. Enjoy.”
“Sonny, I don’t want her.”
He punched me on the shoulder, cozily. “C’mon, she’ll do anything you want, and she knows what she’s doing. You’ll feel like a new man.”
“I appreciate it, but …”
“But what?”
“It’s not my thing, okay?”
“Why didn’t you say so? I’ll pick up the phone. You don’t have to be bashful. Different strokes, right? I used to dig schwartzers. Two or three of ’em at once—taller the better. Gabe went for little girls. Just tell me what you want.”
“I don’t want anything. I’m very tired and I want to go to sleep.”
He frowned. “You still carrying a torch for your ex-wife? Is that it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what? Talk to me.”
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “There is no torch,” I said quietly. “Okay?”
He glanced south of my equator, then back up. “You mean … ?”
“Physically, there’s nothing wrong. I’m just …”
“Impotent. Say it. You’re impotent. So what? It happens to lots of guys. Come on in and we’ll talk about it. We’ll brew up a pot of tea and talk all night if you want.” He smiled warmly. He looked happier than I’d ever seen him. In fact, he looked positively thrilled.
He put an arm around me to usher me in. It sort of developed into a hug.
“Come on in, kid.”
CHAPTER FIVE
(Tape #4 with Sonny Day. Recorded in his study, February 20.)
HOAG: SO THAT’S HOW YOU and Gabe met. In boot camp.
Day: Right.
Hoag: You’re not enjoying this, are you?
Day: How do you expect me to enjoy it? The man broke my heart.
Hoag: How?
Day: Not now.
Hoag: When?
Day: When I can handle it. Don’t push me.
Hoag: The good times then. Your impressions of him, when you first met.
Day: Okay. Sure. Gabe Knight was a square. He was from a place called Lincoln, Nebraska. He lived in a big white house on one of those wide, quiet streets with the big elm trees. They had a porch swing. His dad was a pharmacist, always wore a white shirt, and for fun he sang in a barbershop quartet. The old lady, she wore an apron and baked pies. The town held a fucking parade for him when At Ease opened there. First time he took me there, I swore I was on the backlot at Warners.
Hoag: What was he like?
Day: A Boy Scout. A milk drinker. He said shucks. Called his dad sir. Went to church. Wrote home every day to his girl, Lorraine, who actually, I swear to god, lived in the house next door. He married her. She was his first wife. That was before he got corrupted.
Hoag: And what did he think of you?
Day: He thought I was a Dead-end Kid, the kind who stole old ladies’ handbags and opened fire hydrants on hot summer days. Not true. I have never opened a fire hydrant. Seriously, I was as foreign to him as he was to me. He never knew a Jew before. Let alone slept under one. The characters he and I played, those characters were really us. That’s why it was so good.
Hoag: How did the two of you hit it off? Or should I say why?
Day: Show business. He was putting himself through the university there as a kind of entertainer. He worked as a DJ on the local radio station for a buck a night. Performed in summer stock, the straw hat stuff. He could sing, play the ukulele, and he was a pretty fair hoofer. Did a magic act, too, for kids’ birthday parties. Juggled. Palmed. Used it in The Big Top, remember? He did a little bit of everything. None of it great, but what the hell did they know in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Hoag: Was he funny?
Day: He was clever. Comedy itself, the art form, he knew shit from. I taught him everything.
Hoag: You became friends?
Day: We’d both performed. It was something we had in common and talked about and kept talking about. He had the bug, see. He loved to talk about movies, radio shows. And he loved hearing about the Catskills. When we had a pass, we’d sit over Cokes and talk all night. Pretty soon I’m showing him some of the old routines me and Mel did, and he was laughing and chipping in. And then he was taking off. And so was I. Once we got started, we riffed all the time, like a couple of musicians. It was our release. Basic training was a pretty awful place, believe me. You were told where to go, what to do. And for all you knew, you’d be dead in six months. Most of the guys drank to blow off steam. With me and Gabe, it was humor.
Hoag: Did you compare him in your mind to Mel?
Day: Hard not to. He was a big brother type. A little older than me. Tall, solid, dependable. People like
d him.
Hoag: Was he serious about wanting to become a performer?
Day: You mean, what would have happened if we never met? Hard telling. Gabe was a small-town boy, conservative, not the sort inclined to take the big chance. I think he’d have settled down and ended up behind the counter of that pharmacy. We weren’t looking for something to happen. It just did.
Hoag: You make it sound like a love affair.
Day: It was, at first. And then it’s more like a marriage. You spend all your time together, plan your future together. There’s trust, affection, loyalty, jealousy. The only thing you don’t do is fuck. Come to think of it, it is just like being married, (silence) Whoops, sorry, Hoagy. Old joke.
Hoag: When did you realize you were good together?
Day: Right off. The guys kept hearing us and wanted to know what we was doing, so we tummeled some routines and started doing them for ’em. In the barracks. In the mess hall. For fun like in the dorm at Pine Tree. We did a drill routine where this tough sergeant, Gabe, is drilling a clumsy recruit, me, who keeps dropping his gun. That was our first big routine. We did it in At Ease.
Hoag: I remember it.
Day: We did one where I’m the city slicker teaching him, the hick, how to play poker. I figure I’m conning him out of all his money, only the whole time he’s conning me. We did two recruits trying to identify what they’re eating at mess. Oh, we did the old dance routine from Pine Tree, too, except we made it a USO dance. I was basically the same character I had been. He was Mel. But from the beginning we got belly laughs. Mel and me never got laughs like that.
Hoag: What was the difference?
Day: Shared experience. We was all in this together, we was all frightened. Plus, there was Gabe. …
Hoag: What about him?
Day: (silence) He was a brilliant straight man. It’s taken me a lotta years to admit that. When we were on top, I always thought it was me. Everybody said so. They said anybody could have played his part, that he was a stiff, that I was the reason for our success. I believed that. I was wrong. He was a brilliant straight man. Best in the business.
The Man Who Died Laughing Page 8