John Belushi Is Dead (3 page)

“More like emo, self-harming miserable.”

“Huh.”

“So what's the game plan today?”

“No game plan. We'll just knock on the door, ask if we can go in and take a few photos.”

“What if some crackhead opens the door and wigs out on us?”

Benji gestured to the glove compartment. I opened it and took out a small aerosol can.

“Pepper spray?”

“You can never be too careful, Hilda. This town's full of psychos.”

I put the spray back. We'd done some crazy stuff before, but knocking on someone's door and asking if we could take a look inside was a new one. There was the time we trekked through the Hollywood Hills trying to find the mythical ruins of a movie star's pool, said to be on vacant land wedged between two properties. What made the pool so special was the mosaic tile work on an adjoining wall that depicted a large spider sitting in a web, a creepy remnant of old-time Hollywood we were desperate to see. We climbed down a cliff face and pushed our way through the undergrowth, but when Benji saw a snake we screamed and ran out of there as fast as we could, our mission thwarted.

One night we climbed the fence at the Hollywood sign and slept under the stars, the enormous D towering above us, Los Angeles teeming below. We hid under the letter so we wouldn't be seen, curled into its side with pillows and blankets and talked about all the people who'd OD'd up there and the actress who'd leaped to her death from the H. In the middle of the night I felt a tugging on my sleeping bag and woke to find a coyote tearing at the fabric.
I stared into its black eyes for a few seconds before it took off, running silently into the scrub.

I watched Benji as we drove. He was stealing proud glances at the bricks on the backseat, his precious artifacts to add to his vast collection of strange objects. He liked to think of himself as the Indiana Jones of the macabre.

“Stabbing yourself in the heart with scissors,” Benji said with admiration. “Now that takes balls. Did you know Elliott Smith's girlfriend told the cops she found him with the kitchen knife already in his heart and pulled it out. Her prints were all over it. It's so messed up. People should know better than to pull out the weapon if someone's been stabbed. It's the dumbest thing you can do.”

“I don't think that's something they teach you in school, Benji.”

“They should. It's useful shit to know.”

We drove down a dead-end street full of crummy apartment buildings and bungalows with faded pink paint. There weren't many sprinklers on this side of town, and the lawns were dead and covered in weeds. Benji pulled up in front of a white stucco apartment block, the name
DISTANT MEMORIES
emblazoned on its side in wrought-iron cursive, the letters chipped and rusted.

“Distant Memories?” I said. “How depressing.”

It was hardly a fitting place for a movie star to live, and I figured Bernie Bernall must have been really down on his luck when he moved here. The building was two stories with a flat roof, and a sign advertising vacancies was hammered into the ground outside. Thick bars covered the windows of the lower level, giving the building the look of a prison. Old catalogs that had fallen from mailboxes were scattered across the front lawn, the edges eaten by snails. Benji shut off the engine.

“If you were gonna kill yourself,” he asked, “how would you do it? I'd jump off a building, so I could sail through the air and watch the pavement rushing up toward me.”

I thought for a moment. “Pills,” I said quietly. “It would be the most painless way to go.”

“Bor-ing.” He opened the glove compartment and took out the pepper spray. “We'll be needing this.”

We walked up the sun-bleached path to the apartment building, Benji up front, the spray concealed in his jacket. He stood in front of the mailbox looking for the right apartment number, and when he found it he took a photo.

“The death certificate says the apartment was on the ground level,” he said, nodding toward an apartment with its blinds open, rock music blasting from inside. “But this guy online told me the death certificate is wrong and it's actually that apartment right there.”

He pointed at the second-story apartment at the front of the building, facing the road. The windows were open but I could see that heavy brown curtains were drawn against the sun. It did not look inviting.

“Are you sure?” I said. “Shouldn't you go by the death certificate?”

“Nah. This guy said he actually lived here when it happened, and that Bernie's apartment was definitely up there.”

“Huh. Did he tell you he knew Elvis, too?”

Benji ignored that comment and started to make his way down the cracked concrete path. We walked past the ground-floor apartment with its blaring rock music and I saw the silhouette of someone inside sitting hunched over a computer. I wondered how anyone could concentrate on work with a stereo at that volume.

“I think he needs to turn the music up louder,” I said sarcastically to Benji. “The rest of the neighborhood can barely hear it.”

Benji didn't answer. He was firmly fixed on getting into the apartment upstairs, intent on his mission. I trailed behind him as he made his way up the old concrete steps, hands at my sides so as to avoid the sharp, rusty railing and the possibility of needing a tetanus shot later on. The upstairs apartment had a big wooden door and a fly-wire screen that was falling off its hinges. To the left of the door was a large window with bars that was also open, the same heavy brown curtain drawn. A wicker mat said
WELCOME
in big black letters.

“See?” Benji said. “‘Welcome.' There's probably some real nice folks living here.”

I looked along the row of apartments. A couch with torn upholstery sat on the balcony, and an ashtray on the ground was overflowing with butts. A strange odor hung in the air, like home cooking gone horribly wrong. It smelled like somebody was boiling a dog. I gagged.

“Can you smell that?” I whispered. “That's rancid.”

Benji lifted his fingers into claws. “Perhaps it is the votting vemains of the late, great Bernie Bernall,” he said, giving his best Bela Lugosi impersonation.

“Can we just get on with this, please? Let's get your shit and get out of here.”

Benji banged on the door with a heavy fist. “Anyone home?” he yelled.

“Jesus, Benji,” I whispered, pulling on his arm. “They'll think it's the cops.”

“You don't get what you want in this world if you don't show strength, Hilda.”

“Why thank you, Tony Robbins.”

He banged again. Inside the apartment nothing stirred. A dog barked in the distance. I could feel someone's eyes on my neck and turned around to catch an old woman peering at me through her curtains. I gave her a small wave and she ducked back inside.

“No one here,” I said, throwing up my hands. “Let's go.”

It was then we heard the sound of a dozen locks turning inside the apartment. We waited as bolts and chains were slid and unhooked. I held on to Benji's arm and instinctively reached for the pepper spray concealed inside his jacket. He patted my hand away and gave me an annoyed look.

“Jesus Christ, calm down,” he whispered.

“Gimme the pepper spray,” I said, grabbing for his jacket. “Give it to me!”

“No!”

Before we could say another word, the door opened a crack before one final chain caught it, and a bearded face gazed out, a wrinkled eye looking us up and down. Benji tapped my hand away and I crossed my arms, trying to act casual, and gave the man a smile. The smile was not returned.

“WHAT?” the old man thundered from behind the door. “WHATTA YOU WANT?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Benji said, holding out his hand and trying to slip it through the slit in the door. When the man didn't take it, Benji withdrew his hand, dismayed. “We were wondering if we could talk to you for a moment?”

“WHAT ABOUT? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?”

Benji looked at me. I looked at the old man, our eyes meeting.

“Well,” Benji started to say, “you, sir, live in a very unique property—”

“I AIN'T SELLIN'! I AIN'T GONNA SELL, GODDAMNIT!”

“No, sir, you misunderstand me. Something very interesting happened in your apartment once. We were just hoping you would let us inside so we could have a look around and take some pictures.”

Benji held up his camera.

“You gonna give me that camera?” the old man asked, a hint of a smirk on his face.

“Ah, no, but I can give you something for your trouble.”

Benji pulled out his wallet and removed a ten-dollar bill. The guy was obviously poor and lonely. He'd be a pushover.

The old man stood there for a moment, considering the proposition. I could feel the vilest heat radiating from inside and figured he didn't have an air conditioner. I would have been just as happy had he turned us away on the spot.

“Do you know me?” he finally growled. Benji looked at me and we both shook our heads.

“No, sir, we don't.”

“You don't know me?”

“No. Should we? Are you famous or something?”

Another pause. “You wanna come in and take some photos. That's it?”

“That's all we want to do, just take some photos of your bathroom.”

“You ain't from the real estate agency?”

“No.”

“The government?”

“No. We are… private operators.”

The old man extended a spotted hand through the crack in the door. Benji handed him the bill and he snatched it out of Benji's fingers.

“Any chance of some bath tiles?” Benji asked.

“Benji!” I said, sure the door would be slammed in our faces, but instead the man grinned and extended his hand again. Without hesitation Benji pulled out another ten-dollar bill and stuck it in the man's scrawny fingers. The old man shut the door and we heard the sound of the last chain unlocking. The door opened. The old man stood in front of us in boxers and a stained white T-shirt, his thin, spindly legs covered in hair. He had long, ragged blond hair that was flecked with gray and stuck out on the sides of his head like he'd put his finger in an electrical socket. His face was drawn and gaunt, and his eyes were tiny black pinpricks in his head. In his right hand was an unlit, gnarled cigar, and he brought it to his mouth and jammed it between his teeth as he stepped aside to let us enter. I immediately thought of Nick Nolte's mug shot and wondered if Benji did, too.

“Thank you very much, sir,” Benji said, wiping his feet, the very model of good manners. The man put his hand roughly on Benji's shoulder.

“The name's Hank, son,” he said. “You call me sir again, I'll knock your teeth through your goddamn head.”

“Okay, dude, it's cool,” Benji said, holding up his hands. He looked back at me and grinned. I waited outside, frozen to the welcome mat. Hank looked at me as Benji made his way around the apartment, picking up items and snapping pictures of light fittings and doorknobs.

“You coming in?” he barked.

I scurried inside, racing over to be close to Benji. The apartment was nothing more than one large room with a kitchenette; there were two doors off to the side that I assumed led to a bedroom and the bathroom. It was also a mess. The walls, once white concrete, were now a dull, faded yellow. There was an old torn sofa, a matching chair next to it that was just as beat-up, and a low wooden coffee table stained with bottle rings. An old black-and-white television was propped in the corner, a coat hanger for an antenna. Empty bottles lay strewn on the stained beige carpet, which had been darkened by what looked like spilled wine and cigar ash. Next to a small wooden desk by the window were stacks of newspapers, yellowed and faded by the sun. The ashtrays were full, and in some the embers were still smoldering. I glanced over at the kitchenette, which looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the seventies. Behind the chipped linoleum countertop was a rusty old stove and an enormous old refrigerator that hummed so loudly it sounded like it was about to take off. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, and the overhead cupboard doors hung open, exposing their sad emptiness. Hank watched with curiosity as Benji took photographs, touched the surface of the walls, and looked at the view from the window. The old man scratched his head and stuck the cigar between his teeth, sidling over to me.

“Are you reporters?” he asked me suspiciously.

“Not reporters exactly,” Benji butted in. “More like enthusiasts. Is the bathroom through here?” Benji gestured to a closed door.

Hank nodded and smiled, amused. “You wanna photograph my shitter, too?”

“Would that cost me extra?”

The smile disappeared from Hank's face and was replaced by an icy stare. “Are you some kind of wiseass?”

“He's just playing around,” I said. “The truth is, a very famous movie star once lived in this apartment.”

“No shit?”

“His name was Bernie Bernall,” Benji interjected once again. “He was one of the biggest stars of the silent era. Valentino had nothing on him.”

“I ain't never heard of him.”

“Maybe he was before your time.”

“So he lived here?” Hank looked around his disheveled apartment, disbelieving.

“Sure did. And he died here, too. In there.”

Benji pushed open the bathroom door and went in. I waited in the living room while Hank went into the bathroom and looked over Benji's shoulder. This was taking too long. I wanted to be out of that dirty apartment and back in the sunshine, away from the flies and the heat and the squalor. Hank came back and stood beside me. I looked at the floor.

“Gee, that guy's music is pretty loud,” I said, motioning to the apartment below.

“The walls here are paper-thin,” he grunted, stomping his foot. “Shut the hell up!” he yelled, and abruptly the music switched off. “Damn kid, always plays his music too loud. So you're not in school?”