by John Kaye
Burk says, “I don’t want her around either.”
Ricky gives Burk the middle finger. “Pitch the ball,” he says to Gene.
“Gene doesn’t want her around,” Burk says. “Do you, Gene?”
Gene glances over his shoulder at his brother. “Drop it, Ray.”
“Do you?”
“I’m quitting,” Ricky says. He kicks the shirt cardboard into the gutter and flings the bat against the curb, cracking the handle. “I’m going home. Tell my mom.”
Burk walks forward. “You tell her, asshole,” he says when he’s standing next to Gene. “She’s your mom.”
“They were just having an argument,” Gene says. “That’s all.”
“I’m going home,” Ricky says again. This time Burk can hear the ache in the bottom of his throat. “Tell her.”
Burk arrived at the studio just before lunchtime. After he found a vacant parking space outside the administration building, he glanced over and saw Jerome Sanford standing next to a blue chauffeur-driven limousine. He was talking to Bernie Leeds, the head of distribution, a handsome gray-haired man who was wearing dark blue crepe slacks and white Gucci loafers. When he made eye contact with Burk, Sanford gave him a small smile of acknowledgment before he turned back and resumed his conversation.
On his way over to the sound stage, Burk passed by some gaffers and other members of the camera crew he recognized from his earlier visits to the set. They were heading toward the commissary. Before they walked inside, someone (Burk thought it was a hung-over-looking prop man wearing a plaid golf cap) said, “That’s the writer. What the fuck’s he doing here?”
As soon as he turned the corner at the end of the street, Burk noticed Boyd Talbott steer a striped golf cart up to the stage door. Snake Myers was standing nearby in the shade, chatting with the teamster captain, the same guy who turned Burk away from the location in Griffith Park. When they saw Burk approach, Myers’s eyes showed alarm and he mouthed the word “fuck.” Simultaneously the stage door opened and Jon Warren walked into the noonday sun with his arm around Loretta Egan’s shoulder.
Talbott got out of the golf cart and Warren took his place behind the wheel. Loretta slipped into the seat next to him. Both had their backs turned away from Burk, unaware that he was nearby, until Snake Myers shifted his eyes and said, “We got trouble, Jon.”
Warren glanced over his shoulder and saw that Burk was walking toward him with a smile on his face that was not real. “Got the revisions right here,” Burk said, pulling a manila envelope out of his shoulder bag. Loretta turned around and Burk waved and continued to smile, and she smiled in return before she dropped her eyes. “Sorry I was late. Something came up at the hotel.”
“I think we better have a chat,” Talbott said. He started to move forward but stopped when Snake Myers raised his hand.
“This is a big surprise,” Burk said. He was speaking to Loretta now, and he was still smiling, but there was a note of anger in his voice. “Couple of lovebirds. When did all this happen?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Loretta said, leaning away from Warren. “This is just business.”
“Business?”
“We’re not going to need your revisions,” Warren said. He unfolded his legs and stood up to face Burk. “We’re going in a different direction. You’re off the picture.”
“Off the picture.” Burk carefully repeated the phrase to himself as his eyes flicked across Loretta’s face and back to Warren’s. “No kidding. I’m off the picture.”
Snake Myers saw the smile leave Burk’s mouth. He said, “Take it easy, Ray.”
Talbott said, “Jon spoke to Maria Selene this morning. You must have already checked out.”
“You did a really good job,” Warren said, “but I thought we needed a different touch.”
“A woman’s touch,” Burk said, and Warren nodded.
“It’s just a polish,” Loretta said. “I’m not changing the structure. You’ll still get all the credit.”
Warren added, “And just so you know—when I hired Loretta, I didn’t realize you had a thing going.”
Snake Myers moved alongside Burk and put his hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go across the street and get a drink.”
Burk opened his mouth to say something but shut it quickly when the thought got lost in his mind, overwhelmed by an insistent ringing in his ears. The skin on his face was hot and his body was trembling, out of control, unable to absorb the excruciating feelings of embarrassment and betrayal that raged through his chest.
“There’s something wrong here,” Burk said as he flexed his fingers and shifted his weight from his right leg to his left. Then, without hesitating, he dipped his shoulder slightly and threw a left hook that landed on Warren’s chin, knocking him out cold.
Maria Selene was sitting at her desk, chain-smoking, when Burk’s call came in from LAX. “Tell him I’ll be on in a sec,” she told Nora, in a voice that was deceptively casual, disguising what she had just learned from Jerome Sanford: that when Burk came by the set to drop off his revised pages, he and Warren got into an altercation that escalated into a full-scale brawl.
“Burk decked Warren,” Sanford told Maria. “Then he went after Talbott and the teamster captain. Fortunately, Snake Myers tackled him before he did any more damage.”
“What’s going to happen?”
“Warren lost two teeth, so we’re going to have to shut down the picture for at least a day. After that—”
“No. I mean to Ray.”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jack Rose spoke to Warren. They worked something out. But now Crumpler has decided he won’t say a line unless Burk writes it. And he’s not kidding.” Sanford drew in a long breath. “What a fuckin’ mess,” he said. Maria suddenly heard his side of the connection click off and the dial tone resume.
“Ray?”
Maria’s voice surprised Burk when she came on the line. He was standing inside a phone booth, sweating and nervous, his face glowing from the four straight shots of vodka that he’d gulped down in the airport lounge. In the booth next to him was a short, pretty woman with shapely hips and pale-blue eyes. She was speaking with someone called Leslie, and every few seconds she would repeat the phrase, “What a shame.”
“Ray? Are you still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I heard.”
“Yeah?”
“You fucked up, but it’s not fatal.”
“I did the rewrite, Maria.”
“I know.”
“I had it with me. It was good stuff. They had no right to bring in another writer.”
“They own the script. They can do anything they want.”
“They’ve been fucking with me all week.”
“Welcome to Hollywood, Ray.”
Burk suddenly felt a sharp pain in the center of his back, the result of the fall he’d taken outside the sound stage. He remembered blacking out for a short period of time, maybe ten seconds; then he heard a flurry of excited voices and felt the weight of Snake Myers’s body holding him down. “Take it easy,” Snake said, through his panting breaths. “Just take it easy.”
When he was finally allowed to stand up, there were two beefy security guards on either side of him, tightly gripping the flesh above his elbows. A knuckle on his left hand was gashed and a thin trickle of blood ran diagonally across his fingers. Off to the side he was aware of Warren lying on the ground, attended by Loretta and a studio nurse. Someone said, “Jack Rose is on the way down,” and thirty minutes later Burk was escorted off the lot.
Burk turned his face away from the mouthpiece. A cowboy past his middle years was sitting next to Louie in the airport lobby. He wore a bolo tie and a Stetson hat that was flawlessly white. In his eyes was a compassionate look.
“Ray?”
“Yeah.”
“Go home and come up with an idea for something new.”
“I already
have one.”
“I’d love to hear it when you’ve worked it out.”
“I have worked it out.”
“Ray—”
“It’s about these two kids, Jack and Diane. She’s fifteen, he’s fourteen. Think Romeo and Juliet in LA,” Burk said. His voice, which was faintly slurred in the beginning of the conversation, now had a confident tone. “She lives with her dad, a cop. His mom’s an emergency room nurse. The boy’s a rockabilly fanatic. The girl’s a genius car thief. The whole thing takes place over Labor Day, on the three hottest days in the history of the city.”
“Ray, can’t we do this—”
“Just give me five minutes, Maria. Just five. Okay?”
Maria was silent for a moment. Then her voice came out sounding tired, without enthusiasm. “Okay,” she said, “let’s hear it.”
Burk began to speak quickly, outlining the plot. At first it seemed to Maria that he was making up the story on the spot, but with the steady advance of his words it became clear that all the elements— the characters, their relationships, the key locations, the setting and mood, and so on—had been worked out in great detail.
“I think it works,” Maria said when Burk finished his pitch. But it didn’t just work; she thought it was so fresh and relevant that she could walk into Fox or Warner’s—or any studio in town, for that matter—and quickly set up a development deal for Burk. Seventy-five thousand for a first draft and a set of revisions was not out of the question. If he wrote it on spec the price could go much higher, maybe even triple. “Have you got a title?”
“Jack and Diane.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure that’s it. I mean, eventually the parents and the kids end up together, so the piece is really about four people. What about something with ‘love’ in it?”
Burk said nothing for a moment. The woman in the booth next to him was holding a match up to a cigarette while she spoke into the mouthpiece. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I get in,” the woman said. “My plane leaves in ten minutes.”
Burk said, “What about—”
“What? I can barely hear you,” Maria said.
Burk raised his voice a notch higher. “Crazy Love. What about that for a title?”
“That’s not bad,” Maria said. “I like it.”
“I don’t,” Burk said. “I just wanted to hear how it sounded out loud.”
Maria tried to laugh away the rebuke.
The woman next to Burk had hung up the phone. She was standing outside the booth, looking uncertain in which direction she should move.
“The script’s about love,” Burk said, aware that the woman was listening. “But it’s about other things too. It’s about finding a safe place. That’s what kids and parents are looking for: someplace inside their hearts where they’re not scared; a sacred space. And it’s about family, because without family there is nothing at all.” Burk’s eyes wandered back over to his son. Louie and the tall cowboy were now involved in a serious game of gin rummy. “I know what it’s called,” Burk said, and a weird tenderness crept over him. “It’s called Take Me Home.”
As they boarded their flight to San Francisco, Louie tried to convince his father to sit in the front of the aircraft. “It’s safer up front,” he said.
“It’s safe anywhere.”
“Not on the wing, it isn’t. If a bird gets sucked through an engine, it can explode.”
“I don’t think that’s going to happen today.”
“I hope not. How about here?” Louie said. He was standing by a row of empty seats.
Burk glanced at a seat number. “I can’t smoke here.”
“You don’t have to smoke, Dad.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“For an hour, you don’t.”
“Back here,” Burk said, guiding Louie toward two rows of seats that faced each other in the rear of the cabin. “You take the window. I need room to stretch out my legs.”
A stewardess with a phony smile moved forward to help Burk stow his carry-on gear in an overhead rack. “What row are we in?” Louie asked her.
“Thirty-two.”
“Oh.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s neither,” Burk said as he dropped heavily into his seat on the aisle. “Right, Louie?”
Louie shrugged, avoiding the questioning looks from both his father and the stewardess. Over the white noise of the engine, Burk heard a familiar-sounding voice. “I work for I. Magnin,” said the woman seated across the aisle, the same woman who was on the phone next to him in the lobby. She was talking to the man in her row: a younger man, dark and slender, dressed in a gray suit. “I’m a buyer in men’s sportswear. What about you?”
“I’m in municipal bonds.”
“In meaning what?”
“I trade them. Buy and sell. I’m a broker with Paine-Webber.”
“I see,” the woman said. “Yes.”
The plane began to taxi toward the runway. Louie said, “I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. I’m scared.”
“Don’t worry,” Burk said. “We’re gonna be fine.”
The woman across the aisle turned her head, her eyes bypassing Burk’s face. “Why are you scared?” she asked Louie.
Louie remained silent, his eyes shut tight and his elbows digging into the armrest. The woman looked at Burk, staring at him as if she were trying to pull him into focus. He pointed to the seat number. “Certain numbers frighten him,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Two and three in certain combinations. And some numbers that add up to ten. Like one and nine.”
The aircraft had reached the beginning of the runway. The pilot said, “Flight attendants prepare for takeoff.”
The man in the gray suit checked the number above his seat. “I’m sitting in thirty-two E,” he said in a worried undertone.
“Maybe he should see someone,” the woman said to Burk. Her voice sounded worried too.
“He’s fine. It’s something he’ll grow out of.”
“My birthday’s February nineteenth,” said the man in the gray suit. “What does that mean?”
“That means you’re a Pisces,” said the small well-dressed black man sitting across from him. He wore rimless glasses and spoke with a slight British accent.
The aircraft started down the runway, gathering speed. As they lifted into the air, Burk put his hand on Louie’s shoulder. “We’re up, pal. We’re on our way.”
Louie opened his eyes. He was looking out the window. Underneath the scattered clouds the city glittered in the bright sunlight.
“Do you live in San Francisco?” the woman asked Burk.
“Berkeley.”
“I live across the bay, in Sausalito.”
“I really dig Sausalito,” said the man in the gray suit.
“I teach in Berkeley,” the black man said. “I’m a cultural anthropologist.”
The man in the gray suit looked annoyed. “Anthropologist? I thought maybe you taught astrology.”
The black man made a froggy-sounding laugh. “Astrology. That’s very good. But no,” he said, still laughing, “astrology is just a hobby.”
Louie opened and closed his fists three times. He said, “Thirty is three times ten. But thirty is a good number. That’s how old my dad will be next year.”
“My best friend, Leslie, is a child psychologist. She lives in Berkeley,” the woman said to Burk. “If you want her number I would be glad to give it to you.”
The black man and the man in the gray suit were watching Burk, waiting for him to reply. The seat-belt light blinked off and the stewardess who was sitting near the galley stood up. Burk caught her eye. He said, “I’d like a Bloody Mary.”
“We’ll be serving beverages in a few moments,” the stewardess said, keeping a happy smile on her face but showing just a sliver of irritation in her voice.
Louie said, “Don’t drink too much, Dad.”
Burk put a finger to his lips and Louie hunched his s
houlders, apologizing with his eyes.
“What sign are you?” the black man asked the woman sitting across from him. “I’d guess either a Capricorn or a Leo.”
Louie said, “I’m a double Gemini.”
“I’m a Virgo,” the woman said.
“Cultural asshole,” said the man in the gray suit.
“I think that’s enough,” the woman said, disgusted. She unfastened her seat belt and stood up. “Would you mind?” she said to Burk, pointing at the empty seat next to him.
Burk stood up to let her in. “Be my guest.”
The man in the gray suit crossed his legs and smoothed the crease on his knee. His lips were smiling, but there was a hard gleam in his eye. The stewardess came down the aisle and handed Burk a Bloody Mary. “What can I get you?” she asked Louie.
“A ginger ale and a bag of peanuts.”
“I’d like a double scotch on the rocks,” said the man in the gray suit.
“This is a tough time for Pisces,” the black man said. “The Jupiter-Neptune conjunction puts you in the astrological strike-out zone. It can last for months,” he said, trying to look apologetic. “I’d suggest moderation in all affairs. Take no risks.”
Burk glanced at the woman seated next to him. “You were on the phone next to me in the airport.”
“Yes, I know. By the way,” she said, “my name is Barbara Nichols.”
Burk gently squeezed her outstretched fingers. “Ray Burk. And this is my son, Louie.”
Louie turned and gazed up at Barbara with an unchildlike expression on his face. “My mom’s in prison,” he said. “I saw her yesterday. That’s why I came down to Los Angeles.”
The black man grew suddenly tense. “What an odd coincidence,” he said, his eyes blinking rapidly. “On Monday I’m flying to Mexico to interview women who are incarcerated in a jail in Sonora. It’s part of a cross-cultural study of prostitutes, for which I’ve received a rather large grant.”
Barbara glanced quickly at the black man before she refocused her attention on Burk. “Out of curiosity,” she said, “what kind of a crime did—?”
“She shot a guy,” Burk said. He drained the Bloody Mary in one gulp and held the plastic cup in the air, rattling the ice.