“When I heard, I came looking for you,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Sort of.” Then I told her. “But I think someone just tried to kill me for Clown.”
—
When I checked my e-mail on Dena’s laptop, I saw several impatient messages from Abner. They all essentially asked the same questions: Had I found the film? Why hadn’t I answered him? I typed in a generic reply: “Still working on it.” Then I added: “Howie even less funny than on TV.” Then I logged off.
In truth, I was less concerned about Abner than about Howie. How much could I tell the comic about the danger involved in finding Clown? Should I get him to tell me what he knew first? How long would that take, anyway? And, not incidentally, what would he say when he saw his car?
“Like I told you,” he shrugged the next morning, as he watched a tow truck bring back its remains, “I’ve come to the end with my car thing.”
We were both standing at the open entrance to a garage. He walked farther inside, without even asking about my injuries. Wearing a T-shirt and shorts, he rolled a tennis racket in his hand.
“Where are your whites?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Your whites. You play, right?” he called now. He had started toward another car, one I actually recognized as a BMW.
Howie was sure a kidder. “About as well as I drive.”
“What?” He was almost out of range.
“I said, you bet your life!” I called.
“Groucho!” he said, disappearing inside the vehicle. “I’ll find his episodes!” Then he poked his head out. “So wear some of mine!”
—
To my horror, I found I had been enlisted to play a tennis match for charity with Howie. It wasn’t at the court in his backyard, which always stood empty now, as he arranged more purchases. It was at a country club nearby—in other words, in public. Dena couldn’t protect me; it was Luna’s day for “knuckles and knees,” and she was busy minding their son.
“I don’t think your shorts really fit,” I said, readjusting them, as I sat beside Howie, in the Beamer.
“Hey, I’m the baggy pants comic!” he said, chuckling. He thought a minute, then started on a zany comparison between boxers and briefs that made me zone out.
“I just came up with that,” he said about the routine, lighting another secret smoke. “I better knock it off, right?”
Like an addict, Howie was threatening to backslide into his bad habit—his career. Did he want me to stop his creativity, or encourage him to continue? I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t answer. As usual, my lack of response made him hostile. He patted my knee, sore from the crackup, too roughly.
“Hope you got a backhand!” he said, vindictively. “You’re gonna need it against Fitzgerald!”
I shrugged, still not speaking. I couldn’t think of a living celebrity with that name; Barry Fitzgerald was dead.
Howie pushed my sore shoulder. “Mike Fitzgerald, dummy!”
Sweat slowly started flowing beneath my arms.
“Mike Fitzgerald?”
“Yep, The Terrible Rebel. He and Ludwig are playing us. Some group, right?”
Mike Fitzgerald had been number one in the sport in the 1970s and early eighties. His temper and on-court shenanigans had earned him the nickname The Terrible Rebel. Ludwig, I assumed, was Thor Ludwig, the former German champion currently being hounded for unpaid taxes. He was the ex-husband of former child star Gratey McBride. That was the extent of my tennis knowledge. Besides that I would rather die than play them, of course.
“I met them at Troy Kevlin’s house in L.A.,” he said, mentioning a once-hot and now-defamed Hollywood producer. “We hit a few on Troy’s court. Before the drug thing and Troy lost his house.”
Howie got what he wanted out of me: a rise. “Look—”
But he cut me off, calming down. “Relax, it’s for charity, it’s just for fun. Maybe I’ll get Thor and the Rebel to go in with me on trivia!”
My friend again, Howie pinched my cheek, as he pulled into the palatial Four Waters club. When he got out, he goofily kissed the forehead of the valet.
“Don’t tell Luna!” he told me, this time kidding.
The place was filling up with fancy Hamptons people, all casually decked out. I tried to keep up with Howie, going up a path. He plowed ahead, waving to photographers.
Among the crowd I saw people with faces painted green, in a parody of football yahoos. Suddenly, I thought one of their faces was white, clown-white, like the guy in the Honda.
I was whisked along before I could be sure.
“Too bad we can’t hit a few before Mike and Thor get here,” Howie said.
“What do you mean? Where?”
We emerged at a giant court, around which huge makeshift bleachers had been erected, already filled with press and people.
“Center court!” Howie said.
As soon as we came out, a sudden roar of approval exploded from the fans. Howie seemed stunned. He went stock-still and his head shot up, like a dying plant receiving water. He had been starving for this kind of attention, I knew. I only hoped he wasn’t being overwatered and wouldn’t die as a result. His face was already beet red without a point being played.
