Stars Screaming (28 page)

“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 Sepulveda. 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.

Sixteen

Leaving LA

On Monday morning when Burk came downstairs to check out of the hotel, he saw Eddie Bascom and Gus Tolos standing in an alcove off the main lobby. They were conferring with Burt Driscoll and two uniformed policemen. Other members of the hotel’s staff, including Doris, the waitress in the downstairs coffee shop, were grouped near the elevators, chatting nervously, waiting to be interrogated.

“What’s the story with the cops?” Burk asked the hotel’s cashier, a woman with a pulled-down mouth and a no-nonsense manner.

“Accident.”

“Where?”

“In the pool.”

“What happened?”

“Someone drowned.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

“Who was it?”

The cashier looked away from Burk. Her face was blank. “Don’t know. They haven’t told us. Sign here,” she said, her eyes still avoiding Burk’s face as she pushed his bill across the counter. “Any late charges will be forwarded to the studio.”

After Burk signed the bill, he looked up and was startled to see Jack Rose standing on the other side of the lobby. He was talking with Van Wood, the lifeguard, and a burly man dressed in a wrinkled white short-sleeved shirt and gray slacks. He was a cop, one of the three Jerome Sanford bribed after Tom Crumpler was arrested.

“Mr. Burk?” Burk felt a hand on his arm and turned his head. It was Colleen, the hotel’s pretty assistant manager. “I saw that you were checking out and I wanted to say good-bye. I hope you had a pleasant stay.”

“It was fine.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Everything was great. My life just got a little weird, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Colleen’s hand was still on his arm; she was staring up at him with an expression of sympathy. He couldn’t tell if her concern was sincere but he didn’t really care. “Well, I hope we see you again.”

Burk shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Good luck,” Colleen said, squeezing his wrist.

“Thanks.”

As he walked away, Burk noticed that Eddie Bascom had returned to his station behind the bell desk. He saw Burk pass and greeted him with a vague nod and a forced smile. But just before Burk could step outside, Burt Driscoll moved into his path, cutting him off. “Mr. Burk, I wonder if I could see you in my office for a few minutes.”

“Why?”

“It’s a private matter,” Driscoll said, making his face unreadable. “Five minutes,” he said. “No more. I promise.”

Burk followed Driscoll up the stairway to the mezzanine. The general manager’s office was at the end of a long hallway—between the gift shop and the jewelry store—and when they stepped inside, Burk saw that Jack Rose and Van Wood were already seated at opposite ends of the large leather couch.

Driscoll moved quickly behind his desk and cleared his throat. “We all know each other so there’s no need for introductions. Please
sit down,” he said to Burk, nodding toward the two plush armchairs that faced his desk.

“Max Rheingold drowned last night,” Jack Rose said to Burk as he sat. “The police assume it was an accident—he was probably drunk or doped up on pills—but we won’t be sure until the lab reports come back tomorrow from the coroner.”

“Suicide is a possibility,” Driscoll said. “But intentional drowning is extremely rare. They haven’t ruled out homicide, either,” he said with a flip of his hand, “although there is nothing to point in that direction.”

Jack Rose laughed sarcastically. “That’s not to say he didn’t have enemies. At one time he may have been the single most disliked man in the entertainment industry.”

Burk’s heart was beating uncomfortably. “I don’t get it,” he said. “What does this have to do with me?”

“You knew who he was,” Jack Rose said. “Right? He read your script. He said you were a helluva writer, like I didn’t already know that.” Jack Rose shot a look at Burt Driscoll, who stared at him vaguely. “Burt, you ever see the movie
Gun Crazy
?”

Driscoll thought for a moment. “John Dall and Peggy Cummins?”

“That’s the one. You see that movie, Van?”

Van Wood shifted his position on the couch. “Not that I recall.”

“Came out in ’forty-nine. United Artists. Eighty-seven minutes. Moved like a freight train. Don’t know why that film popped into my mind,” Jack Rose said. He reached for the cigar in his breast pocket. “Okay! Yes, I do. Writers. We were speaking about writers. You know who wrote that picture?” Jack Rose was looking at Van Wood, but Burk knew the question was directed at him. “Not MacKinlay Kantor or Millard Kaufman, the guys on the credits. Forget those names. Fronts. Trumbo wrote it. Dalton Trumbo. You know how I know that?” he said, turning now to look directly at Burk. “Because I went down to San Diego and picked up the script when Trumbo came in from Ixtapa. I brokered the deal for Joe Lewis, the director, and the studio. I was just a schmuck agent but they trusted me.” Burt Driscoll raised his chin, as if he were getting ready to speak. “Burt, don’t cut me off. I’m just getting to my point.”

“I was—”

“I know what you were gonna say. Mr. Burk here is in a rush. I can read his face. I see the anxiety. He’s got a set of revisions in his shoulder bag that he’s on his way to deliver to Jon Warren. Am I right?”

“I’ve got a plane to catch too,” Burk said, remembering that he had to pick up Louie at his grandfather’s house, which was on the way to the aiport.

Jack Rose stuck out his hand. “Gimme the pages. I’ll take them out this afternoon.”

“No,” Burk said, shaking his head emphatically. “I want to deliver the script in person.”

Jack Rose smiled a quick smile. “If the picture’s a hit it’s because of the script. This kid here’s got a gift,” he said to Driscoll. “He’s not a schticktician like most of these clowns. He’s the genuine article.” Jack Rose glanced at Van Wood. “You had a gift, Van. Yours was swimming. You were a goddamn dolphin in the water. That’s where you belonged.”

Jack Rose found a gold lighter in the side pocket of his jacket. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and slowly rotated the tip underneath the flame until it was glowing brightly.

“He took a shot at acting, but it didn’t go anywhere,” he said to Burk. “The man belongs in the pool. This pool, right here. Max wouldn’t have drowned if Van was on duty. There’s never even been a close call when Van’s in his chair. Am I right, Burt?”

Driscoll nodded. “We have a clean slate.”

“Me?” Jack Rose said. “I can’t swim for shit. In fact, I’m gonna tell you a secret: I can’t swim at all. Not a stroke. Is that hard to believe or what? A goddamn pool in Bel Air behind my house, a pool right here in front of my cabana, and I gotta hang onto the sides like a three-year-old.”

“I could teach you,” Van Wood said under Jack Rose’s voice.

“Teach me?” Van Wood nodded his head. “Too late.”

“Why is it too late?”

“I’m seventy-four. I don’t need to swim.”

“It’s good for you,” Burt Driscoll said. “It’s good exercise.”

“I get my exercise on the golf course.”

“Van could teach you in a couple of lessons,” Burt Driscoll insisted. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. “He taught all three of my kids.”

Burk spoke. “Didn’t you ever want to learn?” he said.

Jack Rose looked at Burk thoughtfully, turning this question over in his mind. “Only one time. I was down in Coronado. This was back in ’forty-three or ’forty-four. I was staying at the old Coronado Hotel. Big fancy place. Max was previewing a picture in San Diego,

and one of my clients had a small role. Mexican broad, you never heard of her. But since I was screwing her, we had adjoining suites.

“After the preview we came back to the hotel and took a walk down by the shoreline. We couldn’t see them but we could hear a boy and a girl splashing in the waves. By the sound of their voices I could tell they were young, in their twenties. For some reason the girl kept saying, ‘Wait a minute, wait a minute.’ She kept saying it over and over and then she said, ‘Tell me you love me, Danny.’ And the boy said, ‘I do.’ She said, ‘No. Say it right. Use all the words.’ And he said, ‘I love you, Regina. I love you more than anything in the world.’

“The woman I was with, Lucy, the actress, she said, ‘Let’s go in. Let’s take off our clothes and swim naked.’ Jesus, did I want to go in, but I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I gave her some dumb excuse. I think I said I was dizzy from too much champagne.

“Of course she was disappointed. She broke away from me and walked out to the end of this long pier. When I caught up to her, I told her I wanted her to come back to the room. I said I wanted to fuck her. She said no, she wanted to swim in the ocean. Then she took off her clothes and piled them up on the dock. That’s when I lost control and slapped her across the face. She said I just ruined her weekend. I slapped her again, and a little blood spilled from her nose. Then she turned and dove off the pier.

“I came back to the hotel and sat in the bar and waited for her. When she didn’t show up by two
A.M.,
I went back to my room. In the morning one of the towel boys found her curled up in a chaise by the snack bar. He said she ended up hitching a ride back to LA with Max.

“Of course I had to dump her as a client. She was starting to booze too much anyway, and her looks were starting to go. Once or twice she called and left messages on my service, but I never called her back. Eventually she committed suicide.”

Van Wood smiled wanly. “Did you love her, Mr. Rose?”

“Did I love her?” Jack Rose glanced at Burk. “What do you think, Burk? Did I love her?”

“Sounds like you did.”

“She was a Mexican slut and a lush. But you’re right. I loved her,” Jack Rose said. “And sometimes I wonder if things would have turned out different for everyone if I’d learned how to swim.”

Burt Driscoll shook his head. His hands were clasped on the desk in front of him. “I don’t think so, Jack.”

“I gotta get goin’,” Burk said. “I’m late.”

“We’re not done,” Jack Rose said. His voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something hard behind it.

Burt Driscoll said, “Van, tell Mr. Burk why he’s here.”

Van Wood hesitated. He seemed uneasy. “Go on,” Jack Rose said. “Tell him.”

There was no movement in Van’s face as he began to speak. His voice was a monotone. “Yesterday I noticed these two guys sitting at a table up on the pool terrace. I’d never seen them before, but I took them as guests. Either that or they were visiting someone. But they looked odd enough to capture my attention,” he said. “Both were pale as ghosts. One wore a cap and was kind of loose-jointed; the other had sort of a moon face. They looked like the types you see behind the ropes at premieres. Stargazers. The hotel’s policy is to let them sit and watch the action, as long as they don’t pester anyone, which they didn’t.”

Jack Rose leaned forward and tapped Burk on the knee. “They were queer, which is not important here. But what is important is that they left and came back later that night.”

“I was cleaning the pool and I saw them standing inside the side gate. They were standing still, almost like statues,” Van Wood said, his face becoming animated for the first time that morning. “I told them the pool was closed, which it wasn’t really. For swimming it was, but you could still order drinks and sit around under the umbrellas. The one with the cap said they were meeting a friend in the lobby. They were early so they came out by the pool.”

“He said they were waiting for you,” Jack Rose said to Burk. “Isn’t that correct, Van?”

“I think so. I think that’s what they said.”

“Did they or didn’t they?”

“Yes.”

Jack Rose turned to Burk. “Well?”

“Your name was mentioned,” Burt Driscoll said with a shrug. “We’re just trying to clear it up. That’s all.”

Jack Rose said, “So you weren’t waiting for anyone that night?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“This is total craziness,” Burk said. He started to stand.

“Listen to me,” Jack Rose said, and his expression turned unfriendly. “A man drowned last night. A man who was living in my
cabana. This is bad publicity for me and for the hotel, especially if it was not an accident. Hollywood’s a strange town. Scandals come out of nowhere and ruin people’s lives. We already got bad press on our picture. I don’t need any more grief in my life.”

Burt Driscoll said, “There were no bones broken or signs that he was beaten. No choke marks. We’re assuming an accident. But these fans—fags, whatever—they mentioned your name and they were the last people to come by the pool before Van locked up. Your name came up. A coincidence?”

“They probably heard him paged over the intercom,” Van Wood said.

“That’s a possible explanation,” Burt Driscoll said. He looked at Jack Rose. “I could see how that could happen. That work for you, Jack?”

“The prick was on his way out anyway,” Jack Rose said. “Cancer. Six months, a year; either way he’s gone. And we’re better off. Right, Van?”

“Everyone by the pool laughed behind his back,” Van Wood said.

“Of course you laughed,” said Jack Rose, nodding. “The way he ended up, Max was a joke. He never commanded much respect, but there was a time he could get a good table at Ciro’s or a ringside seat at the Olympic. Ask your dad,” Jack Rose said, pointing his cigar at Burk. “Ask him about Max Rheingold.”