“So someone could have just walked in? I mean, it could have been a mistake. And he just overreacted?”
“Possibly. You should have been a lawyer.”
Dena smiled and blushed, slightly. Besides her tears, it was the first sign of normal vulnerability I had noticed. We were seated on a couch in Howie’s expansive guest house, easily twice the size of my apartment. She shifted, shyly, on the pillow beside me. Again, her bra strap slowly fell. This time, she didn’t retrieve it. She stared squarely into my eyes and heat covered my face. Then, again, both of us looked away.
“I was going to be a patent lawyer, silly,” she said, as if saying the merriest, flirtiest thing imaginable. Then she left the room.
—
That night I took the couch while Dena slept a few feet away, behind a screen. At first, I fell into a fitful sleep. Then the strange bed, plus the pressure of my new assignment, caused me to bolt awake. As usual, I recounted trivia, as opposed to counting sheep. I had become immersed in the world of abandoned films, so I segued to the subject of replaced actors.
“Peter O’Toole replaced Albert Finney in Lawrence of Arabia …” I mumbled. “Jack Nicholson replaced Mandy Patinkin in Heartburn …”
From behind Dena’s screen, I heard people speaking now. A man and woman whispered, he more vociferously than her. As I strained to hear, I made out the not-so-funny tones of Howie Romaine.
Though I couldn’t understand his words, he had the unmistakable sound of a man begging, pleading, and cajoling for sex. After he subsided, the woman—it had to be Dena—responded with what seemed familiar, calm resistance.
“… not the best idea …” were the only words of Dena’s I could discern. Then, undaunted, Howie continued whispering his wants and needs.
He must have crept in during the brief time I slept. I was sure it wasn’t the first time, either. From the sound of Dena’s voice, I sensed he had never been successful in his quest.
Why should he be now? Wasn’t that part of the reason I was there? After all, what was family for?
“Bette Davis replaced Mary Pickford in Storm Center …” I grumbled, much louder now. “Robert Preston replaced Marlon Brando in Sidney Lumet’s Child’s Play …”
There was silence behind the screen. Then, “What the hell is that?” Howie hissed.
“My cousin,” Dena answered.
“Well, what’s he—Who’s he talking to?”
“No one. He’s talking in his sleep.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Jeff Daniels replaced Michael Keaton in The Purple Rose of Cairo …” I went on, even louder. “Elizabeth Taylor replaced Vivien Leigh in Elephant Walk …”
“This is impossible,” Howie said, his own volume rising. “I can’t even hear myself think!”
I can’t even hear myself beg would have been funnier, I thought. But who gave notes to Howie Romaine?
I threatened to start a new list. Before I could, I saw the tall, potbellied shadow of the comic, dressed only in a T-shirt and shorts, dart from behind the screen and out the door.
There was silence for a while. Then, very quietly, Dena said, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I replied.
I realized that Dena might be looking for something besides protection or an explanation of her father’s death. Maybe she wanted a piece of the Clown, too. It would be a windfall for most people—not for me, of course; I just wanted to see it and tell others—but for normal people. Dena could use the money to get out of her present situation, babysitting a lonely boy and resisting a restless man. We all had our secret needs; that’s why there were contracts and negotiations—and guns. Was I in a position where one day she would owe me something?
“Good night, Roy,” she said, but I didn’t reply.
—
Money wasn’t foremost on Howie’s mind, either; he had enough of it. I could tell the next day, when he took me into his garage.
His garages. They were the size of yet another house beside his Tudor-style mansion. Climate controlled, evocatively lit, they served to brilliantly house and highlight his collection of cars.
Apparently there were priceless Porsches and BMWs, plus a few vintage Jaguars. I couldn’t drive, didn’t care about cars—they didn’t even qualify as trivia—and so I just nodded, politely, as he described them.
Howie seemed to perceive my indifference, because “That one’s an Aston Martin,” he said to engage me. “Like in James Bond.”
My grunt of recognition was only slightly louder.
It had been awhile since I complimented him. Howie had tried ingratiating himself to me, his unreceptive audience. Now, ever the performer, he became more aggressive and turned the tables.
“So what was your favorite? Episode, I mean? Of Romaine World?”
I froze now, as Howie blithely spat into a rag and started rubbing a car. I racked my brain for any of Howie’s routines, which always served as bases for his shows, but could only remember the one.
“The one,” I said, “about the toothbrush.”
There was a long and terrifying pause. Howie stopped rubbing, turned, and stared at me. Then he slowly started to smile.
“Wow,” he said, appreciatively. “That’s incredible.”
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed, sweating, “it was.”
“No, because, well, of course, you know why.”
