5 The Boy Who Never Grew Up

by David Handler

  “You’re all class, Lyle.”

  “Class is strictly for phonies,” he snarled. “And if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a phony. I am who I am. The real me. And proud of it.” He sneered at me across the table. “Besides, you got no class either. Know why?”

  “Do tell.”

  “Because if you were as classy as you think you are you wouldn’t be working for me.” He smirked at me. “Would ya, Hoagster?!”

  I had to hand it to Lyle Hudnut. He knew which buttons to push. This was a singular gift he had. I told him so. I also suggested he get fucked. I said it in a classy way, of course. Then I walked out of the restaurant.

  Papa Bear was sitting in my chair.

  He was drinking my Bass Ale and leafing through an old volume of newspaper columns by Jimmy Cannon, which is something I read every couple of years just to remind myself what good writing is. I didn’t bother to ask him how he got in. Vic Early was always good with locks. He was a balding, sandy-haired giant in a knit shirt and slacks, six feet six, about two hundred fifty pounds and quite mild-mannered, provided you didn’t get him mad. Once, he had anchored the offensive line for the UCLA Bruins. Would have been a first-round NFL draft pick, too, if he hadn’t come back from Vietnam with a steel plate in his head. By trade he was a celebrity bodyguard. I brought him to New York to protect Cameron Sheffield Noyes, the best-selling novelist. Maybe you read about that one. Lately, he’d been keeping an eye on Merilee and her farm in Connecticut. Lulu whooped and jumped into his lap, happy to see him. Me, I wondered what the hell he wanted. I didn’t bother to ask him that either. He would tell me.

  The air conditioner was wheezing away in the window, but the living room was still stuffy and smelled more than faintly of Nine Lives canned mackerel for cats and very strange dogs. I stripped off my jacket and went to the refrigerator for a beer. There was none left. I poured myself two fingers of twelve-year-old Macallan instead. My sofa was buried under a pile of newspapers and unpaid bills and chew toys. Those were Lulu’s. I sat. I waited.

  “She has a favor to ask of you, Hoag.”

  I waited some more.

  “She’s having a pretty rough time of it, emotionally,” Vic went on, in his droning monotone. “And she could really stand to spend some time around someone who loves her.”

  “Why doesn’t she try calling the father of her child?” I suggested, trying to sound casual about it.

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “Hurt?”

  “No, it’s not Bill Hurt,” I snapped. “Or John Hurt. Or John Heard. Or Garfield Heard. Or—”

  “I meant, does it hurt?”

  “Oh.” I sipped my drink.

  “I don’t know who it is, Hoag. Honest, I don’t. Neither does Pam.” Vic was referring to Merilee’s elderly British housekeeper. Another of my choice finds. “Merilee won’t say a word to either one of us. We’re baffled. Nobody, but nobody’s been around. She’s had no dates. No phone calls from men. No messages.”

  “Flowers?”

  “The occasional bouquet. I figured those were from her agent.”

  “You ever know an agent to send flowers?”

  “I never had an agent,” Vic replied gravely. “This one guy was maybe going to represent me when I turned pro, only he sent me a Pontiac Firebird and two tickets to the Hula Bowl.”

  “I don’t think I qualify anymore, Vic.”

  “As what, Hoag?”

  “As someone who loves her.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t referring to you,” he confessed, shifting uncomfortably.

  I stared at him a second. “Oh, no, you don’t …”

  “She needs her, Hoag.”

  “She can’t have her. Lulu’s my dog.”

  “Merilee feels she belongs to both of you.”

  “She does not belong to both of us. She belongs to me.”

  Lulu let out a low moan of consternation and slunk into the bedroom. And very likely under the bed with the dust bunnies. She hates being fought over. It’s true what they say—divorce is always hardest on the little ones.

  “Merilee tried pulling this on me once before, Vic,” I explained. That was in London. She succeeded, too. “Lulu is mine. Merilee got the apartment, the Jag, the furniture. I got Lulu.” I drained my single malt and got up and poured myself another. “ And she has a lot of nerve asking for her after all of this shit she’s put us through.”

  Vic’s eyes widened. “Wait, she doesn’t even know I’m here, Hoag. Honest. This was all my idea. See, I was around the corner at Sometimes A Great Lotion picking up some stuff to rub on her feet and I just thought I’d … I’m worried about her, Hoag. The publicity’s been a real strain, and it’s been a rough pregnancy. She’s no kid, and it’s her first. She’s got the heavy ankles, the bloating, the heartburn, the hemorrhoids. Plus, she’s still vomiting every morning.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “You sound bitter, Hoag.” His brow furrowed with concern. “That’s not like you.”

  “Say hello to the new me.”

  “It would just be for a few weeks.”

  “Forget it, Vic.”

  “Oh, well,” he said heavily. “I tried.” He got to his feet, filling the small, dingy room. Lulu reemerged to oversee his departure.

  “We’ll walk you back.”

  “That’s not necessary, Hoag.”

  “Yes, it is. You drank my last beer.” Broadway was almost totally quiet, empty cabs prowling up and down the street for fares. It was barely eleven, but a light rain was starting to fall in warm, greasy drops, and Yushies can’t go out in the rain. They melt if they get wet. Even in good weather I was seeing fewer and fewer of the young urban shitheads around than I had back in the go-go years, when they had overrun my neighborhood and nearly ruined it. The crash had hacked a lot of them off at the knees, sending them scuttling back under the baseboards from whence they came. Only a handful of their trendoid boutiques and garish, overrated eateries were still in business. The rest were shuttered. Happily, my neighborhood was even starting to recover. The old merchants who had been crowded out were moving back in. I could buy fresh fruit again. Possibly someday soon I’d even be able to get my shoes resoled without having to walk sixteen blocks. That’s one of the best things about New York. You can’t kill it. You can’t kill something that doesn’t have a heart.

  “Hear you’re doing the Lyle Hudnut book,” Vic mentioned as we walked, Lulu ambling along ahead of us.

  “I am.”

  “What do you make of him?”

  “He’s an eight-hundred-pound sitcom gorilla. He sits wherever he wants and on whomever he wants. He’s crude, abusive, belligerent, and erratic as hell. I haven’t known him for long, but I hate him intensely. He has that effect on most people. In his defense, he told me some extraordinary stuff about his childhood tonight. He had it rough.”

  “Standard celebrity cop-out,” Vic said gruffly. “They all say, ‘You have to put up with my selfishness and cruelty because I had it rough when I was a kid.’ I’ve heard that from a million stairs, and it’s self-indulgent bull. We all had it rough as kids. But we learn how to deal with it, and we get on with our lives. There’s no excuse for their rotten behavior. Either somebody’s got class or they haven’t.”

  “I’d rather not talk about class anymore tonight.”

  “A bully like that,” Vic droned on, “that’s a guy who is trying to prove he’s not vulnerable. So he goes and makes everyone else feel like wimps so he’ll feel better. I hate guys like that.”

  “Like I said, he has that effect on most people.”

  We waited for the light to change at Amsterdam, where there was traffic, the cars’ tires hissing on the wet pavement. The rain was falling more steadily now. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Or it may have been a subway train. It’s always hard to tell in the city.

  “What do you know about shock treatment, Vic?”

  He glanced at me sharply. He had done heavy trank time twice at the Veterans Administr
ation hospital. Sometimes he just sees red and wigs out. I don’t know if it’s the steel plate or the pieces of shrapnel that are still in there. He looked back at the street. “They don’t call it that, Hoag,” he said quietly. “They call it ECT, short for electroconvulsive therapy. Know a couple of fellows who had it. Did Hudnut?”

  “When he was seventeen.”

  “That’s young. That’s very young.”

  The light changed. We resumed walking.

  “He claims his parents had it done to him because he was a rockhead.”

  “A what?”

  “A rebel. Always in trouble, from day one.”

  “Tell me more.”

  I told him about Lyle biting the mailman when he was three. About his fights with the other little kids, his trouble with authority. About burning down Herb’s ham shack. About Allen. About the drugs he’d been put on, and put himself on, and sold. I told him what I knew. “What do you think?” I asked him when I was done.

  “I think it makes for a very nice story,” he replied. “I myself am a big fan of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Terrific book, and the movie is one of my all-time favorites. Nicholson’s best performance, in my opinion. Only, that’s fiction, Hoag. In reality, they don’t administer ECT as a disciplinary tool. It’s not there to zap the rebellion out of people. It’s strictly for patients who aren’t responding to any other forms of therapy. And in teenagers it’s a last resort. Used only in the most acute cases.”

  “What kind of acute cases, Vic? What are we talking about?”

  “I’m no shrink,” he replied grimly.

  “He said his head was fine. Totally together.”

  “No way, Hoag. Not if they gave him ECT.”

  “He also said they knocked him out so he couldn’t object.”

  “They knocked him out because they have to,” Vic countered. “We’re talking about a massive convulsive seizure. If he wasn’t put under and given heavy doses of muscle relaxants, he’d have broken bones from all of the twitching that goes on. Sounds horrible, I know. But like I said, it’s only used when all else fails.”

  “He mentioned something about memory loss.”

  Vic nodded. “The guys I know, their memories were definitely scrambled. Especially about recent events. But a lot of that comes back. Or it’s supposed to.”

  The newsstand at Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam was bustling, “MY DADDY IS AN ALIEN” screamed the current Weekly World News, which was claiming that the father of Merilee’s love child was, well, a Martian. They even had a photograph of him. Or it. Complete with tentacles.

  Vic’s jaw muscles tightened as he lumbered past it, but he didn’t mention it. “What did Hudnut tell you about his parents?”

  “That he hated them. Why?”

  “Because the kind of incorrigible behavior you’re describing, that just doesn’t happen in a kid on its own. Lyle Hudnut is a product of the household he grew up in. You ask me, he’s not telling you the whole story.”

  “Possibly he doesn’t remember the whole story,” I suggested.

  Vic shook his head. “No way. You’re not dealing with memory loss here. You’re dealing with fabrication and denial.”

  “This is, after all, a memoir.”

  “How does this connect up with him getting caught waving his wienie in Times Square?”

  “He claims that was done to him, too. That he was set up.”

  “More persecution, huh?”

  “That part’s not so farfetched. A lot of people would like to see him get dumped from the air.”

  “Count me in,” said Vic. “I’ve never understood his appeal. There’s nothing funny about being gross. At least that’s my opinion.”

  Vic Early always had a lot of those.

  Central Park West hadn’t changed a bit. It never does. Lulu speeded up when we got to Merilee’s block. She always does. The lights were on in the eight windows overlooking the park, and the Jag was parked out front by the awning with its top up, beads of rain glistening on it in the streetlights. Happily, there were no paparazzi about.

  Ned, the doorman, got all excited when he spotted us. “Why, Mr. Hoag,” he exclaimed. “What a delight to see you again, sir.” He bent and patted Lulu. “The both of you.”

  A kid delivering pizza pulled up on a bike. Ned intercepted him and rang upstairs.

  I stood there under the awning, gazing at the Jag. If it’s possible to love a machine, I loved that one. It seemed to glow. “Do you rub them for her, Vic?”

  “Rub what, Hoag?”

  “Her feet.”

  “Who, me? Heck, no. Pam rubs them. Pam and no one else. She’s real upset about this whole business, Pam is. She’s taking it hard. Hey, why don’t you come up and say hello?” Vic offered. “She’d love to see you. She misses you.”

  “Are we still talking about Pam?”

  “You know who we’re talking about,” he said softly, pawing at the ground with his size fifteen-EEE black brogan. He was a bit large to be a matchmaker, but I guess there’s no height or weight requirement.

  “Look, I know you mean well, Vic,” I said gently, “but she’s messed up my whole life. I’m not going to let her ruin my day, too.”

  Lulu had other ideas. She was scampering toward the elevator with the pizza delivery man. I asked her not to. She ignored me. I told her not to. She ignored me. She wanted to see her mommy. She even started to get in the elevator.

  “Lulu, get your ass back here now!!”

  She froze, shocked and terrified. I usually didn’t raise my voice at her that way. Didn’t have to. Slowly, she skulked back to me with her tail between her legs. She slithered the last few yards until she was between my feet, trembling, a soft whimper of hurt and confusion coming from her throat. She didn’t know what she’d done wrong. She hadn’t had an accident on the rug. She hadn’t stayed out past her curfew. She didn’t understand. How could she?

  I picked her up. “Sorry, girl. I’ll explain it to you someday when we all grow up.”

  She brightened and nosed my left ear. I put her down and said, “Good night, Vic. Good to see you.”

  “Same here, Hoag.”

  I started back home in the warm rain, my mind on Lyle Hudnut. By his own admission, the man was a total control freak. How much of the truth about his own life story was he trying to control? How much hadn’t he told me? How much was I prepared to fight him over it? Lots of questions, and no easy answers. I expected this. This was why they paid me the big bucks. Not for banging out the words. That part’s easy. The hard part is separating the truth from the bullshit. To do that means wading around inside my celebrity’s head, hip boots required. Particularly with actors, who are the most gifted liars on the face of the earth. That’s what they do for a living—they make us believe in make-believe. A trait they share with most politicians and heads of Fortune 500 companies.

  Why had Lyle Hudnut undergone ECT? What wasn’t he telling me? And what, if anything, did this have to do with his arrest at the Deuce Theater? Questions. I had lots of them.

  I stopped at the Red Apple on Broadway for a six-pack of Bass Ale. There was a deep, ominous rumble of thunder as I got closer to home. Lightning crackled over the Hudson and the rain started coming down harder. Lulu speeded up the last hundred yards or so. We both did. My building has no doorman or lobby. Just a vestibule between the outside door and locked door, large enough for the mailboxes, the buzzers, and one person.

  There was one person in there. The person was Marjorie Daw. She was ringing my buzzer.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1992 by David Handler

  978-1-4532-6024-1

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