The Man Who Died Laughing

by David Handler

  “We used to keep ourselves amused by ’pooning,” I told Vic, as we let a couple fly.

  Vic was much too heavily muscled to get any kind of extension. Mine sailed way past his, though a good fifty feet short of my distance in my heyday. They both landed with a soft plonk in the moist earth of the deserted field. We fetched them.

  “’Pooning?” he asked.

  “You aim it at a target.”

  “You mean like a tree?”

  “Trees are no good. They crunch the spear. No, you lay a hankie on the grass a hundred feet out or so and see who can get closest. Whoever’s farthest buys the beers. I used to be a dead aim.”

  I took sight at a mudhole a way off and let it fly. Nailed it.

  “Everybody,” I said, “ought to be good at something.”

  “I’m sure Coach would let us borrow a couple,” suggested Vic. “Sonny’s got plenty of room. We can ’poon for beers in the yard, huh?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “You’ve come around pretty good, Hoag, with your drinking and all. I think you’re good for Sonny. Just wanted you to know.”

  “Thanks, Vic.”

  He fooled around with a sixteen-pound shotput for a while. He’d thrown it when he was a freshman. I let a few more spears fly. Then we took a few laps and headed for the showers.

  “About that night in Vegas, Hoag. When I went a little crazy. Sorry I got you involved.”

  “The guy asked for it. Forget it.”

  “I … I just lose control sometimes. You know the old expression ‘seeing red’? Well, I do. Everything in front of me goes red. And my head feels real tight and I can’t hear anything except for this pounding. And then I black out. I’m okay most of the time. But, hey, if it wasn’t for Sonny, I’d be living on tranks at the VA hospital on Sawtelle.”

  “I understand you once …”

  He frowned. “Once what?”

  “Went a little too far.”

  “Sonny tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not putting that in the book, are you?”

  “Did it happen because of Sonny?”

  “Sort of. This guy was making crummy comments one night at the Daisy Club about Wanda. Real awful stuff about that Black Panther she was mixed up with. I let him have it, and his head hit something by accident. That was … that was a very painful episode for me, Hoag. Can’t you leave it out?”

  He began to breathe heavily and to rub his forehead with the palm of his hand, rub it so hard I thought he’d make it bleed.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to cause you any grief,” I assured him. “Why don’t I talk to Sonny about it. See what he thinks.”

  Vic’s big shoulders relaxed. “That’s okay. I’ll talk to him.”

  “You sure? I don’t mind.”

  “It’s my problem, not yours. Thanks anyway.”

  “Okay, Vic.”

  He finished dressing before I did.

  “I’m going over to the office to say hello to some people,” he droned. “I’ll put the spears in the car. Meet you there in a bit.”

  I told him that would be fine and sat down on the bench to put on my shoes. I was bending over to tie them when a shadow crossed over me, the shadow of a large human life-form. I thought Vic had come back, but it wasn’t Vic. It was somebody else’s bodyguard. It was Gabe Knight’s bodyguard.

  The French ambassador-to-be was sitting in the stands. Had been, I gathered, the whole time we were out there on the field. Gabe had aged very nicely. His sandy hair was still only partly flecked with gray, his blue eyes were clear and bright, his build trim and athletic. He wore a shawl-collared, oyster-gray cardigan, plaid shirt, gray flannel slacks, and tasseled loafers. He looked every inch the elegant Hollywood squire.

  He shook my hand and smiled. It was a warm, reassuring, confident smile. It was the smile that always got him the girls in the old movies. And doubtless still did. “Stewart Hoag, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for my nod. “Have a seat. Please. I won’t keep you long. I wouldn’t want Sonny’s gorilla to miss you.”

  Gabe’s own gorilla waited discreetly on the steps to the field. I sat.

  Gabe gazed out at the campus. “Takes me back, being here. We shot the BMOC exteriors here, you know. It was the rainy season, just like this. Of course, Pauley Pavilion wasn’t here. Nor were those dormitories. This was a sleepy little place.” He turned his gaze on me. “I suppose you weren’t even born.”

  “Not quite.”

  “I’ve been reading the newspaper stories, of course. Did he really punch that reporter?”

  “No.”

  “Is he really drinking again?”

  “No.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. I was concerned.” He tugged at his ear. “I decided it was time we had a talk, young friend. I’ve known Arthur’s been working on a book. Naturally, I’m all for it.”

  “You are?”

  “Surprised?”

  “Seldom.”

  “There isn’t as much hostility between us as everyone thinks. Arthur and I simply went our separate ways. Life has been plenty good to both of us.”

  “Maybe a little better to you.”

  Gabe shrugged. “I bear him no grudge.”

  “The feeling isn’t mutual. He told me if I talked to you, I was fired, actually.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I know he’s had his problems. Isolated himself up in that armed fortress of his. I suppose he’s still dwelling on the old days. More than is healthy, perhaps.” He pursed his lips. “I was hoping to get some idea from you about how you would be handling me.”

  “Through his eyes,” I replied. “So far it’s a pretty flattering portrait. He said you were the best straight man in the business.”

  “He said that?” Gabe seemed startled, and pleased. “Well, I’ll be.”

  “He also said he could never admit that before.”

  “That’s rich.” Gabe chuckled. “That is rich, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t know him in the old days.”

  “I did,” he said quietly. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Let’s cut the bullshit. I want to know about the breakup. How will it be portrayed?”

  “I don’t know yet. He hasn’t said a word to me about it.”

  “You mean you don’t know why it happened?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You wouldn’t by any chance be jerking me around, would you?”

  “I am not,” I replied. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

  “That, there’s very little chance of.”

  “I’m assuming it wasn’t over Sonny’s gambling debts,” I ventured.

  “I’ll let him be the one to tell you. I’ll be interested to see how he handles it. Very interested.” His eyes were on the empty field.

  “Nervous?”

  “Not if I can avoid it,” he replied sharply.

  “All I know is, he’s being very frank so far. It’ll be an honest book.” I glanced over at him. “Death threat notwithstanding.”

  Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Death threat? Oh, yes, there was something in the papers about that,” he said very offhandedly. “What did this threat say?”

  “Not to write it—or else.”

  “Any idea who … ?”

  “I thought maybe it was you.”

  He chuckled, low and rich. “Was it a phone call?”

  “Letter. Why?”

  “What were the exact words?”

  “I didn’t see it.”

  “Did anyone? Aside from Arthur, I mean.”

  “No. He destroyed it.”

  “Hmm. Far be it from me to tell you your business, young friend, but you ought to bear in mind that Arthur may have made the entire thing up.”

  “Made it up?”

  “I’ve known the man for forty-five years. Believe me, he is not above concocting fables to make people do what he wants them to do.”

  �
��What can he hope to gain by fabricating this?”

  “Publicity,” Gabe replied simply.

  I turned that one over. It didn’t sound totally wild. Sonny had told me he needed a shot in the arm. The threat had found its way into the papers. Could he have rigged it himself to hype the book?

  “Then again,” said Gabe, stroking his chin, “it’s also possible he believes he has been threatened, only he hasn’t been. Arthur and paranoia happen to be boon companions, you know.” Gabe reached into his billfold and pulled out a card and handed it to me. It was his card. “I’d like for us to talk again. I’d like to be kept informed along the way. And I’d love to see a copy of what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

  “Call it a professional courtesy. Perhaps I’ll be able to do you a favor sometime.”

  “My own château in the Loire Valley?”

  “My company is always looking for talented writers to do screenplays.”

  “I don’t know how to do screenplays.”

  “If you can write a book, you can write a screenplay.” He stood, stretched his long legs. “It’s Arthur’s birthday today, isn’t it? I always remember it. Always. I don’t call or send a card. But I do remember.” He shook his blond head. “I still love that little son of a bitch, you know that? We went through heaven and hell together. Nothing can ever take that away.” Gabe seemed very far away for a second. Then he glanced back down at me. “An honest book, you said.”

  “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.