The Man Who Couldn't Miss

by David Handler

  Lulu immediately growled at him.

  “Your dog still doesn’t like me,” he observed, continuing to grin at me.

  “That’s because she has good taste.”

  He threw back his head and laughed.

  I wondered if Pete Tedone was parked somewhere nearby keeping an eye on me and, if so, whether he would decide to step in. “So is this just two good-looking guys bumping into each other by chance or are you tailing me?”

  R.J. didn’t respond, just kept on showing me his gray teeth. His breath smelled like one of those aged, overworked storm drains in Times Square.

  “Okay, I’ll try a different approach. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Just wanted to make sure you’re going to keep our date tonight.”

  “I said I’d be there. I’ll be there. Now how about you get the hell out of my way?”

  “Don’t push me, smart guy. Bad things happen to people who push me. Or have you already forgotten about that chicken of yours?”

  “It was a rooster, you moron.”

  “I don’t like to be called a moron.”

  “Really? I should think you’d be used to it by now.”

  R.J. glared at me menacingly, his head cocked slightly to one side. “Same thing could happen to your little dog here, you know.”

  “No, it couldn’t.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I’d kill you first.”

  “You and who else?”

  “Wow, I haven’t heard that one since the fourth grade. You need to upgrade your threats a bit, if you don’t mind some professional advice. You might also want to think about getting your teeth cleaned. I have an excellent dentist in New York if you ever want his name. Oh, and one other thing—don’t ever come near that farm again.”

  “Why, what’ll happen?”

  “See above re: I’ll kill you. And now this conversation is over. Unless there’s something else you wanted to say.”

  “Nope.” R.J. dug his rumpled pack of Kools from the back pocket of his cutoffs and lit one with a butane lighter, dragging on it deeply. “Just be sure you’re there. Same spot. Eleven o’clock.” And with that he went sauntering off across the parking lot like a cocky, overaged member of the Jets from West Side Story. Once an actor, always an actor.

  I watched him to see if he got into a car, the one that Mr. MacGowan had told me needed a new muffler. But he just kept on going until he went inside of Walmart. Possibly he had a hankering for a hot dog.

  I unlocked the door to the Woody, got in and rolled down the windows. Lulu put her head in my lap, whimpering.

  “Don’t you worry, girl. I won’t let him hurt you. He’s just a punk. I’ve got your back. Scout’s honor.”

  AS I STARTED back toward Sherbourne with my mammoth haul of umbrellas and plastic buckets I could see huge, billowing dark clouds forming over Long Island Sound. Thunder rumbled off in the distance. The wind would gust suddenly and then, just as suddenly, the oppressively humid air would become totally still again. Yet there was an unsettling, ominous quality to the stillness.

  When I arrived back at the playhouse four roofers were up on extension ladders doing the best they could to fling blue tarps over the old theater and secure them in place with boards. The tent crew was reinforcing the stakes that held the big wedding tent in place. Cases of champagne were being unloaded from a liquor distributor’s van. A couple of local Connecticut TV news crews were grabbing some B-reel footage for the five o’clock news.

  I found a lobby door that was unlocked. The lobby walls were lined with posters of popular recent productions, which, due to the miniature dressing quarters, trended toward such popular acting duets as A. R. Gurney’s Love Letters and D. L. Coburn’s The Gin Game. Five elderly ladies—the playhouse’s volunteer ushers—were whispering excitedly about who would see to which aisles tonight. As I began to dump the umbrellas and buckets outside of Mimi’s office I heard those fabulous voices inside the theater and realized that I’d made it back in time to catch the last few minutes of the dress rehearsal. I slipped inside with Lulu, grabbed a seat in the back row and watched Coward’s triumphant finale. Victor’s indignant fury. Elyot’s insulting hilarity. Sibyl shrieking like a madwoman. Amanda as maddeningly cool as can be. Poor Victor and Sibyl, it seems, have finally come to realize that they’ve just gotten themselves married to two divinely crazy people who are suited to be married only to each other.

  I hadn’t known what to expect after their intensive all-night rehearsal, but what I was watching sure as hell wasn’t talent night at Camp Minnetonka. It was an ensemble of four world-class actors performing Noël fucking Coward together. Okay, so maybe the master’s uniquely giddy dryness didn’t come naturally to Greg. But he pulled it off like the pro that he was. And his accent had grown to become unobtrusively Nivenesque. Merilee had directed them to play it fast and straight. No mugging. I thought they were terrific, even though they had to compete with the shouts of the roofers and the thunks of their extension ladders. But performers are trained to ignore such distractions. And when the curtain came down I applauded them from the back row just as Mimi, Glenda and the twins did from down in front.

  As the curtain rose back up I strolled down the aisle to the stage, where the four of them and Sabrina were quietly talking over their performance. The crew was removing the furniture so as to prepare the terrace set for act one.

  “I kept jumping the gun,” Dini was confessing to Merilee. “I came in too soon on your lines.”

  “You were great,” Merilee assured her. “When we have a full house you’ll feel the moment. But you look so flushed. Are you running a fever?”

  “I’m fine,” Dini insisted.

  “You are not fine,” Glenda said sternly from the front row. “Sit down over here so I can take your temperature.”

  Dini rolled her eyes. “Mother . . .”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Glenda commanded her.

  Dini joined her reluctantly, still in full costume and makeup. Glenda pulled a digital thermometer from her purse and stuck it under her famous daughter’s tongue.

  “You were awesome, Mom!” Cheyenne exclaimed brightly.

  “Totally awesome!” Durango chimed in.

  “What was I, chopped liver?” Marty asked them teasingly.

  “You were sorta okay,” Durango teased him back.

  The thermometer beeped three times.

  Glenda removed it from her daughter’s mouth, squinting. “My dear, you’re running a temperature of a hundred and two point eight. You need to get into bed right away if you want to have the slightest chance of going on tonight. Quite honestly, I’m not sure you’re up to it.”

  “I will not miss this show just because of some stupid fever,” Dini stated with a trouper’s unwavering confidence.

  “We’ll discuss that later. Right now, I want you home in bed. And call Doctor Orr to find out about your blood tests.”

  “Mother, he said he’d call as soon as he had them.”

  “Fine, then I’ll call him.”

  “We’ve already had this conversation!” Dini lashed out angrily. “I’m the patient, not you. So back off, will you? You’re suffocating me!”

  Glenda’s lower lip began to tremble. “Well, you don’t have to bite my head off.”

  Dini immediately let out a sigh of regret. “I’m sorry.” She patted her mother’s hand. “Forgive me.”

  “Your beach house is a half-hour drive away,” Mimi pointed out. “That’s a lost hour to and fro. Why don’t I book you a room at the Sherbourne Inn? It’s nice and quiet, and you can use that extra hour to get some sleep.”

  “That’s where you’ll find me,” Marty said, heading for the dressing rooms to get out of his costume.

  “Good idea, Mimi,” Greg said. “I can take the girls home.”

  Mimi went backstage to call the inn.

  “Will we have time for a swim, Daddy?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Maybe a quick one.
But then you have to get dressed. The sleeveless blue dresses?” he asked Dini.

  Dini nodded. “And they each have a little knit sweater that goes with it. And bring their hooded rain slickers.”

  “Shall I come with you and dress them?” Glenda asked him.

  “Not necessary,” Greg assured her. “Daddy can handle it. Why don’t you just relax in the rose garden over there while Dini’s napping? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get out of this monkey suit.”

  Merilee studied me nervously as Greg headed offstage. “What did you think? Be brutally honest.”

  “I think it’s fabulous.”

  “You really think it’s good?”

  “I believe the word I used was fabulous.”

  “Darling, I know you’re trying to be supportive but I really need honest feedback right now.”

  “Merilee, have you ever known me to heap praise on anything when I didn’t mean it?”

  She frowned. “Well, no . . .”

  “You did great. Attending tonight’s performance will be a genuine privilege. I must report that there are some truly scary black clouds forming over Long Island Sound. On the plus side, my shopping excursion was a major success. I’ve bought up every cheapo umbrella between here and Timbuktu.”

  Mimi returned and said, “Success, Dini. I’ve wangled you a small third-floor room for the afternoon.”

  “Thank you.” Dini was slumped wearily in her front row seat. She touched her index finger to her lips and tapped each of her girls on the forehead with it. “I’ll see you sweeties soon,” she said as Greg reappeared wearing a Mets T-shirt and plaid shorts, his face scrubbed clean of makeup. “Do what Daddy tells you, okay?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  “Feel better, sweetheart,” Greg said to Dini gently. When he bent down to kiss her on the cheek she seemed to shudder. Maybe it was her fever. Then again, maybe not. “Let’s go, munchkins.”

  He and the girls left. Merilee took Dini firmly by the arm and led her downstairs to the dressing rooms. After they’d cleaned off their makeup and changed into shorts they came back upstairs. Dini wore a flaming orange CHULA VISTA LANES bowling shirt with the name GLORIA stitched across her left breast. Merilee had on a frayed pink Izod shirt of mine that she’d rescued from the rag drawer back when we were still married.

  Glenda took charge of walking her daughter across the green to the inn. I fetched the garment bag with my evening wear in it from the Woody and then Merilee and I trailed along after them in the sweltering heat, Lulu ambling proudly along ahead of us. She loves to walk with us when we’re together, and so seldom gets the chance anymore. Those black scary clouds over Long Island Sound looked even blacker and scarier. They also seemed to be drifting northward over the Sound toward the Connecticut shoreline, even though the sky directly overhead remained a hazy, milky blue.

  The dark coolness of the Sherbourne Inn’s lobby was welcome. Sabrina sat by herself at a table in the dark wood bar with a glass of iced tea working on the New York Times crossword puzzle and wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that said nerdy grad student more than glam actress. Glenda was placing a call from the phone at the front desk. Calling Doctor Orr to report on Dini’s fever, I imagined. And no doubt trying to find out if he had the results of her blood test, too.

  “Want something cold to drink?” I asked Merilee.

  “What I want is to stretch out in my room for a while with you and Lulu.”

  “I believe we can accommodate you.”

  We went up the mansion’s grand, curving staircase to her room on the second floor. It was a nice room, if your idea of nice is a four-poster bed, claret-colored velvet drapes and the pervasive scent of potpourri. I unzipped my garment bag and hung my tux from the shower railing.

  Merilee kicked off her sandals and flopped down on the bed with a grateful groan. Lulu circled around the bed, whimpering helplessly. It was too high for her to climb up onto on her own. I gave her a hoist and she immediately stretched out next to her mommy with her head on her tummy. I took off my suit jacket and shoes and joined them there with Lulu between us making happy argle-bargle noises. It was the most contented I’d seen her in a long time.

  “This is nice,” Merilee murmured contentedly.

  “Nice.”

  “But you’d better tell me about what’s happening with R.J.”

  “Do yourself a huge favor. Don’t waste any of your energy thinking about that loser. Just focus on tonight’s performance. I’m taking care of it.”

  “How are you taking care of it?”

  “By giving him what he wants. Bruce Landau figures the bum will end up back in jail or dead before long anyway. Best to just pay him off.”

  “So when are you . . . ?”

  “Tonight at eleven, after the party.”

  “Have you got the money?”

  “I’m all set.”

  “Why must it be you who makes the delivery?”

  “Because that’s how he wants it, and for now he’s running the show.”

  “You know the .38 that Mr. MacGowan got me last winter when those rabid raccoons were around? It’s in the glove box of the Jag, fully loaded.”

  “What’s it doing in there?”

  “I thought you might want it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Still, maybe you should take it.”

  “No.”

  She studied me with her piercing green eyes. “Hoagy, there’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are. Your left eyebrow is twitching. That’s what makes you such a terrible poker player.”

  “I happen to be an excellent poker player. And let’s not talk about this anymore, okay? R.J.’s a subject for four A.M. in the kitchen over bacon and eggs after you’re all done accepting hugs and congratulations from the likes of Kate Hepburn and three hundred other nobodies.”

  “Has it occurred to you that those nobodies may get soaked to the skin in their seats?”

  “It’ll be an evening they’ll never forget. They’ll say to themselves, ‘Do you remember that stormy night back in the summer of ’93 when we schlepped out to Sherbourne to see Merilee Nash, Greg Farber, Dini Hawes and Marty Miller put on Private Lives and the rain came down so hard inside of the old playhouse that the four of them had to cling to umbrellas that none other than Stewart Hoag bought at Walmart?’ Trust me, Merilee, this is the stuff of theatrical legend.”

  “Now you’re just trying to cheer me up,” she grumbled. “And it’s working.”

  We lay there in silence, Lulu snoring contentedly now. Directly overhead, I began to hear the steady rhythmic squeak of bedsprings emanating from the third-floor room above Merilee’s. Marty and his sturdy teenaged waitress having at it, I imagined.

  “Hoagy, about these past few weeks . . .”

  “What about them?”

  “You working away so passionately on your novel. Me doing my thing here at the playhouse. The two of us talking about our days over dinner, enjoying each other’s company. I keep wondering why we’re not together.”

  “Because you kicked me out and divorced me, as you know perfectly well.”

  “I don’t know anything perfectly well. Not when it comes to us.” She leveled her gaze at me. “I wasn’t very understanding, was I?”

  “On the contrary, you were very understanding. You spent two whole years letting me snort coke, humiliate you and make a total jackass out of myself before you dumped me.”

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you something . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “You’re not that jackass anymore. You haven’t been for quite a while. And, my lord, you’ve really changed since you started writing this book. You’ve got a spring in your step. Your eyes are bright. I want to understand something about you. Will it always be like this?”

  “Like
what?”

  “All highs and lows. No middle ground.”

  “I truly don’t know. If I did, then I wouldn’t be much of a writer. I have to walk the high wire without a net. That’s where the good stuff comes from. It’s not particularly healthy, or sane, but it’s the only way I know how to feel truly alive. You’re an incredibly gifted actress. You take the same sorts of risks yourself. That’s what tonight is, isn’t it? Tell me, would you be happy settled in for a nice, safe multiseason run on Melrose Place?”

  “God, no.”

  I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “But you’re right. I do feel better about myself now that I’m writing again.”

  “Is it good?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t sounded this confident in a long time.”

  “I haven’t felt this confident.”

  “When will you let me read it?”

  “Soon. A year, maybe.”

  She let out a laugh. “Only in your business does a year qualify as soon.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to take a nap?”

  “Positive. This is what I need. Tell me, have you been missing the city?”

  “Not particularly. Why?”

  “I thought perhaps you were seeing someone there.”

  “There’s no one, Merilee.”

  “I think you could have Sabrina if you want her.”

  “Not interested. How about you? Is there—?”

  She kissed me. It’s always been that way with her. She’ll just suddenly kiss me midsentence. It wasn’t a slurpy, let’s get naked kind of a kiss. Just a tender, lingering one. Still, we hadn’t kissed that way in years. It was . . . not unpleasant.

  “What brought that on?” I asked when she pulled away, her eyes sparkling at me.