Free The Man Who Died Laughing by David Handler Page A

before us in the hot sun like a gaudy, indecent mirage, the hotels and billboards so huge, so unlikely, I was sure they’d disappear if I blinked twice. I tried it—they didn’t.
    “Put in a lot of years here,” said Sonny wistfully. “A lotta shtick under the bridge.”
    The third annual “Miss Las Vegas Showgirl Beauty Pageant” was being broadcast live from the MGM Grand Hotel, or so the billboard out front said. The parking lot, which must have spanned ten acres, was mostly empty except for some broadcast trucks. Inside, the vast casino was colder than a deli case and about as quiet. Most of the tables were covered. It wasn’t noon yet.
    Sonny got the royal treatment. The staff bowed and scraped and whisked us up to our rooms. He and Vic had a two-bedroom high-rollers’ suite with a living room, kitchen, and complimentary fruit basket. Nice view of the purple mountains, too. I was billeted across the hall in a single room with no fruit basket. I had a view of the MGM Grand parking lot and way off in the distance, a view of the Caesars Palace parking lot.
    They had, to quote Sonny, a real peach of a health club downstairs. We each pumped a round of irons, then did ten kilometers on the cycles, had a sauna and a cold plunge. Vic suggested we have our lunch sent up to their suite. Sonny insisted on eating in the coffee shop. So, bristling with health, we stormed the coffee shop and attacked man-sized platters of tuna salad.
    We sat in a booth, Vic and me on either side of Sonny. A lot of guests came over to ask for his autograph and shake his hand. They were tourists, salesmen, ordinary folks—his people. He joked with them, kidded them, acted downright pleased by their attention.
    Vic, on the other hand, never relaxed, never stopped scanning the room for somebody who looked like trouble. Vic was on the job now.
    “You gonna spend some time in the casino?” Sonny asked me between autographs.
    “Only as long as it takes to lose all my money.”
    “How much you bring?” he asked, looking concerned.
    “A thousand.”
    He was relieved. “That’s chicken feed.”
    “How about you?”
    “Me? I can’t go near a casino anymore. I gamble like I drink—can’t stop. Used to drop fifty, a hundred grand in a night. You won’t find me near a table now. Or the track.”
    At five minutes before two, Vic tapped his watch.
    “Thanks, Vic,” said Sonny, signaling for the check. “Don’t wanna be late for rehearsal, Hoagy. That’s exactly the kind of thing I can’t afford now.”
    The waitress was slow in coming over. As the seconds ticked away, Sonny tapped the table with his fork. Then yanked at Vic’s wrist to check the time. Then popped a couple of Sen-Sens in his mouth. Then yanked at Vic’s wrist again.
    “Honey?!” he called out again, clearly agitated now. “Waitress?!”
    “One minute!” she called back.
    “Why don’t I just let you out, Sonny?” Vic offered soothingly. “I can sign for it.”
    Sonny smashed the table with his fist, bouncing our silverware, our glasses, our keno holder. “No!” he roared. “She’s gonna bring it right over and she’s gonna …!” He caught himself, suddenly aware that people at neighboring tables were staring at him. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Good idea, Vic,” he said quietly. “Thanks.”
    Vic let him out. He rushed off alone, half-trotting, so intent that he bowled over two Japanese businessmen on his way out.
    “Sonny’s upset,” Vic observed, as he signed the check.
    “No kidding.”
    “Oh, I don’t mean this waitress business. This was actually a step in the right direction. The new Sonny.”
    “What would the old Sonny have done?”
    “Gotten the girl fired. After he turned the table over and smashed some plates. He’s a lot calmer now. No, it was the way he acted toward his fans.”
    “How did he act?”
    “Like he liked them. Wanted them to approach him. He was performing. He only does it when he’s upset. Calms