Stars Screaming (39 page)

Burk heard a note of anger in Louie’s voice. “I’m sorry. We can talk now.”

Louie was silent for several seconds. Then, tentatively, as he lay back down, he said, “Tell me what you remember most about her. If there was one moment, just one that you could freeze forever, what would it be?”

“That’s easy,” Burk said. He looked over at his son and their eyes met in the dark. “It was the moment she found out she was pregnant, the moment she found out she was going to have you.”

“Tell me what she looked like.”

“There was a softness in her face that I’d never seen before, in her eyes especially. She looked like—” and here Burk hesitated, searching for the proper description—"like the joy she was feeling was melting her insides. And then she started to giggle into her
hands like a little girl. She said, ‘I feel like doing cartwheels.’ And that’s what she did—all the way home.”

Louie was smiling. “That’s a cool memory,” he said. “That’s really cool.”

Louie rolled over on his stomach. Inside his head he found a picture of his mother cartwheeling down the street with her wild eyes shining, smiling ecstatically. And he kept that image in his mind— her body whirling hand-over-hand in the September sunlight while all around her people stopped to watch, some disapproving, but many more astonished or amused, their smiles as big as hers—until he, too, was dizzy and breathless and there was nothing left to do but sleep.

He came awake in an hour, feeling anxious, his fading dreams suddenly usurped by the voices in the radio. “Forty-six points against Westchester,” a man said. “I set the tournament record.”

Louie opened his eyes. Golden sunlight struggled through the curtains, and his father was sitting up in bed, fully clothed. “I know this guy,” he said. “He used to work downstairs at the Polo Lounge. Now he’s over at the Palm. His name is Gus.”

Louie’s hand came out from underneath the blanket. He found his watch on the nightstand and brought it up to his face, blinking a few times to clear the cobwebs away from his eyes.

“I ran track too,” Gus said. “I tied the city record for the low hurdles in 1957.”

Bill Gleason said, “You play ball in college?”

“Arizona State. I got a full ride. Things didn’t work out in the desert, but that’s another story.”

“Sad one?”

“In a way. I had a little problem with the beverage. But no more,” Gus said, lowering his voice. “Anyway, I just called to check in.”

“Glad you did,” Bill Gleason said. “Got anything else?”

“Yeah. The old fellow you were yakking with, Nathan Burk.”

“Nate’s News.”

“Used to be the best newsstand in town. Now I get my magazines over on Pico,” Gus said. “Last week I found this new baseball monthly called
The Diamond
. It’s a nostalgia rag. Stories about old-timers, lots of pictures, interviews with the greats and near-greats, that kind of thing. I’m surprised no one’s mentioned it on the air.”

“That’s why we’re talking sports: to pass it on.”

“Had a story in it about one of your listeners, Ed Shaw.”

“Name rings a bell.”

“He was a scout. Called in once in awhile. He scouted me, in fact. But he could see I had a problem.”

“Ed Shaw?” Bill Gleason said the name to himself.

“He signed some good ones. Cal Ripkin, I think. And a bunch of others. He died last week down in Florida.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Get a copy of
The Diamond
, Bill, you’ll read it cover to cover. In back they got a bunch of ads for collectibles. Cards are big-time these days.”

“And getting bigger.”

There was a slight pause. Then Gus said softly, his voice slightly off-key, “They had me pegged for greatness at one time, Bill.”

“Potential,” said Bill Gleason. “All of us had it in spades.”

Burk said to Louie, “Take a shower. It’s almost six. We’re gonna be late for your plane.”

“In a sec. I want to hear this.”

“You never know what life’s gonna deal you,” Gus said. “Years ago I worked at this fancy hotel. Turns out the lifeguard was in the Olympics. Finished fifth in the butterfly at Helsinki in ’fifty-six.”

“A near-great.”

“Signed a studio contract. Thought he was gonna be another Johnny Weissmuller or Buster Crabbe.”

“Buster died the other day.”

“Yeah. I know. Nice guy. Used to see him around the hotel.”

“I preferred Weissmuller as Tarzan.”

“We go up and down,” Gus said. “For years I was up, then I took a tumble. Now I just want to stay even. You know what I mean.”

“Balance.”

“Exactly.”

Burk picked up the phone and dialed room service. He ordered hot cereal, coffee, and a bagel that was heated but not toasted.

Louie moved toward the bathroom. “I want pancakes,” he said, “with a side order of sausage.”

“I miss working at the hotel,” Gus said. “I like where I work now, but it’s not the same. Nothing’s the same.”

“Which doesn’t make it all bad.”

“Most of it sucks.”

“That kind of negativity surprises me,” Bill Gleason said, “coming from a sober man.”

“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”

“I’ve seen my share.”

“Take me back to ’fifty-seven. Leave me there. Nothing could make me happier.”

Bill Gleason laughed, a laugh that came out sounding slightly insincere. “Gotta wind things up, Gus. Any last thoughts?”

“I used to love cool spring mornings like this,” Gus said, in a voice that couldn’t hide his sadness. “It was the best time to shoot baskets in the park. I could be by myself then, working on my shots, practicing my moves at both ends, turning and shooting, turning and shooting. Just me alone, dazzling the birds. That’s over. That kid’s gone now.”

“He’s still inside you.”

“No.
I’m
inside me, and I’m shaking. My hands are shaking. What happened to that calm feeling I used to call peace of mind? Where is it? It’s gone like my wedding band. Okay, so I’m sober. But is this what my life’s about: all-night radio and hoping my radiator don’t boil over when I drive to work? I feel trapped, Bill G. Trapped behind a door where no one knocks.”

“I’m sorry, Gus.”

“You wanted my last thoughts. I’m giving them to you.”

“I know, but—”

“I fell off the joy path. Can’t you hear the pain in my voice?”

“Yes, I hear you. I hear your pain.”

“The music’s over and the hair in my comb is gray. I can’t see the wild daisies in the woods. Tell me what to do.”

“Get on your knees. Now.”

“I’m on my knees.”

“Close your eyes.”

“My eyes are closed.”

“Pray.”

Burk parked the rental car in the lot across from the United Airlines terminal, where Louie’s flight back to New York was scheduled to depart in thirty minutes.

“I’ll see you this summer,” Burk said, when they reached the security checkpoint. His mouth was smiling, but he looked a little worried, too. “Okay?”

Louie nodded. “Ask Timmy about a job.”

“The bookstore or the theater?”

“Anywhere he has an opening.”

They were silent a moment. Their eyes did not meet until Burk said, “Your mom did the best she could.”

“I know she did.”

“She loved you.”

“I know. And she loved you too.”

When they hugged, when his son’s body was pressed against his, Burk could sense the terrible anger and sadness that vibrated his chest. But he knew, also, that there was nothing he could say or do that would make him feel better. He could only tell him that he understood.

Each was holding back tears when they stepped apart. The last call for Louie’s flight came over the public address system. Burk said, “That’s you. Get going. Call me when you get to your dorm.”

Louie walked through the metal detector and followed the other passengers moving toward the gate. After a few steps he stopped and looked over his shoulder. He smiled as if to say everything would be okay, and then he waved and said, “Take care of yourself, Dad.”

Burk waved back. “You too. You take care of yourself, too.”

Western. Wilton. Bronson. Gower. Berendo. Unable to let the past rest, Burk was cruising slowly through East Hollywood in the right lane, making one final farewell loop before he drove back to the airport for his seven o’clock flight. Two hours had passed since he’d stopped for a drink at Ernie’s Stardust Lounge—or what used to be Ernie’s before it changed ownership in 1980. These days it was a gay bar called the Brig.

But the interior had not changed much—maybe the lighting was a little dimmer—and the same tunes were on the jukebox, only now
the customers were all slender, good-looking men under the age of thirty, and
all
of them were dressed in uniforms: firemen, police, postal workers, Boy Scouts, every conceivable group was represented, even the clergy.

To Burk’s surprise Miles was still behind the bar, working side by side with another, younger guy, both of them tricked out like Marine drill instructors. Burk tried to say hello when he ordered a Budweiser, but Miles had his Smokey-the-Bear hat tilted down so low they barely made eye contact. If Miles did recognize Burk, he didn’t let on.

Burk drank his beer down fast; then he shot a game of quarter pool with a darkly handsome young man who was wearing a New York Yankee uniform with the seat cut out, exposing his hairy pink buttocks. He said his name was Lonnie, but his friends called him Joe D.

When Burk said he was straight, Lonnie just laughed. “Like I didn’t know that when you walked in. A lot of straight guys come in here,” he said, nodding toward a young black priest who was seated at a table in back. “Nothing wrong with kneeling before God, especially if he’s got a nine-inch dick.”

“Whatever your pleasure.” Burk shrugged, turning his palms up. “I just dropped in for old times’ sake. I used to drink here when it was Ernie’s. It was a cool place.”

“It’s still pretty cool,” Lonnie said, wiggling his bare ass as he bent over the table to take a shot. “But it can get a little desperate around closing time, when the old queens show up.”

Burk left the Brig after three beers, but not before he played “Dream Lover” by Bobby Darin. After the first verse, his past descended on him like a light blanket, taking his reluctant mind back to the year 1969, the year that man landed on the moon. It was also the year of the Manson family’s stabbing rage, and the year that Burk spent driving aimlessly through the streets of East Hollywood, contemplating the failure of his life.

“You just drove around? That’s all you ever did?” Lonnie asked him. “Come on, you had to stop occasionally.”

“Just for gas and smokes. And once in awhile if I had a problem with my car. But that’s it,” Burk said, his face clouding over. He couldn’t speak for several seconds as a memory welled from within.
He remembered that later in that unsettling year was the afternoon in December when Bonnie Simpson entered his life, holding a map to the movie stars’ homes and a purse filled with apples.

Burk was parked in front of Argyle Manor with the engine running. A tricycle lay deserted in the driveway, and there was a no-vacancy sign stuck in the well-tended ivy by the sidewalk. Overhead two huge clouds came together in the windy sky, and a blackbird landed on a telephone wire, chirping once before it took off, rising over the sad rooftops, a winged signature scribbled across the corner of a blank white page.

Burk felt a renewed sadness as he glanced up at Bonnie’s old apartment on the second floor. He closed his eyes. And suddenly he could see her in that barren room: her honey-blond hair, her haunted eyes, her graceful shoulders, the paleness of her breasts, and the soft curve of her hips as she moved through the changing light. Burk’s memory was so strong that when he opened his eyes she was now standing by the uncurtained window, her face filled with a deep tenderness as she stared down at the street.

In time this mirage of desire dissolved slowly into the shadows of Burk’s mind. But he was still burdened by an unnameable yearning (and a sudden sense of emptiness and loss) as he made a U-turn and started back down Argyle. At Hollywood Boulevard he turned right. When he passed by Las Palmas and the corner where Nate’s News used to operate, he permitted himself another moment of sadness. His father, recovering from a mild heart attack, had sold the newsstand to Larry Havana back in 1972, and now it was called the House of Love, an X-rated porno arcade blaring disco hits: a neon lighthouse that welcomed the simmering lust of the lonely hearted and the self-loathing.

The following year, when his health returned, Nathan Burk opened another newsstand on Sepulveda that Gene managed until 1978, the year he decided to become a private detective, specializing in divorce and white-collar crime. The business flourished, doing so well that after only six months he was forced to expand his office and hire several new employees. But lately he seemed to spend most of his time on the phone to Berkeley, trying to persuade Burk to write a movie about the life and death of rock-and-roll singer Bobby “I Fought the Law” Fuller.

In 1966, the year before Gene resigned from the force, Fuller was found dead outside the apartment in Hollywood he shared with his mother. He was believed to have killed himself by swallowing gasoline, a police verdict that Gene never supported. And for years after he left the force he continued to investigate the case on his own, following rumors of a mob hit that he could never substantiate.