EMIL LAMP DIDN’T LOOK more than sixteen. He was a fresh-scrubbed, eager little guy with neat blond hair and alert blue eyes. He had on a seersucker suit, button-down shirt, and striped tie. A bulky Rolex was on one wrist, an Indian turquoise-and-silver bracelet on the other.
“Lulu …” I gasped, my throat parched.
“She’s okay, Mister Hoag,” he assured me. He didn’t sound much more than sixteen either. “Miss Day … Wanda, she has her. Nice dog. Breath smells kind of—”
“C-could I have a drink?”
“Sure, sure.”
He jumped to his feet, all action. There was a carafe on the table next to the bed. Lamp poured some ice water into a styrofoam cup. I started to reach for the cup, only I got stabbed in the side by what felt like a carving knife. I yelped and clutched at the spot. My fingers found tape wrapped there.
“You’ve got a cracked rib,” Lamp informed me, handing me my water. “Had one once myself. Hurts like heck. Take it from me, whatever you do, don’t laugh.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard.” I drank some of the water. It angered my throat going down. Vic’s hands had left it sore and swollen.
“You’ve also got a mild concussion. Your face looks pretty raw, but it’s just cuts and bruises. You’re lucky you didn’t get a fractured skull. That guy’s an animal. You’re in Cedars Sinai hospital on Beverly Boulevard. Doc says you’ll be here for a couple of days.”
I looked around. I was in a private room with a bath, color television, and window. Outside, it was dark.
“I’m not insured,” I told him.
“Your publisher is taking care of everything.”
“They do have a heart after all.” I tried to sit up a little, but my head started to spin. I surrendered to the pillow.
“You’re supposed to call them, when you’re up to it.” Lamp checked his watch. “Which I guess will be tomorrow. You’ve been out almost eight hours.”
“What happened to Vic?”
“We’re holding Early over for questioning and psychiatric observation. It seems he’s had a history of violent episodes since he got back from Nam. Beat a reporter half to death in Las Vegas just a couple of weeks ago.”
“I was there.”
“Know of a reason he’d have wanted Mr. Day dead?”
“Vic? He loved Sonny.”
“He doesn’t seem to love you much.”
Gingerly, I explored my face with my fingers. My lips were pulpy and tender. My nose felt like a soft potato.
“Could you tell me what happened to Sonny?” I asked.
“Sure, sure.” He sat back down and pulled out a notepad and opened it. “Sometime around three a.m., Pacific time—while you were still waiting for your flight at Kennedy Airport in New York—”
“You checked?”
“You bet I checked. When a dead man’s bodyguard screams ‘You did it! It’s your fault!’ and beats the crap out of some guy, I always check his whereabouts at the time of the murder. That’s how I got to be a lieutenant. Anyway, at approximately three a.m. Sonny Day took three shots in the stomach and chest from close range. It happened in the log arbor. He died before the ambulance got there. Massive internal hemorrhaging. He was in the yard, in his robe. Bed hadn’t been slept in. It was his own gun, a snub-nosed thirty-eight-caliber Smith and Wesson Chief Special. No prints. The bodyguard, Early, says he kept it in the study, loaded at all times. There were two others around the place. Also loaded. Not fired.”
“Somebody broke in?”
“We can’t find any trace of a break-in. Nothing missing. He had darned good security there. Electrified fence, the works. We examined the grounds and the outer wall pretty carefully this afternoon. I don’t think anybody broke in. No sign of a struggle. His hands, nails, the grass, nothing. I think he was shot by somebody whom he let in, or who was already there. You know, somebody he knew. That’s why we’re thinking about Early. He phoned it in. He, Miss Day, and the housekeeper said they were awakened by the shots.” He closed the pad. “You know, Mr. Hoag, this is a real honor for me.”
“First case?”
“Gracious no,” Lamp chuckled. “Oh, heck, no. I mean, my job has brought me in contact with Hollywood celebrities before, but I’ve never met someone like you. I mean, I was a big, big fan of Our Family Enterprise, Mr. Hoag.”
“Thanks. And make it Hoagy.”
“As in Carmichael?”
“As in the cheese steak.”
“I went to the library to see about checking out some of your other books, but they didn’t have any.”
“Go ahead, kick me when I’m down.”
“When’s the last time you spoke to Sonny Day?”
“About four in the morning New York time. Yesterday. No, I guess it’s still today, isn’t it? Sorry, I’m kind of fuzzy.”
“That’s the concussion.”
“No, I’m always kind of fuzzy.”
He grinned. “What did you two talk about?”
“The book we were working on together.”
“Did you often talk in the middle of the night like that?”
“Seemingly.”
“Hoagy, you can be a big help to my investigation. I need your cooperation.”
I swallowed. My throat didn’t like that. “You’ve got it.”
“Good. We have a report on file of a death threat Mr. Day received a few weeks ago. Early phoned it in. Evidence was disposed of. Mr. Day requested no intervention on our part. Know anything about it? What it said?”
“Supposedly it had to do with the book. I never saw it.”
“Uh-huh. I read the newspapers. I know Mr. Day was supposed to come out with some pretty choice dirt in this book of yours. Can you talk about that?”
“No reason not to. He was going to reveal the true story behind his famous Chasen’s fight with Gabe Knight. Only he backed out at the last minute. He wouldn’t tell me. Maybe he never intended to. I don’t know for sure. That’s why I went back to New York. And why he called me in the middle of the night. And why I came back. He relented. Said he would tell me. Promised me he would. Of course with Sonny, you could never be sure.”
“Either way, it’s something,” Lamp declared enthusiastically. “It sure is. Yes, indeed.” Lamp jumped to his feet again and began to pace around my bed. He sure had a lot of energy. “Could be that somebody didn’t want him to tell you what really happened. Stopped him before he got a chance. Somebody who heard him talking to you on the phone. Or somebody he informed about it. Maybe somebody dropped by for a nightcap. Somebody who figured in this thing, this fight. Yes, I’m starting to like this theory. This walks around the block nicely. Very nicely indeed.”
Not for me it didn’t. If Lamp was right, then so was Vic—Sonny got killed because of me. My head started to spin again, and a wave of nausea washed over me.
“You okay, Hoagy? You look a little green.”
“I’m just dandy.”
“I won’t keep you much longer. Do you have any idea what this fight of theirs was about?”
I shook my head.
“Theory? Speculation?”
I hesitated, then shook my head again, which hurt. I wasn’t ready to go that far with him yet.
Lamp eyed me. “So what’s your next move?”
“I thought I’d try standing up.”
“And then what?”
“Talk to the publisher. See what they want me to do.”
“They’ve stopped a bunch of calls at the desk for you. Newspapers. Television. This one’s a real circus. I guess Mr. Day was still a big, big star to a lot of people.”
Clearly, Lamp was too young to be one of them. I felt particularly ancient all of a sudden.
“Anybody else call to see how I was?”
“Like who?”
I shrugged. That hurt, too.
Lamp opened his notepad again. “There was a call from a woman who said she was Merilee Nash.”
There. My heart was beating again. “Any message?”
“Uh …” He checked his pad. “Let’s see … ‘Don’t die, you ninny.’”
All right. I wouldn’t. “When’s Sonny’s funeral?”
“Friday. Miss Day mentioned that you’re welcome to move back into the guesthouse when the doctors release you. She assumed you’d want to stick around for it.”
“She assumed right.”
With great difficulty I raised myself up. My bare feet found the cold floor. I sat there on the edge of the bed for a second, my ears ringing. I was wearing a shortie gown and nothing else.
“You supposed to be up?” Lamp asked.
“Only one way to find out. Give me a hand, would you?”
He stuck a hand under my armpit and helped hoist me up to my feet. I wavered there for a second like a newborn colt. Then I pointed to the John and he helped me stagger toward it. He was a little guy, but strong.
“She seemed real concerned about you, Miss Day did,” he commented, most delicately. “Are you and her …?”
“No.”
“Don’t mean to be nosy. Nice lady. Pretty. Heck, I’ll never forget her in that French movie Paradise when she crawled into that guy’s bed and started to—”
“Yeah. You and Vic will get along well. It’s on his top-ten list, too.”
I looked for my reflection in the bathroom mirror but found Frankenstein’s monster instead. My face was mottled several glorious shades of blue and red. All I needed was the bolts sticking out of my neck.
“Listen, Hoagy,” Lamp said from the doorway. “What I said about your being a big help, I meant it. You may know something. Something he told you that nobody else knows. When your head clears, could be it’ll come back to you. Don’t give it out to the press first, okay? Work with me. I’d appreciate it.”
“That’s no problem.”
“Great. Well, I’ll be going now.”
“Time to watch Lassie and hit the hay, huh?”
He laughed. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.” Then he cleared his throat. “Listen, I think I’d better keep somebody outside your door.”
“What for?”
“I like to be careful. Chances are it’s Early. He probably got mad about something and grabbed the gun from the study and shot his boss. But you never know. There’s still our little theory to consider. And if that’s correct, you may be in danger.”
“I told you I don’t know anything.”
“The person who shot Sonny Day wouldn’t necessarily know that. Not for certain.” He grinned reassuringly. “Hey, not to worry, Hoagy. You’re in good hands. Haven’t lost anybody yet.”
“I feel better already.” In fact, I was starting to feel seriously dizzy.
“I still can’t believe I’m actually talking to the Stewart Hoag. Maybe … maybe sometime you’d autograph my copy of your book?”
“Love to.”
He started to go. So did I. He caught me just before I hit the floor.
I slept off and on through the night, never fully awake. A nurse woke me once to feed me a pill, a doctor to peer into my eyes with a bright light. In the gray light of early morning I had a little juice and hot cereal and two sips of the worst coffee I’d ever tasted in my life. The dizziness was starting to fade, but I still felt lousy. The kind of lousy that comes with losing a good friend and feeling like maybe you were partly responsible for it.
Overnight I’d become a hot commodity. The Enquirer offered me $50,000 for my story of Sonny’s last days. The Star offered to top it. Good Morning America wanted me on as a guest. They’d even come to my hospital room for the taping. So would Today. So would Entertainment Tonight.
I was hot again. Everybody wanted me, just like in my glory days. Only this time I told all of them no. That confused them. They didn’t get me. To them, I was one lucky son of a bitch—a has-been writer who stumbled into a major-league showbiz murder and had a golden opportunity to clean up on it. That’s what I would have thought, too, if I was on the outside. But I wasn’t.
I got hold of the dignified old gent who ran the publishing company. He didn’t sound so dignified right now. There was too much greed in his voice.
He informed me they’d decided to rush Sonny’s book into print as soon as possible. It would be made up of the one hundred or so pages of fleshed-out transcripts I’d turned in, plus what I could make out of the remaining tapes. There would also be photos and a lengthy postscript—by me—detailing the circumstances and aftermath of Sonny’s death.
He coughed uneasily. “I have one very important question for you, young man,” he said.
“No, he didn’t,” I said.
“No, he didn’t what?”
“No, he didn’t tell me what the fight in Chasen’s was about.”
“I see. Too bad. Well, find out as much as you can. Continue your interviewing. See if you can talk to that fellow they’re holding, that bodyguard. He knows you. Maybe he’ll confide in you. And make yourself available to the press as an authority on the subject. It’ll be a big help for you when it comes time to go on tour. Just don’t give them too much. We can’t have them stealing any of our thunder, can we.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get someone else. I have no interest in continuing.”
“You’re under contract.”
“My contract was with Sonny.”
“But … but we’ve acted in good faith. We’ve taken good care of you.”
“I’ll pay you back for the hospital bills.”
“Money is not the point, young man.”
“Really? Then what is?”
“There will be a book, with you or without you. If you don’t finish it, someone else will. A stranger. Is that the way you wish to see this project end for you? I can’t believe it is. Stay out there. Stay and finish what you’ve started.”
“I’m not interested.”
“I simply can’t believe that,” he said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “You must not be yourself. That head injury. Why don’t you think it over? We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
I hung up and called Wanda. I had to go past the head of my agency to get to her. Harmon Wright was there at the house screening all calls. He didn’t ask how I was.
“How are you?” she asked me, out of breath. She sounded lot like that little girl on the beach again.
“Groggy. You?”
“Every time I hear footsteps I look up and expect him to come walking through the doorway. I guess I … I still can’t believe it happened. Mommy’s here. Heshie. Gabe even came by for a few minutes.”
“He did?”
“He was crying, Hoagy. He said Sonny’s murder was a crime against all Americans. They … the police think Vic maybe did it.”
“Maybe.”
“And after all Sonny did for him.”
“Vic’s just a suspect. Nothing’s for certain.”
“When can you leave the hospital?”
A nurse came in with more pills. I swallowed them with water.
“Tomorrow, maybe. Listen, Wanda, I want you to know I’m … I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye.”
“Forget it. You’re here. That’s all that matters. Lulu’s fine, but she misses you. And so do I. Come home.”
“They want me to finish the book.”
“So do I.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. He’d have wanted you to. Besides, if you don’t, some sleaze will write one. You have to finish it, Hoagy.”
“Say I did. It would all have to come out. Chasen’s. The affair. I wouldn’t be able to fudge anything. I’m not made that way.”
“Good.”
“But there’s your mother to consider. It would hurt her and … wait, I’m sorry I brought it up. Now isn’t the time to discuss this.”
“No, it’s okay,” she assured me. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. I really have. That fight between Daddy and Gabe happened thirty years ago. It’s ancient history. I think it’s time the truth came out. I really do. No more secrets. No more damned secrets. That’s how people get hurt—by secrets. Not by the truth.”
“What if Connie doesn’t feel that way?”
“She does. I know it. Finish the book, Hoagy. Stay and finish. Wanda wants you to.”
I moved back into the guesthouse two days later, ears ringing, ribs taped, the very model of a modern ghostwriter.
That was the same day the publisher announced I would be finishing Sonny’s book. Their press release hinted that I was privy to never-before-published disclosures concerning Knight and Day’s breakup. The L.A. papers played up the story big. After all, there wasn’t much else new to report on the case, other than that Vic was still being held for observation. The L.A. Times even ran that old jacket photo of me from Our Family Enterprise, the one where I’m standing on the roof of my brownstone in a T-shirt and leather jacket, looking awful goddamned sure of myself.
Emil Lamp, boy detective, gave me a lift from the hospital in his unmarked police sedan, which was as spotless as he was. He gripped the wheel tightly, hands at the ten-of-two position, and observed all the traffic laws.
“I thought you were going to cooperate with me, Hoagy,” he said. “I thought we had an understanding.”
“We do.’“
“Then why the grandstanding? Why do I have to pick up the newspaper to find out your plans?”
“That’s the publisher’s doing, not mine. I was planning to tell you.
“Yeah?” he said doubtfully.
“True story,” I assured him. “I gave it a lot of thought and decided I could best protect Sonny’s interests by sticking around and finishing. I need a final chapter. I don’t have one right now.”
“I see.”
“I also want to do whatever I can to help.”
“Sure, sure. Tell me about these disclosures of yours they’re talking about.”
“They exaggerated a little. All I’ve got is an idea.”
“Share it with me.’“
“That I can’t do.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a touchy matter. I have to handle it a certain way.”
“What way is that?”
“The right way.”
Lamp frowned. “I’m not happy about this, Hoagy.”
“Look, if it ends up having anything to do with the murder, you’ll be the first to know. Believe me, I want Sonny’s killer brought to justice as much as anyone.”
We crossed Sunset on Beverly Drive and cruised past all of those giant houses on all of those tiny lots. A city work crew was pruning the towering curbside palms from atop a five-story motorized ladder. My idea of a terrific job for someone else.
“Besides,” I said, “I do have something for you. It came to me when my head started to clear.”
“What is it?”
“Somebody tried to spook Sonny on his birthday. Left him a particularly ghoulish little surprise in his car.”
I told Lamp about the dummy with the beanie cap and the bullet holes. Then I told him about the rest—the eight-by-ten glossy with the carving knife in it, the ripped-up tapes, the curious nonresponses of Sonny and Vic. I didn’t mention that I’d once thought Sonny himself may have been behind it all.
When I was done, Lamp shook his head and said, “Boy, this is a spooky one. I’m gonna get nightmares from this case.”
“Sleep with a night-light.”
“Already do.” Lamp grinned. “This business with the keepsakes, props, whatever from his past—this interests me. Especially since they were items that hadn’t been seen for a while. Whoever was behind it is someone Mr. Day went back a ways with.”
“He knew who did it.”
“He did?”
“He was frightened, but he wouldn’t bring you fellows in. He was protecting someone. What we don’t know, I suppose, is if the same person who was trying to scare him also killed him.”
“You think it might be different people?”
“I’m no expert, but it seems to me there’s an entirely different personality profile between someone who sneaks around leaving sick little threats and someone who has the nerve to face a person and pull the trigger.”
“You’re right—you’re no expert. That talks good, but so does succotash.”
“Succotash?”
“It’s like that old theory that people who keep attempting suicide really don’t want to die. Succotash.”
“Succotash. I wonder if my ex-wife has heard that one.”
“I’ve seen plenty of repeaters make it. If they want to die, they eventually do.”
I glanced over at him, wondering how it was possible that what he’d seen hadn’t in any way rubbed off on him.
“But that’s good info, Hoagy. I’ll see if I can check it out. Thanks. I owe you one.”
“How about letting Vic go to the funeral? It would mean a lot to him.”
Lamp’s lips puckered. “You don’t think Early did it, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Sonny was like a father to him.”
“People kill their fathers all the time. Almost as often as they kill their mothers.”
“You think he’s guilty?”
“I really don’t know, Hoagy.”
“What about that theory of yours?”
“I still like it. But Early’s tempting. He’s in hand, and he’s a fruitcake. Be awful easy to pin it on him. An ambitious, unscrupulous cop would do just that—wear him down and bully a confession out of him. Be a hero.” He grinned. “Maybe even get a nice fat book contract out of it.”
“You’re not that kind of cop, are you, Lamp?”
“Oh, heck, no.”
“But you must be pretty good. This is a big case to get assigned.”
He blushed. “I get results.”
We hit the circus a good three blocks down the canyon from the house. It was bigger than before. It wasn’t just the press now. Now there were also curiosity seekers, gawkers, people who couldn’t wait to drive by the dead man’s house. People, I was reminded, make me sick.
Lamp pulled over and stopped.
“This is as far as I go,” he said.
“You’re not coming in?”
“Never like to bother folks when they’re grieving.”
“Kind of a sensitive guy, huh?”
“The job gets done.”
“That’s nice, Lamp.”
Wanda greeted me in the entry hall with a bear hug that did my rib very little good. She cupped my face in her hands and said, “I’m so glad you’re here, Hoagy.”
She was very calm and composed. She wore a knit dress of black cashmere and black boots. She had a pearl necklace on, and her hair was brushed and shiny and there was a bit of makeup on her eyes. She took my hand and led me toward the living room.
From the study came the sounds of Harmon negotiating Sonny’s funeral on the phone.
“We’re talking about burnished mahogany here, you greedy cocksucker! Not fucking gold!”
The man was still being Sonny’s agent, looking out for him even after death did them part. After forty years, I don’t suppose you just shut it off.
Connie sat on the living room sofa, staring into the brook. She looked pale and shaken. She looked old. I sat down beside her and told her how sorry I was. She kept looking into the brook. I felt like an intruder, so I started away.
Softly, she said, “He told me how much you meant to him, Hoagy. He was lucky to know you.”
“I was the lucky one.”
Lulu was so happy to see me she whooped and moaned and tried to crawl into my shirt. The guesthouse was as I’d left it. My bags were on the bed. I unpacked and stretched out and listened to my ears ring for a while. Then I turned on the TV. One of the local stations was playing a special retrospective of Sonny’s movies. I watched a few minutes of Jerks—one of the classic scenes, where Sonny tries to figure out the blender and gets a malted in the face. He was so young, so full of talent and life that he practically jumped off the screen. I turned off the set and went back inside the house.
I helped as much as I could over the next day and a half. I drove over to Connie’s and fetched her mail and messages for her. I took care of some of the funeral arrangements. I spelled Harmon on the phone. The reporters were dismayed when they discovered I was the one screening their calls. They tried everything to get info from me—flattery, sympathy, bribery. One of them even said, “C’mon, Hoag. You’re one of us. You owe us.” But the family didn’t want any statements issued. They got nothing from me.
Sonny was buried at Hillside Memorial over near the airport on a brilliant, cloudless day—a sunny day, as all of the papers would report. He joined the company of Al Jolson there, among others. The closed-coffin service was held in a chapel on the grounds. Sonny once told me it had been fifty years since he’d been in a temple. Now he was back, and everyone came to see him off.
It was a major-league Hollywood funeral. Sinatra was there. Hope. Burns. Lewis. Martin. Berle. Sammy Davis, Jr. Gabe Knight, of course. Shirley MacLaine was there. Gregory Peck. Danny Thomas. Gerald and Betty Ford. Tommy Lasorda.
And Vic Early was there, too, wearing a navy-blue suit. A police officer stood at his side. I went over to the big guy before the service.
“Hey, Hoag,” he said softly. He seemed to have trouble focusing his eyes.
“How are you doing, Vic?”
“Sorry about going after you. I saw red. Couldn’t help myself.”
“Forget about it.”
“I know you had nothing to do with it. You were good for him.”
“Thanks. What’s going to happen to you?”
“They’ve been giving me tests. The lawyer says they’ll have to let me go pretty soon. Either that or charge me, and they got no grounds to do that.”
“No idea what happened that night?”
“I was asleep, Hoag. He needed me, and I was asleep. I swear.”
“I believe you. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Without Sonny, I’ve got no place. Nobody.”
“If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”
“Okay, Hoag. Sure. No hard feelings?”
“No hard feelings.”
He smiled. “’Poon one for me, huh?”
“I’ll do that.”
Sinatra read a personal message from the President calling Sonny’s death “a tragic loss” and Sonny “a true American, a man whose humanity, generosity, and love of his country and its people served as a beacon in the darkness.” Sinatra did not break down and sob, as was reported by a New York Post reporter who wasn’t even on the grounds, let alone in the chapel. It was Gabe Knight who cried. Gabe gave the eulogy. In a shaky voice, he described Sonny as “a man who never lost a child’s wonder at the joys and pains of life.” He called him “a man of vulnerability, of emotion, of greatness—a man who was, and would always be, The One.” Gabe concluded by reading the final stanza of “their” song:
In the roaring traffics boom
In the silence of my lonely room
I think of you.
Night and day.
Then he broke into tears and had to be led away by the cantor, who was Monty Hall.
The pallbearers were Gabe Knight, Harmon Wright, Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., Bob Hope, and Dean Martin.
Afterward, Connie and Wanda sat shiva for Sonny at the house. Chairs were set up in the living room. There was food and coffee in the dining room. A lot of the celebrities from the funeral fought their way through the press outside the gate to come in for a brief chat with Connie and Wanda, and with each other.
Sinatra commandeered the sofa: he and his wife sat on either side of Connie to comfort her. Harmon Wright and his wife would probably have been a greater comfort, but who was going to be the one to tell Francis that?
This was some gathering. Just a few impressions:
—A gaggle of comics standing in a corner swapping Sonny Day stories. Shecky Greene saying, “One day, I was down to my last six cents, not a booking in sight, Sonny slipped a fifty in my pocket and told me something I’ll never forget: ‘Be yourself.’” And Jackie Mason firing back, totally deadpan: “And still you made a living.”
—Sammy Davis, Jr., telling people about a premonition of death he’d gotten while flying over the Bermuda Triangle only two days before Sonny’s murder. “If I’d have knowed it was gonna be Sonny,” he said, “baby, I’d have jumped out.”
—Milton Berle, standing alone near the coffee urn, his hand shaking badly as he raised his cup to his lips. He snatched a furtive glance around to see if anyone noticed. No one was looking at him at all.
The phone kept ringing. I took a lot of the calls in Sonny’s study. That’s where Gabe Knight found me. He poured himself a brandy from the decanter at the bar and raised it inquiringly. I nodded. He poured me one and brought it over to me. He seemed quite cool and collected now, a far cry from his emotional behavior at the funeral.
“I understand you’re continuing with Arthur’s book, my young friend,” he said quietly. He looked past me out the window and sipped his brandy.
I sipped mine. “That’s right.”
“Admirable. He’d like that.”
“I think so.”
“Though possibly unwise.”
“Really? Why?”
“You could get hurt.”
“That’s already happened,” I said, fingering my still-tender nose.
“Even worse.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Gabe smiled, or at least his mouth did. His eyes never joined in. “Let’s say I’m trying to be helpful.”
“If that’s the case, then tell me why you and Sonny fought at Chasen’s.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So he didn’t tell you?”
“He didn’t get a chance. Somebody stopped him. What was he going to tell me?”
“Believe me, the less you know, the better off you are, young friend. Go home to New York. Back away from this thing.”
“Or what?”
“I speak with your best interests in mind. One man is already dead. Don’t jeopardize your own life. Go home.”
“Not until I know the whole story. Tell me and I’ll go.”
Someone called Gabe’s name from the living room.
“Coming!” he called pleasantly. Then he turned back to me. “I warned you, my young friend. Remember that.”
Gracefully, he strode back into the group. I reached for my brandy and discovered my own hand was shaking now.
I retired to my guesthouse early. There were still fifty or so people in the main house, but the guesthouse was far enough away that their coming and going didn’t bother me. I took one of the pills the doctor had given me, but I didn’t need it. I passed out the second my head hit the pillow, Lulu comfortably ensconced in her usual position.
I don’t know whether it was the smoke or Lulu’s nosing at me that woke me. All I know is I opened my eyes sometime later to find my room on fire. The desk had been thrown open and dumped—transcripts, notes and tapes were in flames. The drapes had caught. So had the bedspread. Fire crackled all around me. Lulu was huddled at my side, trembling.
Quickly, I grabbed her under one arm, and threw a blanket over the papers burning there on the floor. As the blanket began to smolder, I dashed across it, through the smoke and flames toward the door. Tears streamed down my face. Flames licked at my skin. I collapsed on the lawn in my boxer shorts, singed and choking. One of the cops from the gate was running toward me. So were a few of the mourners.
“You okay?” asked the cop.
I nodded, gasping for air, coughing.
“Anybody else—?”
I shook my head.
He ran inside anyway, to see if he could put out the fire. But it was too late. We watched the little cottage burn. All of the mourners were out there now on the lawn, watching.
Gabe Knight was one of them. But he wasn’t watching the fire. He was watching me.
The fire trucks arrived in time to keep the flames from spreading to the trees and the main house, but the guesthouse was gone. So were my clothes. They gave Lulu some oxygen. Me, too. Coughing, like laughing, is no fun with a cracked rib. Wanda, after she made sure I was okay, ran into the big house and brought me out Vic’s flannel robe to wear. It smelled like Ben-Gay, but it was warm.
They were still hosing the charred wreckage down when a voice behind me said, “Smoking in bed again?”
It was Lamp, wearing a windbreaker.
“Mom know you’re out this late?” I asked.
“I got a permission slip. What happened?”
“Somebody made a bonfire out of all my papers.”
“Any idea who?”
I shook my head. “Everybody thinks they’re a critic these days.” I glanced up at him. “I suppose your little theory pans out.”
“I think we can assume somebody’s trying to scare you real good,” he agreed calmly. “Was your door locked?”
“Yes. Not that it’s ever done any good.”
“Well, we’ll go through this mess in the morning. Maybe we’ll find something. Does this kill the book?”
“No. I made a copy of the tapes when I was in New York and sent them to the publisher. I suppose,” I said, “it could have been set by anybody who was here.”
“Or not.”
“Or not?”
“It could also have been someone who knew the security system here, knew how to get onto the property without being spotted, and then how to hightail it out of here.”
“Like who?”
“Like Vic Early. Early escaped on his way back from the funeral this afternoon, Hoagy. He’s presently at large—and a prime suspect, I’m afraid. Get some sleep. I’ll be by in the morning.”
Lamp headed off to his car. Wanda appeared next to me.
“I guess,” she said, “we’ll have to find you a bed.”
The last place I wanted to sleep was in Sonny’s room.
Too much of him was there. The yellowed photo over the fireplace of him and his brother Mel standing in front of Pine Tree Lake with their arms around each other. The vast walk-in closet with the 500-odd pairs of new shoes in a custom-built wall rack. The bathroom, with his colognes and tonics still laid out beside the sink.
I would have preferred another room, any other room. But Wanda insisted. She said she wouldn’t sleep a wink unless she knew I was right, there across the hall from her. So I gave in. I was too weary to argue.
I opened the doors to the small terrace and let some fresh air in. The breeze carried the stink of the fire on it. There were cops on the gate and the front door of the house. Harmon had driven Connie home. The caterers had cleared out. It was very quiet. I eased into Sonny’s big bed and lay there on my back in the darkness with Lulu, my wheels still turning.
It couldn’t be Vic. Sure, it didn’t look terrific for him right now. But he couldn’t have wanted Sonny dead. Or me. It was Gabe. Gabe was the one who told me to back off. Gabe was the one who threatened me. But why? To save his ambassadorship? I doubted it. So what if he had slept with his partner’s wife? That was thirty years ago. Ancient history, Wanda had called it. Who could possibly care now?
Way in the back of my mind, something began to gnaw at me. Something Sonny had once said. An odd fact that didn’t fit anywhere. What was it? And why was it gnawing at me?
For the second time that night, I fell into a deep sleep. And for the second time I was pulled out of it.
This time it was by the rustling of the sheets and the feel of a warm, smooth body there in the bed with me, a long, lean body over me, astride me….
“Wha—”
“Ssh.”
It was her famous scene, the one from Paradise. She was in her movie again. She was performing.
I felt her hot breath on my face, her hands on my chest. And I felt something else.
I was performing too.
Who cared if she was nuts? Who cared if this wasn’t strictly, one hundred percent real. I didn’t. If this was her movie, I wanted to be in it, cracked rib or not. God, did I want to be in it.
It wasn’t until dawn that we collapsed, spent. Lulu padded in from the terrace and sniffed at us, jealous and disapproving. I patted the bed and she jumped and lay between us, nuzzling my hand for attention.
“I was wrong,” Wanda murmured.
“About what?”
“I would want to be that woman the first night.”