Free The Man Who Died Laughing by David Handler Page B

him down. Hasn’t done that in a long, long time.”
    “I suppose he has a lot riding on this job.”
    “It’s not the job. It’s that letter. It’s got him plenty worried. Me, too.”
    “You think it’s for real?”
    Vic shrugged. “Have to assume it is. You can’t afford to be wrong.”
    “Think there’s any connection between it and my little housewarming gift?”
    Vic shifted uncomfortably. “No. No, I don’t.”
    “Then who—”
    “Let’s go. I don’t want him to be alone for very long.”
    A set had been erected on the stage of one of the headliner rooms, seemingly out of all of the Reynolds Wrap in the state of Nevada. A runway extended out into the seats, where it met up with the TV cameras and the monitors. Production assistants with clipboards scurried around. Pot-bellied technicians fiddled importantly with lights and mikes and eyeballed the showgirls, most of whom were seated in the first few rows, ignoring them. A few of them were up on stage learning their cues and marks from the stage manager. They wore tight jeans and halter tops. They were very tall and very well-built, but their features were coarse, their expressions stony. Sonny was up on stage shaking hands with the promoters and making them laugh. Vic and I slid into a couple of seats.
    “I don’t like this,” said Vic. “So many people coming and going. Any of them could take a shot at Sonny.”
    The big guy was getting jumpy. Something about him being jumpy made me jumpy. “So why don’t you call the police? Or hotel security?”
    “You know why.”
    “Sonny’s kind of rough on you, isn’t he?”
    “He’s got to be rough on somebody. Better me than somebody he can really hurt, like Connie or Wanda.”
    “What happened to the ‘big guys have big feelings’ business?”
    “Nothing. It’s just that I can take it from him, Hoag. It’s my job to take it, not theirs.”
    “Think he’s going to pull out of this book?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Do you want him to?”
    “I want him to do what’s best for him,” Vic replied.
    The director announced a technical run-through and called for quiet. He was a kid with a beard, a Hawaiian shirt, and an impatient, uptight manner. He was insecure. An insecure director, Merilee once told me, can get to be a very bitchy one.
    And this one did, within minutes.
    Sonny was reading one of his introductions off the prompter. A joke: “And now, here they are, Miss Aladdin Hotel.”
    It got a few snickers from the crew, but Sonny wasn’t happy with it. This he indicated by clutching his throat and making gagging noises.
    “Do you have a problem with the line, Mr. Day?” the director demanded.
    “Kinda stale, ain’t it? I mean, it was stale when Paar used it twenty years ago. We can do better than this.”
    “The jokes are already written, Mr. Day.”
    “Yeah, but I gotta say ’em. Gimme a minute. I’ll think of something.”
    “We don’t have a minute,” said the director testily. “And frankly, people aren’t turning this pageant on to listen to your jokes. Half of them will have their sound off and their pizzles in their hand.”
    Sonny laughed. “Pizzles? What, they teach you to talk tough like that in grammar school—last week?”
    That got a lot of laughter, from both the crew and the girls.
    The director reddened. “Are you going to be uncooperative and unprofessional, Mr. Day? Tell me if you are. Tell me right now. Because I want to get on the phone and see who’s in town who can pinch-hit for you. I can’t deal with this. I need a professional.”
    The room got very quiet. Everyone was looking at Sonny now. Everyone was wondering what The One would do.
    He bared his teeth and went for his Sen-Sens. He popped a couple in his mouth and chewed them. And kept chewing them, until the anger and hurt had all but gone from his face. And then he said quietly, “I am a professional.”
    “And?” the director prodded.
    “And you’re the director,” Sonny added