IT WAS STILL WINTER in New York. The raw wind off the Hudson cut right through my trench coat when I got out of the cab in front of my apartment. Old, sooty snow edged the sidewalk.
My apartment was even smaller and dingier than I remembered it. I gave Lulu her dinner and her water and slumped into my easy chair. There was unpacking to do. Bills to pay. It could all wait. I wasn’t in the mood.
Lulu was down, too. She only sniffed at her mackerel before she curled up on the sofa with a disagreeable grunt. There, she glowered at me.
I couldn’t just sit there. I decided to take her out on the town. I changed into a black cashmere turtleneck, heavy wool tweed suit, and oiled hiking shoes. I got out the fur-lined leather greatcoat I bought in Milan. Then I found my cap, my gloves, and my walking stick and we headed out. It was night. There was noise and activity and energy out there. Enough to get lost in. We headed down Broadway. I strode briskly. Lulu waddled along beside me, her low-flying ears catching bits of the sooty snow. Down around Lincoln Center I discovered a Tower Records that hadn’t been there before. We went in and browsed. I treated myself to several Erroll Garner albums. Then we headed over toward Central Park West.
It’s a very small town. Just like that we found ourselves standing right across the street from the very building we used to live in. The windows with their $895,000 view of the park were all lit up. Zack was no doubt throwing her a little welcome-home bash—something smart and trendy and assholey. Lulu whimpered. She wanted to go up and say hello. I growled at her and started downtown. She didn’t budge. I yanked on her leash. She still didn’t budge. I yanked harder. I won. I’m bigger.
At Columbus Circle we cut east along Fifty-ninth Street and made for the Racquet Club. I wrote a check for all of the dues I owed and left Lulu in friendly hands at the desk. A masseur worked me over for an hour. Then I sat in the steam. Afterward, flushed and relaxed, I led Lulu down Park to Grand Central. I resisted the temptation to swing over to Madison and look in Paul Stuart’s window, knowing I’d end up blowing whatever settlement I got from Sonny’s publisher on clothes. It wouldn’t be enough for another Jaguar.
At least I had learned something from this experience—I wasn’t cut out to be a ghost.
We stopped in at the Oyster Bar for a dozen bluepoints and a Bloody Mary. Then it was over to the Algonquin. The maître d’, who has a veddy English accent that he came to by way of Bensonhurst, greeted us like old chums and gave us a corner table. Michael Feinstein was doing a nice quiet Gershwin medley on the piano. A split of champagne sat neatly on top of the oysters. So did the prime rib and the médoc. As always, there was a little cold poached salmon on the side for my girl. It perked her right up.
Strangely, I was thinking about Wanda. I hadn’t said goodbye to her. I should have, but my feelings were still too jumbled. It wasn’t as if anything had awakened down below. It hadn’t. She was crazy, no question. Still, she wasn’t a bad person, and she sure as hell wasn’t dull, and I sure as hell wasn’t happy sitting here by myself.
I had a big slab of chocolate cake, coffee, and a Courvoisier. I thought about a second Courvoisier. Instead, I got a cab, had it drop us at the liquor store around the corner from my apartment, and I bought a whole bottle of the stuff.
It was sleeting now. Some of it landed on Lulu’s nose as we headed home. She snuffled at it and speeded up the closer we got to our door.
The Courvoisier and the Garner went down very well together. I sat back in my chair and let them have their sweet way with me, the sleet tapping against the kitchen skylight, Lulu dozing in my lap. I particularly liked the way he handled “I Cover the Waterfront.” It fit my mood. Blue.
The Elf and the sleet were still tapping away a few hours later when I drifted off there in my chair.
The phone roused me at about four a.m. Someone was sobbing into it. I guess I don’t have to tell you who.
“Can’t stand it, Hoagy. Can’t stand the pain.”
“So take an aspirin, Sonny.”
“Not that kind of pain. And you know it. It’s … it’s …”
“It’s what?”
“I lost your respect. Can’t stand it.”
“You should have thought of that before you got me involved in your sham.”
“Don’t do this, Hoagy. Don’t shut me out.”
“Sonny, it’s the middle of the night.”
“I know. I know. Sitting here in the study. Looking out at your plant. Got a floodlight on it. Just sitting here.”
“You been drinking?”
“Some,” he admitted. “You?”
“Some.”
“So whatta we do, Hoagy? Huh? Whatta we do?”
“We go to bed. In the morning, we wake up. You get on with your life, I get on with mine.”
“Mine seems awful empty, Hoagy.”
“Yeah.”
“Come back, Hoagy. Come home.”
“I am home.”
“We could tummel some other ideas, huh? A movie, maybe.”
“Forget it.”
“You can have your old room back.”
“Sonny, my life is here. I have a career to get back to, such as it is.”
“So write your next novel here. Stay as long as you want, huh? We can still have breakfast and talk and—”
“Sonny, I’m hanging up now. Good-bye.” I started to put the phone down.
But then he blurted, “We can talk about the fight.”
I stopped. “About what?”
“The fight with Gabe. My fight with Gabe. We can talk about it.”
“You’ll tell me?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“The whole truth?”
“And nuttin’ but.”
“I’ve heard this before.”
“I swear it.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth. Come out. You’ll see.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Things … they’ve gotten too out of hand. I-I’ll tell you when you get here.”
“Tell me right now. Why did you and Gabe fight?”
“I … I can’t tell you over the phone. I need to be with ya, to see the look on your face. I need for you to see why it’s been so hard for me. Then you’ll understand.”
“This sounds like more bullshit. Good-bye, Sonny.”
“It’s not. Believe me. I need to tell it. It’s gotta be told. It’s the only way things will change. The demons won’t go away. I gotta tell you.”
“If you’re lying …”
“If I’m lying, I’ll give ya the entire advance. My share. All of it. It’s yours. Just come.”
“If I come, it won’t be for money. It’ll be because I want to finish what we started. Finish your book.”
“Our book. Come back. We’ll do it together. Just like we been. Catch the morning flight. Vic’ll meet ya at the airport. Come back to me, Hoagy.”
Lulu and I were on that morning flight. I know just what you’re thinking—as soon as Sonny sobered up he’d clam up, and there I’d be, on my way back home to New York again, pissed off. I knew that. I knew there was only a slim chance that he was really going to tell me the whole story about Connie and Gabe. But I had to take that chance.
Besides, I hadn’t said good-bye to Wanda.
I should have known something was wrong when Vic wasn’t at the airport to meet me. I waited half an hour before I figured Sonny was still out cold and had never told him to pick me up. So I flagged down a cab and gave him Sonny’s address. We got on the freeway. Lulu stood on my lap and stuck her nose out the window and wagged her tail, happy to be back in L.A.
The television news vans and press cars were backed up a full block down the canyon from his house.
“What’s going on?” I asked the cabbie.
“Hey, this must be the Day place!” he exclaimed, excited.
“Yes, it is. What about it?”
He checked me out in his rearview mirror. “You a friend of his?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You don’t know then, huh? He’s dead. Been on the radio all morning. Somebody shot the poor fucker. Sorry to be the one to tell you. That’ll be twenty-five dollars, please. Plus gratuity.”
And that’s how I learned Sonny Day had been murdered—from a polite cab driver.
Reporters, photographers, and camera crews were milling around the front gate, chatting, smoking, waiting. I squeezed through, them with Lulu and my bags. The cop on the gate wouldn’t let me buzz the house. That happened to be his job. So I identified myself and let him do it. He spoke into the intercom and listened. Then he nodded to me. A minute later the gate clicked open and I slipped inside, the reporters shouting after me for my name, my business, my connection, my …
I headed up the driveway. As I rounded the curve where the orchard ended, I saw a cluster of people by the reflecting pool. One of them spotted me and ran toward me.
It was Wanda. She was still in her caftan and her eyes were red and her hair mussed.
“He’s dead, Hoagy,” she wailed. “He’s dead.”
She threw her arms around me and clung to me. I dropped my bags and held her.
I looked over her shoulder at the estate and began to realize how different it looked. Police cars were parked over by the garage. The log arbor was roped off. Uniformed cops, plainclothesmen, and technicians were talking and making notes.
Connie was there by the reflecting pool. So was Harmon Wright. And Vic. As Wanda and I made our way toward them, my arm still around her, Vic spotted me. His face turned red.
“You did it!” he screamed at me. “It’s your fault! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
An animal roar came out of him. He charged. He came at me full speed, like I was an opposing linebacker. My first instinct was to freeze. Then, as he got closer to me, I tried to sidestep him. I failed. He rammed me straight on and down we went, my head cracking hard against the pavement. The inside of it lit up like a pinball machine. My memory is a bit fuzzy from there on. I remember him snarling. I remember him punching me, pummeling my mouth, my nose, my ears. I remember it hurt. And Wanda was screaming, and the cops were running toward us. And he was right on top of my chest with both hands around my throat, choking me, me gagging, not being able to get any air. And then nothing …
Until I heard the coyotes wailing again. Only this time it wasn’t coyotes. It was an ambulance. I was in it, and somebody was putting something over my face. And then I was out again.
I came to in the hospital. I felt numb all over and very thirsty, and Detective Lieutenant Emil Lamp of the Los Angeles Police Department was sitting at the foot of my bed sucking on an ice cube.