by John Kaye
“Nothing.”
“Something’s wrong.”
“No, I’m fine,” Burk said, trying to reassure him with a smile. Then he took a deep breath and drove back to the hotel.
Fourteen
Saturday Night: Burk Finds His Past in the Dark
Later that afternoon, having dropped off Louie at his father’s house, Burk decided to stop for a drink at the Cock and Bull. There were only two customers at the bar, a roly-poly man wearing tight beltless slacks and an attractive but cold-looking woman with her left arm in a red silk sling.
She had broken it a few months earlier, Burk overheard her tell the bartender. “During the Sylmar quake. I was sleeping when it hit. I got thrown out of bed and the ceiling fell on me. The neck brace came off yesterday, but I still have my ribs bandaged.”
“My cat disappeared,” the bartender said. “Three-year-old calico named Bill. Just dove through the window and that was that. Last I saw of him.”
“Animals freak. They can feel it before it happens,” the woman said, pulling a Viceroy out of the pack sitting on the bar.
The man she was with lit her cigarette with a silver lighter. “The apartment building next to mine fell down like it was made of tinker toys,” he said. “The next day they found two kids dead underneath the rubble.”
“Price you pay to live in paradise,” said the woman, smiling tightly as she studied her face in the mirror behind the bar.
“I don’t buy that,” said the man with her. “Buildings should be made to stand up better.”
“God doesn’t care about building codes,” said the bartender. “You can count on that.”
Burk swigged down three double screwdrivers before he went back to the pay phone and found Madeline Wells’s number in the Western directory. No one answered so he called his brother, who picked up on the second ring.
“Gene.”
“What’s up, Ray?”
“Not much. Just thought I’d check in.”
“I tried you at the hotel. I wanted to talk to Louie.”
“He’s spending the night at Dad’s. I just dropped him off.”
“Where are you now?”
“Cock and Bull.”
“You sound ripped.”
“I’m okay.”
“Why don’t you stay at the hotel and drink?”
“Don’t lecture me. Okay? Monday I’m on a plane. I’m out of your life.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just four hundred miles away.”
Burk started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”
“You are crazy.”
“No, really.”
“Really.”
“Gene, listen. And don’t fuckin’ make fun of me. Guess who I’ve been seein’ around town?”
“Who?”
“Ricky Furlong.”
“Bullshit.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Where?”
“Around.”
“Come on, Ray. Around. In the sky? In a car? Sitting on top of the Hollywood sign? Where?”
“In front of the studio collecting autographs. Outside the Rexall on Beverly and La Cienega. Today, at the pool by the hotel.”
“By the pool?”
“Yeah.”
“Ray, exactly how many drinks have you had?”
“Gene, I’m not shitting you. It’s him. He’s always with this goofy-looking kid with these huge saucer eyes. And they dress alike too. It’s spooky.” There was silence on the other end. “Gene?”
“Maybe you just think it’s him.”
“It’s Ricky Furlong, Gene. I know it’s him.”
When Burk came back to the bar, the squat man was gone, his place taken by a wiry, nervous-looking guy with a face filled with false generosity. Burk ordered another drink and the bartender said, “Let’s make it a single this time.”
“I’m not drunk,” Burk said.
“Just my advice.”
“I don’t need your advice,” Burk said, sounding angrier than he really was.
The nervous guy snickered. “Give the kid what he wants,” he said, then he winked at Burk and introduced himself. “Eddie Cortese.”
“Ray Burk.”
The bartender leaned toward the woman wearing the sling. “He’s a writer,” he said, trying to sound confidential. “They all got problems with the stuff.”
“What does he write?” the woman said, catching Burk’s eye as she pushed a wisp of hair away from her beautiful black eyebrows.
“Maybe he should write about you,” Eddie Cortese countered quickly. “Huh, Judy? You could tell him some stories. Talk about a crazy life.”
The woman turned her head and gave Eddie Cortese a scathing look. “I don’t think we need to go into that.”
“He wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
“Eddie,” the woman said, “will you please shut the fuck up?”
“I’d like another drink,” Burk said. “Make it a single.”
The bartender smiled. “Comin’ right up. What about you, Miss Exner?”
“No. I’m through for the night. Call me a cab.”
After the woman left the bar, Eddie Cortese ordered a martini, drank part of it, then glanced at Burk. “Judy’s got a lot of friends in high places. If I told you some of their names you wouldn’t believe me.”
“She’s been in here with Peter Lawford,” the bartender said. “Couple of times.”
Eddie Cortese shook his head. “Bigger than that.”
“Sammy?”
“Bigger.”
“Sinatra?”
“Bigger.”
“Nobody’s bigger than Frank.”
From somewhere in the restaurant Burk heard a woman talking much too loudly about Charles Manson.
“I used to go out with Polanski. Jay Sebring introduced us,” she said, mentioning one of Manson’s victims. “He did my hair for the last three years. Nobody’s got it right since.”
Burk glanced over his shoulder. The woman speaking was sitting in a booth against the far wall. She was about twenty-two, with cheap-looking makeup and platinum-blond hair that was cut in a shag. Seated across from her was a powerfully built middle-aged man with squashed ears and a sensitive mouth that was too large for the rest of his vacuous face.
The stumpy guy in tight slacks came back inside the Cock and Bull and joined the couple in the booth. “I was telling Art about Jay,” the blonde said.
“She said she met him at the Daisy.”
“The fat guy’s a photographer,” Eddie Cortese said to Burk. “The other one is in distribution. Art somebody. The chick works down the street.”
“She wants to be a centerfold,” the bartender said. “Her name’s Callie. She’s from someplace in Ohio.”
“Fucking Hefner,” Eddie Cortese said, shaking his head. “Can you imagine the pussy that man gets?”
Burk excused himself and walked back to the pay phone. This time when he dialed Madeline Wells her line was busy. He hung up and waited. From the bar he heard Eddie Cortese say, “What’s the scoop on the kid?”
“He’s got a picture at Paramount.”
“Yeah? Don’t look too happy about it.”
“Writers are never happy,” the bartender said. “Fitzgerald, Mankiewicz, Faulkner: all a bunch of sad sacks. Chandler was the worst. Mister Doom and Gloom.”
Burk heard himself laugh but wasn’t sure why. Madeline Wells’s line was still busy so he dialed Loretta’s number in Encino. No answer there. He slammed the receiver down hard and stood by the phone. Inside, he could hear the blonde talking about her latest visit to the Playboy mansion. She said, “Jack Nicholson was there. He came with Candy Bergen and Ann-Margret. They’re doing a picture over at Fox.”
The photographer said, “I shot her eight-by-tens.”
The blonde sat up erect. “Whose? Ann-Margret’s?”
“Candy’s. Edgar and I go way back.”
“Another round,” the blonde called out to the bartender. Then, to both men, she said, “Let’s talk about me.”
“Miss February is still open,” the photographer said. “Hef’s gonna look at the proofs on Monday.”
“What do you think my chances are?”
“Fifty—fifty. If he says he wants to see you in person, they go to seventy-five—twenty-five.”
“What if I fuck him?”
“You have to fuck him regardless.”
“Just like I had to fuck you.”
“Without pictures you have no calling card.”
“This is not an easy town,” the distributor said. Underneath the table his hand was resting on her knee. “A lot of girls out there wanna be Miss February.”
The blonde said, “What do I get if I fuck you?”
“The clap.”
Burk heard everyone in the booth laugh. He was laughing too. Eddie Cortese came by the pay phone on his way to the men’s room. He handed Burk a drink. “Pete says it’s on him.”
Burk dialed Madeline Wells. This time the line was clear but no one answered. After ten rings Burk said, “Fuck it. I’m out of this place.”
* * *
At midnight Burk found himself parked across the street from the Veteran Plaza Apartments. Televisions still glowed in several windows, and behind one of the curtains he glimpsed a stocky couple dancing a foxtrot in their living room. On the wall behind them was a painting of a deer.
“Excuse me?”
Burk turned his head and saw an old man standing in the clotted darkness. A white terrier with a bandage over one eye sat by his feet.
“Your lights are on.”
Burk hesitated for a moment before he leaned forward and pushed in the switch. “Thanks.”
“Last week I did the same thing,” the old man said. “Had to call the Auto Club. By the time they got me charged up, I missed my dentist appointment. You live around here?”
Burk shook his head. “No. I’m just visiting someone.”
A couple moved up the sidewalk and turned into the entrance of the Veteran Plaza. The woman gave the man a key, and he let her inside. In the lighted foyer Burk saw that the woman was Madeline Wells. Her date was a black man with long storky legs.
“Are you all right?” the old man asked Burk.
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look too hot.”
“I’m okay.”
The old man took a step closer, until he was standing in the pink glow of a streetlamp. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “but I think you maybe had too much to drink.”
“That’s probably true.” Burk realized with a lunge of surprise that he recognized the old man’s face. “I think I know you.”
The old man blinked. “You do?”
“You’re Frank Dunlop,” Burk said. “You taught American History at Westside High. Right?” The old man remained silent. “My name’s Ray Burk.”
The old man nodded, the confusion that clouded his face slowly giving way to a small smile. “Yes, of course. Now I remember. And you had a brother.”
“Gene.”
“Gene. That’s right. A tough character,” the old man said, making a fist. “Very tough.”
Burk looked away. “I plagiarized a paper in your honors class,” he said reluctantly. “It was on American political cartoonists between the wars. I copied everything straight out of a library book. You gave me an A. I didn’t deserve it.”
“Then do it over.”
Burk turned and stared at the old man. There was nothing in his tired-looking face that said he was joking. “Do the paper over?”
“If it’s bothering you, do it again. Send it to me and I’ll grade it.” Now the old man was smiling. “You’re not the first, Mr. Burk. You don’t have to be ashamed.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
The old man sighed. “Of course you are,” he said. “You cheated. But you were bright, you didn’t have to. You could have done well, regardless.”
“I thought I needed help,” Burk said, feeling both embarrassed and excited at telling the truth. “I didn’t think I could do the work by myself. Can you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“It’s been bothering me. I didn’t realize it until right now. I still think I need help,” Burk said. He turned in his seat and pointed to the west, where a bank of lights were hidden in the dark trees. “See that field over there? That’s where me and my brother tried out for Little League. Neither of us made it, but Gene should’ve.”
“If he’d made it, would it have been easier for you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He was my big brother.”
“And you needed him on the team.”
“Yes.” Tears washed into Burk’s eyes.
“Did he ever get to help you?”
“He helps me now, because I’m having trouble with my life.”
“Life can be very difficult. You will always need help.”
Burk wiped the tears out of his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “My son needs help too.”
“Then you will help him,” the old man said, turning away.
“Wait,” Burk said. The old man looked over his shoulder. “Do you really remember me?”
“Yes,” the old man said. “I do. You were funny. You told funny stories in class. You made us all laugh. And you had a best friend?”
“Timmy Miller.”
“And a mother who left.”
“Yes.”
“And your father owned a newsstand.”
“Yes.”
“That’s all I remember,” the old man said. Then, in a completely different tone, as if he were talking to an old friend, he said, “Why are you here tonight, Ray? A woman?”
“Yes.”
“She can’t help you. Go home.” The old man began walking slowly up the street, leading his dog. Before he disappeared into the darkness—over the jingle jangle of the choke chain—Burk heard him say: “Write the paper. Do it soon.”
It was 3 A.M. and Burk was in his car, listening to Radio Ray tell his audience that he was leaving the airwaves. “For good. This is my final show,” he said, before he opened the phones. “I’ve been thinking about this for quite awhile, but I’m making it official tonight. Whoops! I guess I took my engineer by surprise,” he said, allowing himself a little laugh. “He just spilled his coffee in his lap.”
“What’re you gonna do?” asked the first caller, a man named Rex.
“I’m not sure. Travel. Garden. Read. Try to find a girl and maybe settle down.”
“Have some kids.”
“That’s in the plan somewhere.”
“Put it on the top of the list. Kids are where it’s at, as long as you don’t expect too much from them when they’re grown. Take my word for it. I spawned five, so I know. They all turned out fine except one, the middle son, Lee. Somewhere he got this name inside his head that he can’t get out: Edgar Peters. Repeats it over and over and over. All day long. Ask him who this fella is and he just shrugs. Don’t know him from Adam’s house cat, he says. Can’t hold a job or lead a normal life if you got that goin’ on upstairs. He’s up at Patton State Hospital now, where they’re tryin’ out a new drug.”
“Let’s hope it works.”
“I ain’t holdin’ my breath.”
Radio Ray’s next caller said he was using a pay phone in Culver City.
“Right now I’m gassin’ up my car,” he told Radio Ray. His voice sounded optimistic. “Actually it’s a Ford Ranchero. I’m on my way up to Sacramento to visit an old war buddy.”
Radio Ray said, “Jimmy Fain, this boy I grew up with, he had a ’fifty-nine Ranchero. White.”
“Mine’s black,” said the caller.
“Jimmy missed a turn comin’ back from Lake Ballard. Three kids riding in back were
killed: the Boulton brothers, Pete and Greg, and Mary Sperling. That was in the summer of ’fifty-nine. ‘Personality,’ by Lloyd Price was all over the radio that summer. That was Jimmy Fain’s favorite song. Mine was ‘Only Sixteen’ by Sam Cooke.”
“Gene had those,” Burk said out loud, speaking directly to the radio. “He owned every oldie you can think of. But there were no oldies back in ’fifty-nine. Everything was new—all the tunes, the chicks, sex, everything. It was a cool summer,” he said, looking out the windows at the star-scattered sky. “A lot of things seemed better back then.”
Although there was still one more hour left, Radio Ray accepted only one more call, the last he would ever take. It was from a woman who chose to remain anonymous. She said, “Life? There is no meaning. Love? It never lasts. The truth is you never know the truth. Be grateful. Face reality. Stay out of the future. Treat people decently. There is only integrity. That’s it. That’s all you’ll need to know.”
That night Burk dreamt he was inside the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard, watching Doris Day dance with James Cagney in the musical West Point Story. His father was sitting next to him and his cousin Aaron was in the same row, but they were separated by three seats.
In the middle of a production number, Ricky Furlong came down the aisle and sat behind Nathan Burk. He said, “I’ve got Doris Day’s autograph in my book. I was on the set. My dad took me. I got James Cagney’s, too, and Virginia Mayo and Gordon MacRae.”
Aaron spoke to Ricky while Burk and his father watched the action on the screen. “I knew Cagney in New York,” Aaron said. “He was a tough guy, real tough. But not as tough as me. Right, Nate?”
“Right,” Nathan Burk said. He leaned toward his son and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Every Sunday after church, Doris came by the newsstand. I gave her a copy of the Cincinnati Enquirer. That’s her hometown. She went to high school with Vera-Ellen. That’s a little-known fact. She started out as a dancer. Her mother sewed all her outfits until she was sixteen and went on the road. She once owned a French poodle she called Smudge Pot. She’s a great gal.”
In the dream that followed, Burk was inside Bonnie Simpson’s apartment in the Argyle Manor. On her television, two middleweight fighters from the fifties were slugging it out in Madison Square Garden. The picture was in black-and-white until one fighter was cut over his eye; then the blood turned red as it ran in jagged lines down the side of his face.