The Man Who Died Laughing

by David Handler

  “Stop that, Sonny. There’s no bottle in there.” I put on my dressing gown. “Come on, I’m putting you to bed.”

  But he kept looking. He even threw open the shallow middle drawer and started digging around in it. That’s when he found Gabe’s card. I could tell when he spotted it. His body stiffened and then he recoiled from the drawer in horror, as if he’d just found a severed human hand in there,

  “You son of a bitch!” he screamed, pelting me with flying spittle. “You been going behind my back! Telling him everything! Selling me out!”

  “No, Sonny. I haven’t.”

  “You have!”

  I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Listen to me! Gabe approached me today. He wanted to know what the book was about. I told him nothing. That’s all. Do you hear me? That’s all.”

  “So why ya got his card?! Why ya hiding his damn card?!”

  “I saved it for my files. Throw it away. Go ahead.”

  I took it out of the drawer and gave it to him. He stood there clutching it, frozen with rage. Then he fell to his knees and began to wail. Gut-wrenching sobs came out of him, ugly sobs of hurt, of self-pity. I couldn’t tell if this was an act or not. If it was, it was better than anything he ever did on screen.

  “I bared my soul for you!” he cried. “Gave you my love! And look what ya done to me! Look what ya done!”

  “Sonny—”

  “I wanna die! I wanna die! Oh, please. Let me die!” He jumped up and went for the bathroom. “Gotta have a razor blade! Gotta die!”

  I ran after him. “Sonny, for God’s sake stop this! You don’t want to die!”

  “Razor!” He grabbed the leather shaving kit Merilee had bought me in Florence on our honeymoon and dumped the contents on the floor. Bottles smashed. “Razor!”

  “It’s no use,” I said. “They’re Good News! disposables. The head pivots.”

  Frustrated, he tore the kit apart and hurled the pieces against the wall. Then he grabbed the shower curtain and yanked it off the rod and plopped down on the toilet amidst it, rocking back and forth like a bereaved widow, moaning.

  I headed for the phone.

  “Where ya going?!”

  “To wake up Vic.”

  “No, don’t!” There was fear in his voice now. “Please! He’ll be mad at me!”

  “He won’t be alone.”

  “Do it and you’re fired!”

  I phoned Vic and quickly filled him in. Instantly alert, he said he’d be right out.

  “Okay, Hoag,” Sonny said, quietly now. “That’s it. You’re fired. I warned ya. Stay away from Gabe, I said. But no. Ya wouldn’t. Get off my property. You and your smelly dog. Take your stuff and git. You’re through.”

  “I am through. But you’re not firing me. I’m quitting. You hear me? I quit.”

  Vic came rushing in now, brandishing a hypodermic. Sonny screamed when he saw him and tried to fight his way out of the bathroom cursing, flailing, sobbing. Vic wrestled him to the floor. Still he continued to writhe and thrash.

  “Pin his arms, Hoag,” Vic ordered, his face set grimly. “Pin ’em.”

  I did. Sonny rewarded me by spitting in my face. Vic gave him the injection.

  “Doctor gave me this in case this ever happened again,” Vic told me. “It used to happen almost every night. He’ll quiet down in a few minutes. Sorry you had to see it.”

  I wiped off my face with a towel and began to pack.

  I booked the last seat on the noon flight to New York. Said good-bye to Vic. Left Wanda a note, asking for a rain check on our dinner date. A cab picked me up at the gate.

  I didn’t say good-bye to Sonny. He was still out cold.

  I made it to the airport. Got my ticket. Read the national edition of The New York Times. Got on the plane. Apologetically stowed Lulu under me in her carrier. Fastened my seat belt.

  I’d had enough of Sonny Day and his creep show. I was going home. I really was. The stewardesses were even closing the doors.

  Until The One bulled his way on board.

  He wore terry sweats and shades. He found me immediately.

  “Where the fuck you think you’re going?!” he demanded. Heads swiveled.

  “Home,” I replied calmly.

  “You can’t. We’re not done.”

  “I’m done.”

  “Nobody quits on Sonny Day!”

  “I am.”

  “You son of a bitch! You’re nothing but trouble. I wish I never hired ya!”

  “I wish I’d never met you.”

  “You’re a fucking coward!”

  “You,” I returned, “are a fucking asshole.”

  “I hate your fucking guts!”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Fuck you!”

  We went on at this mature level—at the top of our lungs—for quite a while, everyone on the plane watching and listening. And most of them recognizing Sonny.

  A jumpy steward sidled over to us and cleared his throat. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?”

  “Creative differences!” I told him.

  “This is your idea of creative differences?!” screamed Sonny. “Getting on a fucking plane?!”

  “Gentlemen, perhaps you could deplane and continue this—”

  “All right, I unfire ya!” shrieked Sonny, ignoring him. “Okay?!”

  “You can’t unfire me, Sonny. You didn’t fire me in the first place. I quit. I’m leaving. Understand?”

  “Uh, gentlemen—“

  “You’re not leaving! Nobody’s leaving until you do. This plane is not leaving this goddamn airport until you get off it!”

  “Okay. Fine. You want to make a jackass out of yourself, get yourself arrested for air piracy, go right ahead. You doubt me. You abuse me. You actually, literally, spit in my face. As far as I’m concerned, people have been right about you all along—you are a pig.”

  His face got all scrunched up. Tears formed in his eyes. “Please, Hoagy,” he pleaded softly. “Come back. I need you.”

  “No.”

  “I panicked last night. I ran out of courage. I wish I had enough, but I don’t. I’m a frightened man. A sick man. I lost control. Poison came out of me. Those things I said, I didn’t mean ’em. That’s not how I feel. I love you like a son. I’d never intentionally hurt you. It was the booze. It won’t happen again. You got my word. It won’t happen again. We’re both vulnerable. We’re both human beings. Human beings forgive. Come on. Come back.”

  When we got home from the airport, we planted the eucalyptus tree outside his study window.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  (Tape #1 with Harmon Wright. Recorded in his office on the 12th floor at HWA on February 25. It is decorated in French provincial antique furniture, which appears genuine. He is tall, wiry, tanned. Hair is white. Wears gold-framed glasses, Brooks Brothers gray flannel suit.)

  HOAG: I APPRECIATE YOUR giving me this time.

  Wright: Anything for Artie. He called, by the way. Told me to hold nothing back.

  Hoag: Terrific. He’s already filled me in on your old neighborhood, on the Seetags—

  Wright: The what? Oh, our old club. Sure.

  Hoag: And on your past associations …

  Wright: Associations? Did he bring up that old Benny Siegel business?

  Hoag: Yes, he did.

  Wright: Take what Artie says with a grain of salt. I was never in jail, or technically in the actual employ of Benny Siegel. I knew him. But lots of people did.

  Hoag: What about the money?

  Wright: Money?

  Hoag: He told me about the money you siphoned off to start this agency. Should I take that with a grain of salt, too?

  Wright: (silence) When is this book coming out anyway?

  Hoag: Next fall, probably. I’ll take that as a yes. You were out here in Los Angeles when they were filming At Ease?

  Wright: I was fresh out of law school and interested in getting into the field of talent management. Artie and I happened to bump into each other
on the lot. Naturally, I was surprised as hell. I mean, Mel Rabinowitz’s fat kid brother—who would have figured? But I watched some of the filming, and I was very impressed. They had something, those two kids. They were like Abbott and Costello, only with class. Gabe had the class. Artie … Artie was a comic genius. You know they never had a flop? Every picture they made together made money.

  Hoag: What happened when they got out of the service?

  Wright: I grabbed Jack Warner by the short and curlies and didn’t let go. He wanted to sign them to three pictures at $25,000 per. I said one picture, for $50,000, then we cut a new deal. He called me a fucking greaseball a couple times and hung up on me. I waited for him to come crawling back. I waited one day. Two days. Three days. I was gambling with their future, but I figured, worse comes to worst, I’ll put them on the nightclub circuit. I was about to do just that when Warner came crawling. Gabe and Lorraine rented a little house in Studio City. Lovely girl. Wasn’t suited for the show business life. Artie took an apartment in Encino. And they made BMOC, their college picture. That’s where he and Connie met. It was a good picture. First one to use their theme song. As soon as they wrapped it, I put them together with a top writing team and they came up with a new act. Civilian material. They did personal appearances to push the picture, then turned right around and did the nightclubs. As headliners, too. Only the top clubs—the Chase in St. Louis, Chez Paree in Chicago, Latin Casino in Philly. Sold out every night. Pulling down $3,500 a week. By the time they hit New York it was official—BMOC was outgrossing At Ease. People loved these boys. I booked them into the Copa for two weeks at $5,000 per. They stayed eight weeks. You couldn’t get near the place. Even the big-timers had to pull strings to get in. Jack Warner was panting now. Wanted to sign them up for three pictures for $175,000. I tell him the price is now a half million. Again with the greaseball stuff. So I sent them to the Flamingo. They were one of the first name acts to play there—helped legitimize the place. They played four weeks at $10,000 per. Only, Artie left more than that in the casino. So I brought them back to L.A. and booked them into Slapsie Maxie’s. Place was packed with movie people every night. Every studio in town wanted them now. I got the deal I wanted. And I got it from Jack Warner. Their third picture for him, Jerks, was another smash. From then on, for the next ten years, the sky was the limit for them. The money came in so fast they were, I think, overwhelmed by it. Remember, they were still boys. Just like today with the rock stars and the tennis players. One day they’re a couple snot-nosed kids from some neighborhood. Next day they’re pulling down what was the equivalent of twenty million a year today. And Artie, he was everybody’s darling, could do no wrong. He started getting crazy with the ego stuff, the competition. They were telling him he was Charlie Chaplin, for God’s sake. Whatever Gabe did, Artie had to do better. If Gabe built a new house with six bathrooms, Artie had to build one with seven.

  Hoag: Did they socialize? Were they friends?

  Wright: No. Gabe liked to move in the A crowd. Artie liked to have a lot of hangers-on around to laugh at everything he said. His boys, he called them. Then after they had their first big row, the blood was always bad between them. It was strictly business after that.

  Hoag: Their first big row?

  Wright: You don’t know about that? Okay, this was 1949,I think. Maybe ’50. Artie got into serious financial trouble. Big house. Cars. Gambling, like I said. Plus he supported his mom, his entourage, and he was a soft touch. If somebody needed help with hospital bills, you never met a more generous guy. Trouble was, he wasn’t paying his taxes. The IRS nailed him for close to half a million. So you know what his solution was? He asked for sixty percent of the take. Everybody kept telling him he carried Gabe. So he figured he should make more. Gabe’s response was—fuck you. Gabe had his pride. He was a professional. You think he liked reading in the paper that he was a stiff? You think he liked Artie rubbing it in? For a week the two of them didn’t speak. Finally Artie backed down and apologized. Then he turned right around and said if he wasn’t going to get more money, then he wanted his name first. Day and Knight. Again Gabe told him to fuck off. It was like that between them from then on. Always. During the whole TV series they were at each other’s throats. I remember we were at dinner one night—I had to fly to New York to try to calm things down between them—and Artie ordered a steak and the waiter said, “And for your vegetable?” Artie said, “He’ll have the same as me.” Gabe walked out of the restaurant.

  Hoag: This went on while they were working, too?

  Wright: Artie was a monster on the set. Drove people hard. Made them crazy. Gabe was a nice, easy-going guy. Artie hated that Gabe was more popular on the set than he was. So he demanded more credit. He insisted on a head writing-credit on the series. He got it, too. And he would undermine Gabe. If they had a musical guest on, and Gabe was doing a nice duet with him, Artie’d come out on stage and heckle them. Ruin the number. For laughs, of course. But it made Gabe seethe. I remember he used to say to me, I won’t go down to his level. Finally he recorded his own album of songs to keep himself sane. It did very well. That drove Artie crazy. After that, they only spoke to each other through the producers, or me. Each would cry his heart out to me. It went on for years. I earned my cut, let me tell you.

  Hoag: But they stayed together?

  Wright: Underneath, there was a deep relationship there. I don’t know, they needed each other. Artie more than Gabe, actually. His work was never as good after they split up.

  Hoag: He thinks the public just wasn’t ready for it.

  Wright: He’s right. They weren’t ready for total shit. (silence) Artie was trying to prove he never needed Gabe. Prove it to the world. Prove it to himself. He lost touch with his character. Lost his confidence. A comic without his confidence it’s like a tightrope walker getting scared of heights. He drove his writers away. His friends. Drank too much. Saddest thing was when he broke Connie’s heart with that no-good tramp Tracy. Every producer and leading man in town had jerked off on her chest. Sonny, he married her. I remember one night my lovely wife Ruthie and I went to dinner with them at Scandia. Through the entire meal he’d stop the conversation, cup Tracy’s face in his hand like she was a three-year-old and say, “Is this a face?” After he did it for the thirtieth time I grabbed Ruthie’s face and said, “Whattaya call this, Artie, a sack of shit?” He didn’t speak to me for months. Not until she dumped him. Then he called me up in the middle of the night and cried. Artie and I … we’ve been through a lot together. I was never as close to Gabe. He was harder to get to know. And he left the agency after they split up for good. Financially, I got the short end. The joke was on me. A fucking ambassador …

  Hoag: Can you tell me why it happened? What the famed, mysterious fight at Chasen’s was about?

  Wright: No mystery to it at all. They were sick to death of each other. They’d been together day and night—no pun intended—for more than fifteen years. They hated each other’s guts. It happens.

  Hoag: That’s it? There’s nothing more to it than that?

  Wright: That’s all it takes. When did you say this book is coming out?

  Hoag: Next fall, probably. Say, you may not realize it, but I happen to be one of your clients myself.

  Wright: You don’t say. Small world. What did you say your name was again?

  (end tape)

  (Tape #1 with Connie Morgan. Recorded February 26 in her dressing room at the Burbank Studio, where she is filming the TV series Santa Fe. She knits a muffler.)

  Morgan: It’s Arthur’s birthday present. I couldn’t finish it in time. It’s an exact copy of the scarf he wore in BMOC.

  Hoag: He’ll be thrilled. What happened to the original?

  Morgan: Wardrobe took it back.

  Hoag: I seem to remember he also wore a beanie cap in that.

  Morgan: Yes, he did. That he kept.

  Hoag: Do you happen to remember where?

  Morgan: Where? In a trunk someplace, I believe. He�
�d know where it is, if you’re really interested in seeing it.

  Hoag: Do you remember his having a dummy of himself?

  Morgan: (laughs) In his office, of course. Gabe threw it off a cliff. (silence) You’ve gotten awfully serious.

  Hoag: Do you know what happened to it?

  Morgan: Is it important?

  Hoag: Possibly.

  Morgan: Someone stole it off the lot. How are you two getting on?

  Hoag: We have our ups and downs.

  Morgan: One does.

  Hoag: He’s unpredictable.

  Morgan: Arthur learned long ago that he can keep people off guard that way. Make them accommodate him. If you’re wondering when you’ll hit the core …

  Hoag: I am.

  Morgan: I’ve known him forty years and I’m not sure I have.

  Hoag: You met on BMOC.

  Morgan: Yes. I’d had a few bits, but it was my first real part. A scout had seen me in a play at the University of Virginia. I came out here for a test and Warners put me under contract.

  Hoag: First impressions?

  Morgan: I remember Gabe seemed very nice. He was a polite young man, very handsome, a bit stunned by what was happening to them. He was inclined to be modest about it. Arthur was the opposite. He never stopped bragging or jumping up and down or cracking a joke. He had as much energy as three people. He was almost like a little boy, the way he was constantly looking for approval. To this day, I’ve never met anyone who so badly needs approval.

  Hoag: Were you attracted to him?

  Morgan: It was more … You see, I was essentially playing myself in BMOC. I was a campus beauty queen at Virginia. Boys had always stammered when they talked to me. Or tried to put a move on me. Or just stared. Arthur, he teased me right from the beginning. Badgered me, called me names such as Bones and Stretch. He treated me like absolute garbage, in the sweetest possible way of course. I loved it. Finally, after about a week of shooting, he came up to me on the set and said, “Listen, Bones, me and Gabe and a few of d’udders decided youse is an unstable pain in the behind and somebody’s gonna have to give ya a good fucking or the picture's goin’ inta the toilet.”