Best to Laugh: A Novel

by Lorna Landvik

  The last time I’d seen Aislin was on the Boulevard with Jaz, when she’d been obviously drunk and obviously unhappy.

  “Everything’s fine. I, uh . . . well, the thing of it is, Jaz is in Vancouver—he got a guest spot on Wiley’s Way—it’s this Canadian adventure series and I . . . I just didn’t feel like tagging along. And I really couldn’t afford airfare to Ireland, so I thought I’d come here . . . because it reminds me of home.”

  “What part of Ireland are you from, lass?” said Francis and while I would have rolled my eyes at anyone else saying this, out of Francis’s mouth it sounded natural, respectful, fatherly.

  “Ennis. Do you know it?”

  Francis shook his head. “No, but I was hoping against hope you’d say Tipperary just so I could sing that you were a long way from there.”

  “Well, sir, I’m not going to keep you from singing it, if that’s your pleasure.”

  Francis did not have to be cajoled and he rose to his feet.

  “It’s a long way to Tipperary,” he sang, “it’s a long way to go, it’s a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know.”

  He captivated his audience of three, who sat on the beach blanket, not wanting to miss a word of the voice the wind thinned. When he sang the last refrain and held his arms out in an Al Jolson How’d-you-like-that? pose, Aislin said, “Do you know the wartime version?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “My da would sing it to my mother as they danced around the kitchen.”

  Francis offered Aislin his hand and after she took it they began dancing in the sand as they sang,

  That’s the wrong way to tickle Mary,

  That’s the wrong way to kiss.

  Don’t you know that over here, lad,

  They like it best like this!

  Hooray pour le Français,

  Farewell, Angleterre,

  We didn’t know the way to tickle Mary

  But we learned how, over there!

  Like kids watching Saturday morning cartoons, Frank and I sat slack-jawed, but breaking out of his trance Frank took my hand, and we joined Francis and Aislin in a clunky sort of two-step in the sand. We all sang the revised refrain several more times, and using the wide beach as our dance floor, stepped and dipped and twirled until we were at the shoreline.

  The wind flapped at the legs of Frank’s and my shorts, at Francis’s pant legs and Aislin’s skirt, and as we stood there in a line, the cold water tumbling over our feet, I realized we were all holding hands like kids, looking out at a horizon edged in the glitter of sunlight.

  “Perfect time to bring Mr. Cahn into the picture,” said Francis and he led us in singing “Silver Bells,” and if I had to pick what registered highest on the Thrill-O-Meter that day, it would be hearing the punk rocker Frank, whose onstage voice was mostly snarls and screams but who now sang a tentative but sweet harmony to our Christmas song.

  IT WAS DARK BUT NOT THAT LATE when I pulled Charlotte’s Maverick into its garage stall, and while I would have been happy to continue the festivities, the Flovers decided to call it a night, Frank citing his father’s need to get some rest.

  “It is true,” said Francis with a wan smile. “In the old days I could dance on the beach and then on a few nightclub tabletops, but the old days are just that.”

  As I climbed the steps to my building, they stood sentry on the sidewalk, offering their thanks again and wishes for both a good night and a Merry Christmas.

  I had shaken the sand out of my clothes, showered, and in the big maroon Minnesota Gophers jersey that served as my pajamas/lounge wear, I squatted in front of the TV, spinning the dial, hoping I hadn’t missed Taryn Powell’s guest appearance on the Dill Williams Holiday Special. Pay dirt. There she was, standing on a corner and outfitted as a sexy, miniskirted reindeer.

  “Hey, Big Boy,” she said to the wizened comic dressed as Santa, “got anything in that big sack for me?” Her red nose lit up and Dill Williams wiggled his fake white eyebrows, and the two of them launched into a hokey song that offered lyrics like “bag of tricks,” and “Santa’s gotta get his kicks.”

  When the doorbell rang, I thought it less an intrusion than a relief.

  The peephole did not lend itself to subterfuge; it was a 3”x2” brass door that opened, making it easy to see whoever was standing on the doorstep as well as allowing that person to see inside.

  “Hey, Candy,” said Melvin Slyke. “Can I come in?”

  ON THE TV, to the cop who had appeared on the scene, Santa was singing that he didn’t realize he was in a red-light district, blaming his reindeer Rudolph for guiding his sleigh there.

  “Oh, Dill Williams,” said Melvin, sitting down on the plaid couch. “Good God, is that old geezer still alive? He’s older than I am! Here’s the ultimate broadcasting riddle: what came first, Dill Williams’s holiday specials or the invention of television?”

  I laughed and Melvin’s gray dentures clicked as he smiled his appreciation.

  “That’s Maeve’s mother,” I said, nodding at the miniskirted reindeer being cuffed by the cop.

  “Ah yes, the inestimable Taryn Powell. She did a voice-over for a commercial I worked on back in the ’60s. ‘Queen Crisp,’ remember her?”

  “Of course I remember Queen Crisp, but I didn’t know Taryn did her voice!” In an approximation of the animated sovereign, I cackled, “I order you knaves to eat these most delicious potato chips!”

  “Not bad,” said Melvin. He looked again at the television, and together we watched as all the guest stars gathered around Dill to wish the viewing audience the “happiest of happiest.”

  I turned off the television as the credits rolled.

  “Can I get you anything, Melvin? I’ve still got some Christmas cookies left.”

  “Nah, my daughter fed me well. Not necessarily deliciously, but well.” He patted his belly with a spotted hand. “No, what I came here for was, well, Francis had told me he was spending the day with you, and I just wanted to know if everything went all right?”

  “Everything went great. He was a little tired when we got home, but I think he had, we all had—” I remembered Aislin’s words—“a lovely time.”

  “Good,” said Melvin. “I would have taken him to my daughter’s house, but that wouldn’t have pleased either Francis or Nancy, so thanks for taking care of him.”

  “I really didn’t take care of him. I enjoy his company and vice versa, I hope.”

  “Oh, vice versa for sure.” Melvin’s hands made a raspy noise as he ran them over the knees of his pilly polyester pants. “He thinks you’re just about the cat’s meow. He told me the last home-cooked meals he had before yours were back in the ’50s, when he was still married to Rayna.”

  “Rayna. Is that Frank’s mother?”

  Melvin nodded, his face like a doctor’s affirming a bad diagnosis.

  “It’s weird, I’ve never heard Francis or Frank talk about her.”

  “That’s because she was a big reason, no, the reason for all of Francis’s troubles. The tax stuff—piffle—compared to what she did!”

  He stared at the blank television screen for so long I began to worry that he was having a ministroke or something.

  “Melvin?”

  “Francis was very forward-thinking,” he said, his gaze still on the TV. “When he opened the club in the late ’40s, he brought in a woman as his business partner! Gladys had handled his studio when he was a dance instructor back in New York.” Finally he turned to me. “I’ll bet you didn’t know Francis was quite a hoofer, did you?”

  I nodded. “He tap-danced for me once.”

  Melvin had already begun to talk over me.

  “The two of them made a great business team, plus they enjoyed each other’s company. Gladys and her husband, Phil, got along swell with Francis and Rayna. They were so close they even named each other godparents for their kids.

  “Anyway, I’ll make this short—”

  This had to be a first.

&n
bsp; “—because if I talk too much about it, my blood starts to boil.” Melvin’s mouth scrunched up and he stretched his fingers before balling his hands up in a fist. This he did several times, as if it were a calming exercise.

  “The thing of it is, one evening Frank’s looking for Rayna—she came to the club all the time for dinner or to see a show—and he finds her shtupping Phil in Gladys’s office!”

  “Francis caught his wife shtupping the husband of his business partner?”

  “Finally caught them. It came out that Rayna and Phil had been carrying on for over a year. Both couples divorced and then Rayna the bitch—excuse me—and Phil the bastard got married, but not before Francis attacked Phil and sent him to the hospital for nearly a week. Beat him up pretty bad.”

  “Oh . . . my,” I said, borrowing my grandmother’s response to monumental news.

  “My wife—God rest her soul—and I used to go to the Bel Mondo all the time. That’s where Francis and I met, and to watch that man go through all he did . . . well, it was just terrible. The scandal, the shame. It was only because he had a hell of a lawyer that he avoided a jail sentence. Then Rayna takes little Frank with her when she and Phil the bum move back east, and poor Gladys wants nothing more to do with the club—the scene of all the love crimes, you see—so Francis buys her out, losing first his family, then his partner. A couple years later, Vegas is taking away so much business and on top of that Francis isn’t paying his taxes—really, I think he just didn’t care anymore—and he loses the club. He went from a man who was king of a real Hollywood kingdom to . . . to what Queen Crisp called everyone—a knave.”

  Melvin fondled his whiskery chin with a liver-spotted hand. “Everybody wanted to be Francis Flover’s friend when he ran the Bel Mondo, and nobody wanted to acknowledge his existence after all the trouble. Robert X. Roberts, for example.” Acrimony darkened his voice. “When his own career wasn’t exactly going gangbusters, he was a regular at the Bel Mondo, and never said no to a free drink or a ringside table, but afterwards, he wouldn’t give Francis the time of day. Francis won’t even go to the pool because he’s afraid of running into that bastard!” Melvin shook his head. “Sure, some people with consciences have thrown him work over the years—mostly script reading, although Janus Weinberg—hell of a guy—had him on his studio’s payroll for years; had him coaching the dancers on The Jackie Kenner Show. He just barely hangs on, though, and well, you can see why I worry about him.”

  I felt as if I had been slugged with information. “I’m glad he has you to worry about him.”

  “Ha! Tell that to Nancy! She thinks her poor old dad’s being taken advantage of by a devious schemer!” Melvin’s cheeks rounded before he expelled a long sigh. “Pardon the soliloquy, Candy. I just wanted you to know.” Clamping his hands on the knees of his houndstooth pants, he braced himself to stand up.

  “I’m glad you had a good time. I’m glad you helped Francis have a good time.”

  As I opened the door for him, Melvin proffered a scratchy little kiss on my cheek.

  “Hope that doesn’t get you all riled up,” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows, and he shuffled across the short landing to his apartment.

  28

  “CHARLOTTE!” I said, opening the door to the tall blonde. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just making sure you haven’t pawned all my stuff,” she said, strolling into the apartment.

  “The pawn store wouldn’t take it,” I said, slipping as easily as she had into our push-pull relationship. “But, really, what are you doing here?” My voice was light, even as I seemed to have broken out in a sweat.

  She twirled once before flopping on the plaid couch. “I forgot how sunny this room gets. Do you have anything to drink? Pop, iced tea? Anything cold?”

  Like a compliant servant, I ran hunched and splay-footed to the kitchen, and to Charlotte’s credit she did laugh, but when I returned to the living room and threw a plate against the wall she yelped.

  “Candy, what the hell?”

  Handing her the glass of lemonade I held in my other hand, I apologized. “I just wanted to show you the dishes I won on Word Wise. They’re unbreakable.” I picked up the plate and handed it to her. “Here, you try.”

  Looking at me like I was crazy, she nevertheless took the plate and Frisbeed it against the wall. It clunked to the floor, all in one piece.

  “How much money did you win on that game show, anyway?” asked Charlotte and when I told her, she nodded. “I made twice that on the cruise ship.”

  Taking a long sip that emptied the glass of half its lemonade, she wiped her mouth and said, “Ahh. Okay, so here’s the story, Glory: Cray and I are here on business for a couple days.”

  “Are you going to stay here?”

  When she said no, I could have done a cartwheel. And a back flip.

  “They put us up at the Beverly-Wilshire! We’ve been here since Thursday and we’re leaving tomorrow. We’re driving my car back, too—that is, if you haven’t totaled it.”

  “Car’s untotaled.”

  “Cray’s meeting with some big shots from the network, so I had him drop me off on his way to the studio. I thought it’d be fun if we got a head start on New Year’s Eve. Ever been to the Toy Tiger?”

  “CHARLOTTE FIELDS,” said Billy Gray Green, leaning over the bar. “You just made the end of the year better and the prospects for the new one dy-no-mite.”

  “Oh, Mr. Gray Green, how you do go on,” drawled my cousin, batting her eyes. “Now what’s the recommended drink to get this party started?”

  “Ever had Sex on the Beach?”

  “Every time I’m in Malibu,” said Charlotte.

  Not being the focus of anyone’s attention, my eyeballs took a tour around their sockets.

  “So how’s New York treating you?” asked Billy, setting before us drinks that were not sand colored, as the name would imply, but a gaudy orange.

  “New York’s treating me fabulously,” said Charlotte. “I’ve got a theatrical and a commercial agent. I’ve already been on tons of auditions; in fact, I’ve got a reading for a soap the day after I get back. For the part of Suzanna Jade, Eden Valley’s newest temptress.”

  Charlotte tossed her hair and struck a pose.

  “You’re hired!” said Billy Gray Green.

  “Hey, bartender!” A man in a party hat waved his empty glass and bleated a paper horn.

  While Billy Gray Green attended to the guy who was probably not going to see in the New Year in any state of consciousness, Charlotte suddenly shot up, as if a joy buzzer had been activated on her bar stool.

  “Cray!” she said, waving her arm wildly. “Cray, over here!”

  The man approaching the bar looked as if he were out of another time and place—at least his face did, much of it obscured as it was by big muttonchops and a handlebar mustache.

  “Ciao, bella!” he said, opening his arms to catch Charlotte as she tumbled into them.

  “Ciao innamorato!” answered my cousin.

  Gee, I thought, I wonder if anyone’s been to Italy lately.

  Their kiss was long and sloppy, and I swiveled on the barstool until Charlotte finally came up for air and shoved her make-out partner toward me. “This is Cray, Candy! Isn’t his mustache cute? He’s growing it for Bellwether. He films his first episode next week! Do your Scottish accent, Cray!”

  “Ach, the infamous Candy.” Taking my hand, he laid his whiskery lips on it. “The one who wrecked Charlotte’s first dance recital.”

  “Oh brother,” I said to my cousin. “You’re still telling that old story?”

  As five-year-olds, we had both been enrolled in Miss Mila’s Tippy Toes dance class and that I had been the inadvertent star of the recital by milking my mistakes was an unforgivable offense to Charlotte.

  “It might be an old story,” said my cousin, flicking aside a hank of her long blonde hair, “but it doesn’t mean it’s not important.”

  As the bar’s population s
welled along with the sound decibel, we thanked Billy Gray Green for our on-the-house drinks and waded through the crowd, pushing through the doors into the cool night air.

  “Where should we go first?” asked Charlotte as they discussed their party options, of which there were many.

  “And we’ve got to go to Blake’s,” said Cray. “There’ll be a ton of industry people there.”

  “Blake created the show Dustin Drake, DDS,” said Charlotte. “Ever seen it? It’s a riot.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “—to Blake’s then!” said Cray, bending his knees and motioning for Charlotte to get on his back.

  “Hi Ho Silver!” said Charlotte, climbing on.

  I followed the piggy-backers as they crossed the plaza and toward a town car parked curbside like a big black cat.

  “Compliments of the Bellwether people,” said Cray in his serviceable brogue as a chauffeur opened the passenger door.

  The couple groped each other as they got into the car while the chauffeur stood at attention, a Mona Lisa smile on his face.

  “Candy,” said Charlotte, leaning over Cray to talk to me through the open door. “Are you coming or not?”

  It took me less than a second to say, “Not.” I gave a little wave. “Thanks, anyway. Happy New Year!”

  I WATCHED THEIR CAR MERGE INTO TRAFFIC, relieved that I wasn’t in it.

  During a lull in their bar groping, Charlotte had taken enough interest in me to turn away from Cray and say, “Grandma tells me you’re temping at some record store.”

  “Record company. But the job ended.” I felt no need to fill her in on what else I was up to because the interest wasn’t there, and more so, I had learned to protect what was precious from the sharp claws of my cousin.

  It might have been a smart career move to go with them and mingle elbow-to-elbow with people instrumental in making sitcoms about dissolute dentists, but I didn’t feel ready to introduce myself as a comic and didn’t want to explain what I did for a living—“I’m a temp!” (a guaranteed conversation stopper at a Hollywood party). And there’d be all those smiles I’d have to fake as Charlotte introduced me to some assistant director or screenwriter who’d look back and forth at the two of us before saying, “You’re cousins? Really?”