Stars Screaming (24 page)

Twelve

Saturday: Burk Meets Max

Rheingold walked into the coffee shop and took a seat at the counter, groaning loudly when he glanced over and saw Burk cutting into his pancakes.

“Jesus, will you look at that plate. You know how long it’s been since I had pancakes?” Burk put down his fork and turned a little on his stool. “Twenty-six months. Over two years. No butter, eggs, coffee, alcohol, or red meat either. I brought my weight down from three-oh-seven to two thirty-two. I’m goin’ to heaven,” he said, and offered his hand.

After Burk introduced himself, Rheingold slammed his fist on the counter.

“Of course!
Pledging My Love
! Great script. Absolutely wonderful. I want to work with you, Ray. Anything you want to do: cop story, Western, romantic comedy, I don’t give a fuck. Let’s get in trouble together, let’s make a picture.”

A confused look came into Burk’s eyes that Rheingold noticed. “I think you should talk to my agent,” Burk said.

“Your agent?”

“Her name is—”

“Maria Selene! I know who your fucking agent is. What am I, some kind of a dipshit? Listen to me, kid,” Rheingold said, lowering his voice as he leaned across the counter. “I own the remake rights to thirty films.
Pecos Outlaws
,
Peace in the Valley
,
Massacre at Dawn
, just to name three. You ever see
Careless Love
?” Burk shook his head. “Dick Peterson, Delia Short, Kenny Kendall. Takes place at a dog track in Tucson. It’s got everything: murder, incest, adultery, dead animals, the works. It’d be a terrific vehicle for Beatty and Dunaway. Just needs someone to dress it up a little, modernize it. I’ll have Jack screen it for you.”

“Jack?”

“Jack Rose. He’s my partner,” Rheingold said, straight-faced. He took out a long cigar and slowly slid off the cellophane wrapper. “He had your script layin’ around his cabana. I read it and gave him my notes.”

A waitress came out of the kitchen and glared at Rheingold. An Ace bandage ran from her calf to her knee. “Oh, that’s wonderful,” she said. “Now you’re gonna stink up the place.”

Max smiled. “Calm down, Dotty.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, Mr. Rheingold. I don’t need your advice, thank you very much. He bothering you?” she asked Burk.

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“If he bothers you, tell me.”

“I will.”

An elderly man in an expensive gray silk suit walked into the coffee shop. He glanced in Rheingold’s direction before he took a seat at the far end of the counter. “I’d like rye toast and a cup of tea,” he said to the waitress in an English accent.

As soon as the waitress moved into the kitchen with the order, Rheingold slid over to the stool next to Burk. “We’re gonna work together, kid,” he said confidently, his fish eyes bulging out. “I can feel it.”

Burk began to eat more avidly than he wanted. “Get back where you belong and let this one finish his breakfast,” the waitress told Rheingold when she came out of the kitchen. “Stop bein’ a pest. And you slow down,” she scolded Burk.

Rheingold heaved his bulk over one stool and snapped open the
LA Times.
Manson’s picture on the front page made him sneer. “You
see this piece of shit,” he said. “This prick and his hippie-slut followers were swimming in my pool a week before they killed Sharon Tate and that bunch. Swimming naked in
my
pool.” Down the counter the Englishman chuckled softly over the top of his teacup. “Something funny about that down there?” The Englishman scratched his ear and mumbled an apology. “Fuckin’ limey asshole.”

“Max!” The waitress was pointing toward a wall phone. “One more remark like that and I call upstairs.”

“This music guy rented the house next door to me,” Rheingold said to Burk, after he shrugged off the waitress. “He was a drummer in one of those English bands. Chocolate Jockstrap or something. I don’t know. But they were sex crazed, I can tell you that. And so were their groupies. I used to look out the window and see them bangin’ each other in broad daylight. In front of the fuckin’ help, for Christ’s sake.

“One morning I saw Manson running around over there, chasing this cunt across the patio, whipping her back with a heavy belt until she fell and cracked her head on the bricks. He just left her there. I thought she was dead. Finally, she got up and staggered back into the house. A few minutes later the Jap gardener came into the backyard and hosed her blood into the pool.

“A week or so later, the guy who rented the place moved out. The owner put it up for sale and drained the pool. That Sunday I was taking a snooze when I heard a bunch of screaming and laughing coming from my backyard. I look outside and I see Charlie and his girls splashing in
my
pool.

“First I called the cops, then I got my loaded forty-five out of my dresser. When I came downstairs, Manson right away wants to apologize, offering me a joint, giving me all this peace and love bullshit. Then I noticed plates of food and empty bottles all over the lawn. How about this? They raided my fucking icebox and my liquor cabinet while I was sleeping. When I told him the cops were on their way over, Manson just grinned, showing not the tiniest bit of fear. He said, ‘That’s too bad, fat man. I thought we could party.’

“One of his girls—Krenwinkle, I think—came over and started rubbin’ up against me like a cat in heat. Manson was watching and grinning this evil smile, giving the girl signals with his eyes. When she started to go down on me, I forgot I was holding the pistol, and Manson snatched it right out of my hand. I thought for sure he was gonna put a bullet in my head, but he didn’t; instead, he cocked the
hammer and rested the barrel against this girl’s cheek while she continued to suck me off.

“God knows how I kept a hard-on, but when I shot my wad she stood up and spit the whole deal in my pool. Then, while the rest of his crew got dressed, Manson found his wallet and took out a fifty-dollar bill. He said, ‘Thanks for the booze.’ I said, ‘Keep it,’ and he said, ‘No deal. I always pay my way.’ Then they all took off in a broken-down van that was parked at the end of my driveway.

“In awhile the cops drove up and I told them it was a false alarm. A few months after Manson was arrested, I looked out my window and saw this woman running across my lawn, waving a pistol. By then, all the papers were talkin’ about Manson’s death list, all the people he planned to kill, so naturally I thought this broad was sent up to take me out.

“As it turned out it was some dingbat psycho from Detroit, an escapee from a mental institution apparently looking to kill Hank Fonda, who lived across the street.”

Burk rose with his check and Rheingold followed him over to the register. “Isn’t that an amazing story?” he said, smiling, prodding Burk in the side with his elbow. “And the whole thing is true. Every word.” Burk was making an intense effort not to smash his fist into Rheingold’s fat face. He received his change and moved into the hallway that led to the elevators and the main lobby. Beside him, Rheingold was saying, “Every nutball in the country ends up here, sooner or later. That’s why I love this town. Anything can happen.”

Burk stopped in the middle of the lobby and stood in silence for a moment, glaring at Rheingold. Then, in a voice that was quiet but communicated his anger, he said, “Stop following me.”

Rheingold looked visibly hurt. Sputtering, he said, “Following you? I’m not following you. We’re having a conversation. But look, I’m sorry—”

“Just leave me the fuck alone,” Burk said, stopping Rheingold before he could launch into an apology. “You got it?”

Rheingold hesitated, waiting until he could lift one corner of his mouth into a smile. “Sure,” he said. “No problem. I don’t work with prima donnas, anyway.”

The phone rang while Burk was shaving. When he picked up, Maria Selene sounded relieved. “I don’t believe it. It’s actually you.”

“Hi, Maria.”

“I’ve left umpteen messages.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget about me. Paramount’s paying you a thousand a week. You can’t just disappear for three days. They want to know where you are.”

“I’m around.”

“Did you get Talbott’s memo?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“I’m not sure I want to change the scene with Eric and Barbara up on Mulholland.”

“The rest?”

“I can live with most of it. The scene inside the motel always needed work.”

“I’ll get you another five grand.”

“I don’t need to get paid, Maria.”

“You write, they pay. That’s the deal,” Maria said. She sounded determined. “You already gave them a free set of revisions and a producer’s read.”

“Do what you want. I’ll send down the pages.”

There was a short silence. “From where?”

“Berkeley.”

“You’re leaving? When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“They want you here for the reunion. Warren said it was important. They really need you, Ray.”

Burk moved to the window. Down below he saw a lazy-looking girl in a tennis outfit walk out of the hotel. She was no older than sixteen. Standing behind her, stroking her arms, was a slim, middle-aged man wearing a clean white T-shirt and pressed bell-bottom jeans that had sunflowers sewn into the back pockets. The couple got inside a blue Mercedes convertible that was waiting by the curb. When they pulled away, Burk said, “Let me think about it. Maybe I’ll stay over till Monday.”

Maria said, “That’s very generous of you.”

Burk was still watching the front of the hotel. Max Rheingold came outside and stood underneath the green awning. He was holding a Bloody Mary in a tall glass. A moment later Burt Driscoll, the
hotel’s general manager, was standing by his shoulder. There was a short but heated conversation that ended when Max spun around and stalked angrily back inside the hotel.

Burk looked up. The sky was milkier than it was an hour ago. Maybe the sun would finally come out, he thought, as he returned his gaze to the front of the hotel. Eventually he said, “I gotta go. I gotta pick up my kid.”

On his way out of the hotel, Burk noticed Max Rheingold sitting on the steps in the shallow end of the pool. A short distance away, a girl of six or seven was floating on her stomach, buoyed by a pair of pink water wings.

As he passed by, Burk heard Rheingold say, “You’re a very pretty girl. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

“
Everyone
tells me that.”

“Do you believe them?”

“Of course I do,” the little girl said. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I would if I were as pretty as you.”

“But you’re not,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No.”

“I’m a tiny angel and you’re a fat old man.”

The muscles tensed in Rheingold’s back as he struggled not to look angry or hurt. After a thoughtful pause, he said, “That wasn’t such a nice thing to say.”

“I know,” the little girl said as she churned the water with her hands.

“Then say you’re sorry.”

The girl paddled into the center of the pool and flipped herself over on her back, remaining silent as she looked up at the sky with a tiny smile on her lips. Max Rheingold stared at her helplessly for several seconds. Then he got to his feet and started walking across the lawn, taking the most direct route back to Jack Rose’s cabana.

Once inside he stood absolutely still for a long time, looking down at his shadow, which lay flat on the floor. “You’re nothing, Max,” he whispered, his ugly, malicious face stretched into a grimace of pain. “You never were.”

Thirteen

Louie Arrives

In Burk’s mind the possibility that he could miss Louie’s flight was linked up with a painful childhood memory: a Saturday afternoon in the late summer of 1954. He and Gene were coming home from Trinity Ranch, a boys’ camp located deep in the rugged mountains east of Lake Arrowhead. The drop-off point was in the north end of Griffith Park, behind the zoo. But when the yellow school buses filled with singing campers pulled into the parking lot at four o’clock—the designated time of arrival, confirmed by a postcard sent to each parent one week before the end of the camp session—Burk did not see his father’s face among the moms and dads waiting expectantly by the open tailgates of their station wagons.

No one answered when Gene phoned their house. “He’s probably on his way,” he told Burk, “or maybe he got a flat or something. Don’t worry, he’ll be here.”

“Call the newsstand,” Burk said, but he wasn’t there either.

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Finally, when the lot had emptied, Don Haverford, the camp director, drove them home.

* * *

Their father came in the front door around eight that evening. With him was Ada Furlong, Ricky’s mom. They were both drunk.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Nathan Burk said, staring at the duffel bags and fishing gear dumped in the center of the living room. “You’re supposed to be back tomorrow.”

Gene shook his head. “Today, Dad.”

“That’s nuts. I had it marked on the calendar. Sunday the twenty-eighth.”

“Sunday,” Ada Furlong said, swaying. “That’s what he told me.”

Don Haverford was sitting on the couch. He stood up. He was military-trim and well muscled, a college wrestling champion, according to his biography in the camp brochure. “Today’s the twenty-eighth,” he said, faking a friendly smile. “But it was no problem. I was happy to drive them home. They were terrific campers. Two of the best.”

Without responding, Nathan Burk turned and went into the bathroom and began to pee. Ada Furlong moved unsteadily toward the front door. She tripped over a fishing pole, ripping a long run in one of her stockings. “I gotta get going,” she said loudly, using the back of the sofa to regain her balance. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Nate. I’ll tell Ricky the boys are back. He’ll be pleased.”

Don Haverford shook hands with Nathan Burk when he came out of the bathroom, and then he followed Ada Furlong outside, into the soft blue late-summer evening.

“She means nothing to me,” Nathan Burk told his sons, when they were alone. “Ada’s just company. That’s all.”

“It’s okay,” Gene said. “You don’t have to explain.”

Nathan Burk took a seat on the couch. There was a pained look on his face. “I messed up today,” he said, aware that Gene and Burk were staring at him. “I forgot. I forgot what day it was. I’m sorry.”

Gene said, “It’s all right, Dad. We got home safe and sound. That’s all that counts.”

“Did you miss us?” Burk asked.

Nathan Burk nodded. Then he spread his arms and pulled his boys in close to his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “I missed you guys a lot.”

By the time Burk made it to the airport, Louie’s flight was already on the ground and the curb in front of the PSA terminal was clogged with taxis and shuttle vans. Panicked, he double-parked in a red zone behind a limousine, slipped the Sky Cap a twenty to guard his car, and sprinted up the outside escalator. In less than a minute he arrived at the gate check-in counter, sweating and out of breath.

“I’m looking for my son,” he said to the woman agent in charge. “He was on Flight 232.”

The agent was humming to herself as she meticulously sorted boarding passes, placing the first class and coach in separate piles. Without looking up, she said, “Are you Raymond Burk?”

“Yes.”

“He’s waiting for you by the administration office. Take the escalator down and follow the signs.”

“There was an accident on the freeway,” Burk said, needing to explain his tardiness. “I should’ve left earlier, but I got hung up.” He looked around, confused. “The administration office? Where again?”

The agent lifted her face. She was fairly young, in her twenties, with high cheek bones and a prim, delicate mouth that was set in a frown. Pointing over his shoulder, she said, “Down and follow the signs.”

Louie was sitting next to the baggage conveyor, straddling his suitcase, when he saw his father step off the escalator. “Yippie! There he is! There’s my dad!” he shouted, and a black stewardess who was seated nearby looked up from her newspaper. “Dad! Over here!” Burk stood frozen, his head twisting from side to side. Louie waved his arms over his head. “Here I am, Dad!” Burk finally saw his son and rushed forward, scooping him up with both hands and burying his face in his neck. “I knew you’d be here,” Louie said. “I knew you wouldn’t forget me.”

Burk felt suddenly weak, as if he were on the verge of tears. “You have quite a boy,” the stewardess said, moving forward with Louie’s suitcase. “He has a wonderful imagination.” She extended her right hand. “Madeline Wells,” she said. “I was one of the stews on Louie’s flight.”

“Thank you for staying with him.”

“No problem. It’s part of the job.”

“I got screwed up with the time.”

“Those things happen. It’s no big deal.”

Burk looked away. “Yes it is. He’s my kid.”

“And he knew you would be here,” she said. Her hand was on his arm. “Don’t worry. He was fine.”

Burk looked into Madeline Wells’s face now. She was staring at him levelly, with a slight smile. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?” he asked her.

“I live in Westwood. Is that too far?”

“No.” Burk reached for the suitcase. “It’s right on the way.”

In the car while Louie squirmed in the backseat, Madeline Wells described his behavior on the flight south. Although she made it sound amusing, trying for a comic effect, she could tell that Burk seemed concerned. “Does he act like that a lot?” she asked him.

“No,” Burk said, meeting her eyes for a moment, “not really.”

“He says he has a movie screen inside his head.”

“I do,” Louie said.

“Part of the time he seemed like he was in a trance. I thought he was just goofin’ like kids do, so I left him alone. But this fat lady sitting next to him was having a fit. I thought she was gonna pass out when he said our flight number—two thirty-two—was an unlucky number.”

Burk looked into the rearview, but Louie hid his face below the seat. “He’s just a kid. He makes things up.” Burk glanced over his shoulder. “Right, Louie?”

Louie shrugged. Madeline Wells said, “He told me his mom was in prison.”

Burk nodded, reached across her lap, and flipped the radio over to KGFJ, the rhythm-and-blues station. “What else did he tell you?”

“That you two are goin’ out to visit her.”

“He tell you she killed a guy?”

“Self-defense,” she said. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

The Wilshire off-ramp was coming up, and Burk veered into the right lane. “What about you?” he said.

“What about me?”

“Are you from LA?”

“Nope. Oakland. I came down here to go to college.”

“Where?”

“UCLA.”

Burk pulled off the freeway. “That’s a good school.”

“Turn right at the second signal.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Of course I graduated,” she said, looking at Burk sideways. “In ‘sixty-three. I was a probation officer for two years. I quit after the Watts riots.”

“My brother was a cop.”

“Yeah?”

“He quit too.”

Louie’s eyes were open. “Am I gonna see Gene while I’m here?”

“Maybe.”

“Take a right on Veteran,” Madeline Wells said, pointing. “It’s the third building on the left. The Veteran Plaza.”

Burk’s tires rubbed up against the curb when he parked in front of the apartment. A boy in his teens walked up the street singing to himself, watched by a heavyset woman who was sitting on a low stone wall that bordered the sidewalk. Recognizing Madeline, her worn-out face melted into a smile.

“Don’t like to see me dating white men,” Madeline Wells said, barely moving her lips.

“This isn’t really a date.”

“She don’t know that.”

Madeline Wells was staring at Burk, and there was something in her face he couldn’t read. They both turned away at the same time, breaking the tension that was rising in the air. Louie said, “What about Grandpa? When do I get to see
him
?”

“Later, Louie.”

“Maybe I can sleep over.”

“Maybe.”

Louie turned around and shaded his eyes against the hard sunlight that slashed through the back window. “How come we’re sitting here, Dad?”

“Because this is where I live,” Madeline Wells said. “I’m saying good-bye to your father.” She reached down for her purse and a small carry-on bag that sat on the floor by her feet. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Maybe we
should
have a date,” Burk said. His hand was on top of hers.

“You think so?” Madeline Wells’s skirt was bunched up around her thighs and their fingers were interlocked in her lap. “Where are you staying, Mr. Burk?”

“Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“Fancy.”

“Give me your number.”

“No. I’ll call you.”

“Tonight?”

Madeline Wells glanced at Louie. He was lying on his back, moving his lips silently while he traced words in the air above his head. “I think you should spend some time with your son,” she said. Burk leaned across the seat. A moment later he was kissing her mouth. She moaned softly when their tongues touched, then quickly pushed him away with both hands. “No. We can’t do this, Mr. Burk. Not here,” she said, and pulled her hand out of his grip. Her eyes were glowing and her skin shone like burnished wood. “I’ll call you.”

“Tonight.”

“Sometime.”

Madeline Wells stepped out of the car, smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt, and walked over to the row of mailboxes built into the wall next to the front door. After she fumbled in her purse for her keys and disappeared inside the building with her mail, Burk switched on the engine and lowered the convertible top.

To the east one block, on Sepulveda, he could see his boyhood Little League field and the empty parking lot flanking it. A large green Scoreboard rose up beyond the fence in center field. Burk’s hand was frozen on the ignition, his memory backing up fast to that Sunday morning when he and Gene and Ricky Furlong all tried out together.

During batting practice drills, Burk swung and missed on twelve straight pitches, never once making contact, not even a foul tip. In the outfield he muffed two pop flies and nearly beaned a coach with a wild throw back to second base. He was cut in the first round.

“I don’t care. I’m no good and I know it,” he told Gene, and he watched the rest of the tryouts in the grandstand with several rows of nervous parents.

Gene made it through the second and third rounds, but one of the coaches—an older man with watery blue eyes—pulled him aside after he was timed running the bases. “You’re a good athlete, but you’re not quick enough,” he told Gene.

“I can get quick. I’ll lose weight,” Gene said. “I’ll start tonight.”

The coach’s hand was resting on Gene’s shoulder. “Give it a shot next year,” he said gently.

Gene’s eyes were filling up. “I can’t. I’ll be too old,” he said, turning away to avoid the looks of the boys standing nearby. “This is my last year.”

“He’s a good fielder,” Ricky Furlong said, passing by the coach on his way into the batting cage. “Damn good.”

Another coach, a younger man with a slight limp, moved over. “Everyone can’t make the roster,” he told Gene.

Gene smacked his thigh with his glove. “I’m as good as anyone out there, except maybe Ricky.”

“He did okay at third and he put one near the fence,” the older man said. “It was between him and Dixon for the last spot.”

“I’m better than Dixon,” Gene said. He could hardly get the words out through his tears. “I know I am.”

The older coach shrugged. “Dixon ran the bases in eighteen point two. You couldn’t break twenty.”

From the grandstand Burk saw his brother angrily kick his spiked shoe into the third base bag. Then he turned and started walking slowly toward the dugout with his head down. “My brother didn’t make the team,” Burk said to the woman seated next to him, an overtanned blonde with a grim face.