by John Kaye
“That was the one and only time I was unfaithful,” Sandra said.
“You were pregnant.”
“I know.”
“And drunk.”
“I’ve made so many mistakes, Ray. I’m not perfect. Don’t ask me any more questions about Dicky Solomon,” she said. “Okay? I barely moved. I just let him fuck me. That’s all.”
Sandra stopped speaking and nervously bit down on her lower lip. When their eyes accidentally met, she said, “I want to see Louie now. But I want to be alone with him. I don’t want you here. Okay?”
Burk nodded.
Sandra glanced at the guard. “Do you have to be in the room too?”
“Yes.”
Burk got to his feet. Sandra looked up. “He beat me with his crutch, Ray.”
“Who?”
“Shay Carson, the man I killed. He fractured his foot during the calf roping, which meant he was out of the all-around. He got drunk and came back to the motel and tried to manhandle me. Manhandle. Isn’t that a perfect word?”
Burk nodded. He wanted to change the subject.
“Sandra, listen—”
“No. You listen,” she said, in a voice that was surprisingly hard. “I want to tell you this so I don’t tell Louie. Do you understand?” Sandra sat forward and challenged him with her eyes. “When I wouldn’t let him in, he broke down the door to my room. He didn’t know I had his gun, and when he saw it he laughed. I laughed too, making him think everything was okay. But it wasn’t, because I was really scared. I told him to leave, but he sat down on the bed and started taking off his clothes. I told him if he didn’t leave I was going to call the police. He laughed some more and swung at me with his crutch. He caught me on the forehead. That’s when the gun went off. No. Wait. I didn’t say that right. That’s when I pulled the trigger. Boom! I saw a flash come out of the end of the barrel, and he fell back off the bed onto the floor. A few minutes later the police came and took me to jail. That’s it. That’s how it happened.”
Burk was silent. Sandra stood up and walked over to the window. In profile a tear fell off her double chin and left a dark mark on her collar. Down below a thin ponytailed guard came up behind Louie and tapped him on the shoulder. She said a few words and he nodded his head, his gaze giving away none of his feelings as he followed her across the basketball court.
“Here he comes,” Sandra said, still staring out the window. “Here comes my boy.”
Driving back to Los Angeles, Louie would tell his father how frightened he was inside that room. “She was standing by the window with her back to me. She was hugging herself, like she was cold or scared. I was scared too. Scared that she wouldn’t look at me, that I would just stand there forever holding my breath.”
“But she turned around, didn’t she?”
Louie nodded. “Her face looked different, didn’t it, Dad? It looked . . . wider. And her skin didn’t look the same. It used to be so smooth. And she chews her nails, too.”
“Was it good to see her, Louie?”
“It sure was. But it was over so fast we hardly got a chance to say much.”
“I know.”
“She says she’s getting out pretty soon. Real soon. Right?”
Burk shrugged.
“She is. But she’s not going to live with us. Right?”
“Right.”
“But it will be okay for me to see her. That’s okay.”
“Yes, Louie, that’s okay.”
Burk switched on the radio and punched the buttons until he found an all-news station. Nixon was bombing Cambodia and someone was strangling and torturing young women in Hollywood. A boy drank poison, and an estranged husband was killed by his wife’s lover. In each story the word “anguish” was used once. At the end of the newscast, Burk turned around and looked at Louie in the backseat. “Are you glad we came?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You sure?”
Louie nodded his head, but Burk could see that he’d already begun to cry.
“She loves you, Louie. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“She does,” Burk said, and he slammed his fist on the dash. “She loves you more than anything in the whole goddamn world.”
It was near midnight on Sunday evening when Bobby Sherwood and Ricky Furlong left the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The light had gone out of the sky, and the hotel’s facade now looked more peach than pink.
After they crossed Sunset, they walked south three blocks on Rodeo Drive, then turned left. At the intersection of Elevado and Bedford, a small elderly man was standing on the corner, puffing on a long cigar. He was wearing a maroon bathrobe over baby-blue silk pajamas. Nearby, a toy poodle turned in small circles while its tiny paws scrabbled a patch of grass next to a mailbox.
Bobby was halfway across the street when he abruptly turned and moved quickly back to the curb. His heart was banging but everything else about him remained calm. “You don’t know me,” he said, blinking a little as he approached the elderly man. “My name’s Bobby Sherwood. I’m from Omaha, Nebraska. My uncle is Daniel Schimmel.”
“Bobby Sherwood from Omaha.”
“Yes.”
The elderly man took the long cigar out of his mouth and peered into Bobby’s face. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t know you.”
Ricky was at Bobby’s side. He tried to gently move him up the street but Bobby pulled away.
“Don’t you know who he is?” Bobby said.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t you get his autograph?”
“Because I already have it, stupid. That’s why.”
“Daniel Schimmel,” the elderly man said, his face taking on a thoughtful look. “Schimmel and Rheingold. Comedians.”
Bobby’s face lit up. “Yes, Mr. Burns. They were on the same bill with you and Gracie when you played the Ritz in Indianapolis. My uncle has the poster.”
“Terrible act. Absolutely dreadful. You said Rheingold was your uncle?”
“No, Daniel Schimmel.”
“Him I don’t remember. Rheingold was a pig. Used to hang around the kid acts backstage with his fly open.”
“My uncle stayed in Omaha.”
“Good for him. He’s probably much happier there. And funnier.”
“He owns the Hotel Sherwood.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s on Dodge and Sixteenth. One hundred and seventy-six rooms. I lived on the seventh floor, in the east wing. Room seven-sixteen. The rugs in the hallways are the same color as your robe.”
“No kidding.”
“And the walls are painted green.”
George Burns puffed on his cigar, still staring at Bobby through the whorls of smoke. “This is a very odd conversation,” he said, then turned and looked at Ricky. “And you say you have my autograph?”
“My dad got it,” Ricky said, taking out the small leather-bound book he always carried in his rear pocket. “Here,” he said, opening to a page with three signatures. “He got you on the same day as Bob Hope and Jane Russell.”
George Burns took the book and stepped under the streetlamp, holding the page away from his eyes. “Blue Skies. No, wait, that was Bing. Paleface. 1948. That was it. I remember visiting Hope on the set. Who’s your dad?”
“Nobody.”
“He was there. He was somebody.”
“He was a grip.”
“What’s wrong with that? So he wasn’t a star or a big shot. He was your dad. Be proud of him. Where is he now?”
“Dead.”
“May he rest in peace,” George Burns said. “What cemetery is he in?”
“Hollywood Memorial.”
“Know it well. Nelson Eddy is buried there. I visited his grave not long ago. I was with Jessel. We came by after we had lunch at Perino’s.”
Ricky said, “My mom picked out a plot by the pond so my dad’s feet would be pointing toward Paramount Studios.”
“If he sat up
he could see the Hollywood sign,” George Burns said, grinning.
“Marlon Brando was born in Omaha,” Bobby said, after a moment. “When I was fourteen I sat next to him at Chloe’s, this diner on Dodge. He had a Reuben sandwich and an order of fries. He said he’d been coming to Chloe’s since he was a kid. He knew all the cooks and waitresses by name. Our waitress that day was Edna. One of the cooks was named John.”
Bobby stopped speaking when he saw that George Burns was giving his face close consideration. A phone rang inside one of the houses on the street, and Ricky said, “Bobby moved to Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago. I met him the morning he arrived. He was polishing a star on the Walk of Fame.”
“We became friends,” Bobby said, keeping his eyes lowered but reaching covertly for Ricky’s hand. “Really good friends.”
“I see,” George Burns said. For the first time a hint of fear crawled into his eyes. “Well, I have to go,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you boys.”
“My grandmother came out to LA in 1942. She came by train,” Bobby said to George Burns’s back as he crossed the street with his dog. “She died in 1949. She’s buried in Hollywood Memorial too. On Paradise Drive, right next to my mom.”
Once George Burns was safely back inside his house, he sat in his favorite armchair for several minutes, contemplating the strange encounter he’d just had on the street. He reached for the phone to call the police, then stopped. What would he say? Get a squad car up here right away! There’s a couple of fags talkin’ about Omaha, Max Rheingold, and the Hollywood Memorial Cemetery.
Schimmel and Rheingold? George Burns shook his head and smiled to himself without separating his lips. They were one of the worst acts he’d ever seen. Second only to Connolly and Webb, a married couple who did an act called Stormy Finish. Jack Connolly played a piano with bananas and pears while Thelma, his wife, did a bad Charleston with a canary sitting on top of her head. At the finish Jack would describe a tornado they drove through in western Kansas. When he was through speaking everything onstage was rigged to fly off.
Just before he went to sleep, George Burns remembered a pretty young girl who played the Capitol Theater in Lynn, Massachusetts. She was sixteen years old and terribly shy. Onstage she would sit behind a large ancient typewriter with a blank expression on her face, taking dictation from the audience while she read the Police Gazette. She took three hundred strokes a minute, and she never once made an error.
In between shows, George Burns told her that he and Gracie wanted her on the bill when they played the Palace. She was thrilled. But when the day came, he was informed by her booking agent that she was dead.
“How?”
“Cut her wrists after a show in Milwaukee.”
George Burns did not want to believe this. Instead he told Gracie that the girl had married and left the circuit. “She’s not cut out for this life,” he said. “She’s going to settle down and become a secretary.”
Ricky and Bobby crossed Carmelina, and two blocks later, while they were waiting for the light to change on Wilshire Boulevard, Ricky said, “I enjoy walking through Beverly Hills at night. It’s quiet and clean and I always feel safe. After my dad died, my mom would bring me here once a week. We’d eat dinner at Nate and Al’s and go see a movie at the Warner’s Beverly Theater. Afterward we’d have a soda at Blum’s or Will Wright’s.
“On the night we went to see The Greatest Show on Earth, my mom left her seat in the middle of the show. When the picture was over I found her sitting in a corner of the lobby underneath a small red wall lamp, smoking. He eyes were puffy and her cheeks were wet. I asked her why she was crying. She said she missed my dad. She missed sitting next to him, sharing a Hershey bar or some popcorn or a package of M and M’s. She said she missed the tart, sweet smell of his breath when he whispered in the dark.
“We left the theater by a side exit and cut across an alley to Beverly Drive, where our car was parked. When we passed the Brown Derby restaurant, Mother spotted actor Steve Taylor leaving with a group of friends.
“She followed him and his date back up to his house in the hills above Sunset. After they went inside she told me to go up and knock on his door. She said, ‘See if he remembers your dad. They worked on Crossfire together with Robert Ryan.’ I said I didn’t think it was a good idea, but she kept insisting, saying it was important, that it was some kind of good omen for us if he remembered. I couldn’t believe she was making me do this, until I saw the bottle in her purse. That’s when I knew she was drunk.
“When I told her no, she said I didn’t have any choice. If I refused I would have to walk home in the dark. Then she took my dad’s picture out of her wallet, the one where he’s standing next to Audie Murphy. And she said, ‘Show him this. If he says he knew Ben, ask him for some money. Say he’s dead, that we’re having problems making ends meet. And look sad.’
“As I walked up to the front door, I saw the lights go on in the backyard, and I remember hearing a hoot owl high up in the pepper tree that stood in the center of the lawn. Before I pressed the doorbell, I looked through the front window and saw Steve Taylor in the living room, lying on the carpet next to a young girl with long feathery red hair. Her white linen pants were unbuttoned and her bra was loose and there was a warm smile on her pale, pretty face. I saw her hand go into his slacks and bring out his penis. I remember how it sort of danced in the air in front of her face.
“I looked away when she lowered her head to lick him. On the street I could see my mom slumped behind the wheel with her face turned in my direction. I faked pushing the doorbell and shrugged my shoulders, then I looked back through the window and saw Steve Taylor follow the girl through the sliding glass doors that led out to the pool. By now they were both naked.
“When I got back to the car I told my mom that no one would come to the door. She didn’t believe me, I could tell. Her face was tense and fearful and she kept looking over her shoulder, as if she was afraid we were being watched. She squeezed my hand hard and told me my dad was a war hero, braver than any man she knew. She was really drunk by now, mixing up her words, and it was late and I was tired. The next day I was trying out for Little League and I needed my rest. And I was frightened that she would not be able to drive home, that she would crash.
“So I got out of the car and began walking back down Coldwater Canyon by myself. After about half a mile, this snazzy 1952 Chevy convertible pulled up next to me. The man behind the wheel was surprised when he saw I was just a kid. He said I looked lost, and I told him I was, kind of, but I knew that if I kept walking down the hill that I would eventually reach Sunset Boulevard. Once I made it there, I said, I knew I could catch a bus to my neighborhood.
“He said the buses didn’t run after ten on Fridays. I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. I told him about the Little League tryouts, and then I told him about my mom, how she was parked up the street drunk. He said I could stay at his house, that he only lived a few blocks away. He said he’d make sure I got up in time and had a good healthy breakfast. Then he’d drive me home.
“His name was George. He had long, pretty eyelashes and dark hair that curled in ringlets around his ears. He said he was an actor, but in high school he was an athlete, lettering in baseball and football. He said he lost interest in sports when he discovered girls. Then he discovered boys and became interested in theater. Eventually he became a regular on a TV series, but I’m not gonna tell you which one.”
“Did he touch you that night?”
“No.”
“Not even a kiss good night?”
“Nothing. At dawn he got up and fixed me French toast, and then he drove me home. I remember how embarrassed I was about my little house with the fading paint and all the funky furniture in the front yard. My mom was home by then, but she was too hung over to say anything, although I know she heard me run inside to grab my mitt and my rabbit’s foot and run out.
“George dropped me off at the Little League field on S
epulveda. He said he wasn’t gonna stick around, but for some reason when the tryouts began I could tell he was there, watching me. I thought I saw him standing behind the backstop during batting practice, and when I homered on the first pitch, I’m sure I heard his voice say, ‘Way to go!’
“When I got to high school, George would sometimes come by and watch me work out. I’d be shagging a fly or running out a grounder and I’d look up and see him in the bleachers, sitting on the top bench, reading a movie magazine or the Daily Variety. Other kids’ dads dropped by occasionally, so it didn’t seem so odd at the time, even though he dressed real Hollywood, in tight silk shirts and tasseled loafers with no socks.
“After practice we’d get a hamburger or a pizza in Westwood, but when he drove me home he never came in to meet my mom. He said, ‘She might get annoyed if she thought I was trying to replace your father.’
“One night I told him that I thought Sam Burroughs, my coach, liked boys. He asked me how I could tell. I said it was just a feeling I got when he looked at me, or when he put his arm around my shoulder and squeezed my neck.
“After that night George didn’t come around practice that often. There were times during a game that I’d see him up in the bleachers, but his car was always gone when I came out of the gym after my shower. The last time he came by my house was on a Sunday afternoon. He was with a friend, a blond guy named Mike. Me and Gene and Ray Burk were playing football in the street when they drove up.
“I remember Ray and Gene standing by the fender of the Chevy, flipping the football back and forth while George and I made small talk. The radio was on and Mike was humming along to ‘Standing on the Corner,’ this new song by the Four Lads. Right before he drove off, George said he spoke to Sam Burroughs. ‘He’s a good man,’ he told me. ‘He’ll take good care of you.’”
And he did.
PART FOUR
MONDAY IS A BRAND NEW DAY
Sixteen
Leaving LA