by John Kaye
The ON THE AIR light blinked on inside Radio Ray’s booth, flashing red like blood spurting from a vein. At that moment Louie rolled over and whispered something in his sleep. To Burk, who was half awake, it sounded like “Come home,” but he wasn’t sure. It may have been only a long deep sigh.
On the morning of August 15, 1970, Burk accepted a collect call from his wife. She explained that she was in jail in Victorville, a city in the high desert one hundred and fifty miles northwest of Los Angeles. She said she’d shot a man named Shay Carson, a cowboy from Bozeman, Montana, and the nation’s finest calf roper, and that she’d been charged with murder.
That was the bad news.
The good news came later that afternoon when Maria Selene phoned Burk, informing him that Jerome Sanford, the head of production at Paramount Pictures, had finally read his script, Zoomin’. She’d sent it over as a writing sample, and he liked it enough to pass it along to Jon Warren, a protégé of John Houston and the hottest young director in Hollywood. Warren told Sanford that he wanted it to be his next project.
All this came out of the blue, because Burk had not spoken to Maria in four months, since he’d turned in his third rewrite of Mr. Plastic Fantastic. By this time all the money he’d borrowed from his father had run out, and whatever writing career he thought he had was over. In fact, he’d just taken a job that day selling men’s shoes at a department store in Westwood. He was walking out the door when Maria called.
“That’s amazing,” Burk said, after Maria told him the news.
“There’s only one problem,” she said, making it sound minor. “He wants to set the story in 1969. Can you make that work?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you can’t, there’s no movie. Warren’s the key. Think it over and I’ll set up a meeting.”
Jon Warren lived on Alta Way, a narrow private road that corkscrewed into the hills off Benedict Canyon. The house, shaped like an L, sat high on a cliff and was surrounded by evergreens and a ten-foot-high white sandstone wall that was made even whiter by the bright sunlight.
“William Morris sends me ten scripts a week. They’re all dogshit. But I read yours in one sitting,” Jon Warren told Burk. They were sitting under an umbrella on the pool terrace. Not too far away a slim and supple blonde lay topless on an air mattress floating in the water. “It moved like a fucking gun. Only one problem: your story. It’s dated,” Warren said, and he stood up. He was wearing a clean white T-shirt, khaki shorts, and beaded Mexican moccasins that he kicked off his feet when he stepped up on the diving board. “The fifties are fucking square compared to the social revolution that’s going on today. You dig what I’m saying?” Warren stripped off his T-shirt. His body was lean and muscular, and the diving board creaked and bent under his weight when he walked out to the end and flexed his knees. “Think about it, man. The Beatles, the Dead, Hendrix, Warhol, Leary, Antonioni. These cats are fucking explorers that are sailing into the unknown. We’re all zooming today.”
“What I wrote about really happened,” Burk said. “Most of it, anyway.”
“Desire and denial! That’s what drives a story,” Warren said, springing high in the air, and the loud snap of the diving board echoed across the canyon. “Goals,” he said, landing hard. “Immediate or long-range, but your characters must be moving in a particular direction.” Warren looked down at the beautiful blonde floating beneath him. Her eyes were closed and she was very lightly massaging her nipples with the tips of her fingers. “What I liked about your script was the originality,” Warren said, shooting Burk a smile before he unzipped his khaki shorts and threw them by the side of the pool.
Burk looked away, embarrassed, directing his gaze toward a slender palm tree in the center of the lawn. Nonetheless he found himself becoming aroused as Warren bounced lightly on the board with his erect penis straining toward the ice-blue sky.
“I liked the energy, the craziness, the unpredictability. But you were way too close to your material, too close to shape it dramatically, too close to free that part of your unconscious that pulls the reader along on a journey they never want to end. A story has to get me here,” Warren said, pointing to his erection. “Yours didn’t.” Warren grabbed his cock and jerked it fast several times. “You dig what I’m saying?”
Before Burk could reply Warren was already in the air, his body arched gracefully, his stiff cock causing a large ripple as he knifed through the surface of the water. When he reappeared in the shallow end, Burk said, “I have an idea.”
“Of course you have an idea. You’re a fucking writer,” Warren said, a bemused smile on his face as he watched the blonde strip off her bikini bottom and paddle toward him on the raft. “And a damn good one, I might add.”
FROM: Jerome Sanford
TO: Robert Evans
DATE: October 26, 1970
Received the first draft of Pledging My Love, an original screenplay by Raymond Burk that Jon Warren is committed to direct. I finished it last night and thought it was wonderful. The plot (which I don’t want to ruin for those who have yet to read it) concerns the surprise arrival of two former high school classmates at their ten-year reunion.
(1) Ricky Horton—a once-gifted athlete who suffered a mental breakdown on the field during his first major league game.
(2) Barbara St. Claire (Sinclair in high school, with the emphasis on the “sin")—a B-movie actress whose career was derailed when a scandal sheet revealed that she’d appeared in a stag film while she was a senior in high school.
What brings these two together is their obsessive need to find Eric Baldwin, another classmate of theirs who has dropped out of sight. Their search takes them on a journey through the bloody heart of Los Angeles, beginning on the night of the reunion and ending on the morning of the Manson killings, when the painful event from the past that unites this threesome is finally revealed.
I found this to be an incredibly compelling script, with relationships and situations that are unique and speak to today’s marketplace. That Jon Warren wants to direct makes this project that much more exciting. I am recommending that we move forward quickly to get this in production.
Below are just a few of the casting ideas I jotted down this morning:
Ricky Barbara Eric
Bob Redford Jane Fonda Jack Nicholson
Warren Beatty Diane Keaton Bruce Dern
Jon Voight Sally Kellerman Al Pacino
Jeff Bridges Ellen Burstyn Dennis Hopper
James Caan Tuesday Weld
Peter Fonda
From Daily Variety, November 9, 1970:
“Pledging . . ." Pledged to Paramount
Pledging My Love, an original screenplay by Raymond Burk, has been purchased by Paramount Pictures. Described by VP Jerome Sanford as a "mythic psychological thriller," Pledging will be produced and directed by Jon Warren beginning in the spring of 1971. Jack Rose will executive produce.
On the same day that Paramount announced the sale of his screenplay, Burk recognized Loretta Egan’s blue Volvo parked on Balboa Avenue next to the park. She was sitting, reading a magazine, on a blanket spread out on the grass near a large brick barbecue.
Louie jumped out of the car and ran across the grass field, leaving Burk behind to carry the Big Wheel over to the picnic benches, where he remained seated for a full five minutes before Loretta looked up from her magazine. He waved hello, but she didn’t wave back or speak, merely stared at him as if she were trying to place his face.
“Ray Burk,” he finally said.
“Yes, I remember,” she said, then looked back at her magazine. “Columbia canceled my movie. Eastwood pulled out. He’s gonna make Dirty Harry over at Warner’s with Don Siegel.”
Burk lit a cigarette and waited a respectful few seconds before he spoke. “That’s really a bummer. I’m sorry.”
“I found out on Friday. They were already building sets. I was that close, Ray. That fucking close.”
Burk nodded sympathetically, while he puffe
d on his cigarette without inhaling. Nearby, another woman in a white bikini was lying on the grass with her face up to the sun. A pair of dark glasses and an open magazine rested on her lap.
Turning back to Loretta, Burk said, “Maybe if I made you dinner it would cheer you up.”
Loretta laughed, but her face was filled with sadness. “Maybe,” she said, “but I seriously doubt it.”
Burk shrugged and dropped his cigarette on the grass, stepping on it. “I think it’s worth a try.”
Loretta followed Burk back to his house. After they shared a beer and listened to side one of Blue, the latest album by Joni Mitchell. Loretta agreed to stay with Louie while Burk went out for groceries. He bought a bottle of Chianti, a three-pound Chateaubriand, two heads of romaine lettuce, and all the ingredients to make a Caesar salad from scratch. By the time he got home, it was dark and he found Loretta and Louie sprawled on the living room rug, playing Monopoly.
“I used to play games with my mom,” Louie told Loretta, while Burk was standing outside on the patio, lighting the barbecue. “But we could never finish, because she would always drink too much and forget what she was doing.”
Loretta rolled the dice and landed on Pennsylvania Avenue, a property owned by Louie that was already decorated with four bright-red houses. “You owe me four hundred dollars,” Louie said, holding his hand out, palm up.
Loretta slowly counted out three gold hundreds and two blue fifties. “Here you go, Mr. Moneybags. Spend it wisely,” she said. She caught Burk smiling at her through the sliding glass doors. “And save some for your dad.”
“My dad doesn’t need any money. He’s gonna be rich.”
“Oh? He is?”
Louie nodded his head; then he rolled the dice and advanced to a railroad that he already owned. “They’re going to make his movie,” he said, as he pushed the dice across the board. “Your turn.”
Loretta heard a cabinet in the kitchen open and close. A moment later Burk came into the living room holding the bottle of red wine and two long-stemmed glasses.
“How come you didn’t tell me?” Loretta said, glancing at Burk after she passed GO and collected two hundred dollars from the bank.
“Tell you what?”
“About your movie. Louie said you got a green light.”
Burk stood quietly for a moment. Then he said, “It was in today’s Variety. I thought you saw it.”
“I don’t read the trades,” Loretta said, accepting the glass of wine Burk was holding out. “They depress me and make me jealous.”
“Are you jealous of me?”
Loretta paused to take a sip of wine and a drag off the cigarette burning in the ashtray by her elbow. “Of course I am,” she said mildly, “but I’ll get over it.”
On Louie’s next roll he was told to pick a card that sent him directly to jail. “Goody! I get to go to jail,” he said, giggling happily. “Now I can visit with my mom.”
Burk was still standing above them, and Loretta looked up and whispered, “He misses her terribly.”
“Yeah, I know he does,” Burk said, his voice choking up. He turned back toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna go put on the steak.”
After they were done eating, Burk cleared the table and washed the dishes while Loretta and Louie continued their game. In less than an hour Loretta was bankrupt.
“That was fun,” Louie said, giving Loretta a hug. “You’re a good loser. A lot better than my dad.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s he do?”
“He says bad words.”
“Really?”
“Sometimes. Not all the time.”
“Does he ever let you win?”
“Never,” Burk said from the kitchen. Then he told Louie to put on his pajamas and get ready for bed.
When Burk reappeared in the living room after reading Louie to sleep, all the lights were off and Loretta was lying on the couch with one hand propped behind her head and the other lightly stroking her thigh. After he switched on the stereo and adjusted the volume, Burk took a hit off the joint that she was now holding in the air above her head.
“You know what I want?” she said, shifting her body so Burk could stretch out next to her.
“No, what?”
“I want to screw your ears off,” she said, laughing, and she rolled on top of Burk and covered his face and neck with tiny kisses. “I want to celebrate your victory today, Mr. Hollywood.”
Burk remained silent and lay very still, his eyes straying around the room.
“Well? You’re not going to say anything?”
“I’m worried about Louie,” Burk said. “So I don’t think you should spend the night.”
Loretta, laughing without showing surprise, sat up quickly and pulled her sweater over her head, revealing small but perfectly formed breasts. “I don’t want to spend the night,” she said, in a voice that made it clear she was telling the truth. “I just want a good fuck. Do you think you can handle that, Ray?”
There was a long silence before he said, in a tone that was quiet and controlled, not wholly committed yet to the erection that tightened his pants, “Yes, I think I can handle that.”
On January 12, 1971, Sandra Burk pleaded no contest to voluntary manslaughter in Victorville Superior Court. She was given a two-year sentence to be served at the California Women’s Prison in Frontera, a small rural community located twenty-five miles east of Los Angeles.
“She’ll be up there with the Manson chicks,” Gene told Burk when they spoke that evening.
“Wonderful.”
“Relax. She’ll be on the street in less than a year. When are you gonna see her?”
“She doesn’t want any visitors.”
“What about Louie? Does he know where she is?”
“I’m gonna tell him tonight.”
“Poor kid. How’s he doin’ otherwise?”
“Great.”
“Leaving LA was the right move, Ray.”
“I know. Berkeley’s cool. Timmy’s bookstore is doin’ great, too. He’s thinking of adding an art theater next door.”
“Say hello.”
“I will.”
“When are you coming down?”
“We start shooting in May.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“For sure.”
“Ray?”
“Yeah.”
“No more driving.”
PART TWO
FIVE DAYS IN THE BREAKDOWN LANE, THREE WITHOUT WEATHER
Welcome to Hollywood II
When the Young Man from Omaha steps out of the Hotel Sherwood on 16th and Dodge, he feels the scorching summer wind shift suddenly from east to west. A gust of fiery air burns his eyes and billows his shirt, and, overhead, a row of dirty gray clouds swells and rolls across the sky, dragged by the wind.
The Young Man turns south on Dodge, and through the city’s skyline he sees more clouds begin to gather and thicken and darken the horizon. Later on, that afternoon, the sun will disappear and the sky over the high plains will be as black as tar, and before the day is over the Young Man will hear the deafening sounds of thunder and lightning battling in the heavens, while hailstones the size of fifty-cent pieces hammer down on the roof of his bus.
This is the fourth time the Young Man has set out on this journey, and he feels his heart tick fast when he sees the familiar logo of the greyhound dog extended over the sidewalk at the end of the block.
“I am leaving everything behind,” the Young Man tells Daniel Schimmel, his uncle and the owner of the Hotel Sherwood, right before he departs for Los Angeles. “Tomorrow when my bus crosses the Rockies, a new life will erase my old life and I will be ready to make my mother’s final wish real.”
After his nephew left the hotel, Daniel Schimmel sat silently for several moments, frowning as his eyes roved uneasily around his office. On the wall beside the window was a poster from the old Omaha Orpheum Theatre. The poster, faded yellow and curling at the edges, announced the opening of a vaudevi
lle show on August 27, 1928—the very last to play the Orpheum, as it turned out.
Headlining the revue was songstress Lenora St. Folette, and preceding her were Elmer Freedom and His Performing Dachshund, Celia and Her Doves, acrobats the Campos Brothers, and Sad Sack the Clown; listed at the very bottom of the poster in the smallest type was the comedy team of Schimmel and Rheingold.
Following his lunch in the downstairs dining room, Daniel Schimmel came back to his office and dialed Max Rheingold’s number in Los Angeles. As he waited for Max to pick up, he sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette, reflecting on their shared past while he watched an occasional bird curve through the air outside his window. After the tenth ring he put the handset back in the cradle. Out-loud, in a voice without emotion, he said, “I tried to warn you, Max. Que sera sera.”
Seven
Monday: Ricky Meets Bobby and Burk Is Barred from the Set
Principal photography on Pledging My Love commenced at 8 A.M., Monday, May 17, 1971. Earlier that same morning, while Burk was sipping coffee and skimming the Daily Variety in his room at the Beverly Hills Hotel, Ricky Furlong was curled up on his daybed in the St. Francis Arms, staring numbly out his grime-coated window on the fourth floor.
Located three doors east of Western Avenue on Hollywood Boulevard, the St. Francis Arms was once a convenient oasis for many distinguished East Coast writers and actors who came to Hollywood for brief assignments at one of the many studios within walking distance. John Garfield came and went over the years, and so did John O’Hara and F. Scott Fitzgerald, before they gravitated west to the Garden of Allah apartments on the Sunset Strip. But that was back in the thirties and forties. Since then the St. Francis had deteriorated along with the neighborhood, and today the guests were a miserable collection of bums and barflies—grief-struck men and women with watery eyes and oily faces that were permanently flushed.