John Belushi Is Dead (11 page)

He made a face. “Nah. Don't need the aggravation.”

“No wife. Kids?”

Hank cocked his eyebrow at me. “You think I'm father material?”

I smiled. “I don't know. I guess I don't know you well enough yet to make that judgement call.”

“What you see is what you get.”

I doubted that. Hank thought I hadn't noticed him change the subject when I asked where he was from. I made a note to ask about it again later, when he couldn't stray so easily from the topic.

“What about you?” he asked, turning the tables again. “I suppose you got a family?”

“Sort of. I live with my aunt Lynette. She's a pain in the ass.”

“She's probably fed up with you bringing that creepy kid home.”

“There's nothing wrong with Benji,” I said, once again leaping to his defense. It seemed like I spent half my life defending Benji.

“Yeah, and I'm pitching for the Yankees at the next World Series.”

I thought for a moment. “She does try, though,” I said. “I don't know. Sometimes I think I just push her away because she's not my mom. Maybe I'm just scared I'll lose her, too.”

I shook my head, startled by how much I had just revealed. Hank could sense my discomfort at the sudden shift in tone of the conversation and graciously turned us toward something more innocuous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” he suggested.

“Sure,” I said gratefully.

“Pick one.”

I looked at the small collection of old VHS tapes. Some of them had been purchased from video stores and still had price stickers on them. I couldn't imagine what kind of state they were in.

“You haven't thought of upgrading to DVD?” I asked as I crouched down to get a closer look at what was on offer.

“Do I look like I got money for DVDs?”

We watched
Double Indemnity
, one of my favorites, and whatever discomfort may have existed between us melted away. I was a firm believer in the unifying force of art in all it forms: a shared love for a movie, book, or song could transcend all other obstacles in a relationship. Hank reminded me of a song by Tom Waits, or a novel by John Fante. For all his cragginess, there was an underlying soulfulness, and his words floated on the air like the music of a raspy trombone or a wailing saxophone. There was something poetic about his absolute disdain for the world, a view based not on ignorance but experience, the experience of living so many years in a world that was indecent and deceptive. I wanted to know what had happened to make him that way. I wondered if it was as bad as what had happened to me.

The movie ended. “Hey, Hank,” I said, turning away from the television as the credits rolled. “Tomorrow Benji and I are going to check out a house where a writer died. It's just downtown. Maybe you wanna come with us?”

“And why the hell would I wanna see a thing like that?”

“I don't know. I just thought, downtown isn't that far from here, and you might find it interesting. The guy who was murdered used to write for
Alfred Hitchcock Presents
and
Lassie
.”

“
Lassie
, huh? How'd he die?”

“Someone cut off his head.”

Hank grimaced. “I'll pass.”

T
HE NEXT DAY
B
ENJI
and I were standing outside a white weatherboard home on a quiet street in Hollywood. The house had large French windows, Roman-style columns framing the front door, and a small green lawn running to the sidewalk. There was a
FOR SALE
sign with the words
SEE AGENT REGARDING DISCLOSURE
. In the world of real estate that was bad news. Real estate agents were required by law to fully disclose the history of a property to any potential buyers. I imagined this unassuming bungalow was proving to be a tough sell.

A woman emerged from the house next door, pushing a baby carriage and struggling with an assortment of diaper bags and baby toys. Benji moved toward her, his camera as always around his neck. “Excuse me, ma'am?”

She flung a bag over her shoulder. “Yes?”

“Can you tell us how long this house has been on the market?”

The woman put one hand on the carriage and the other above
her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun. “It's been a while. Are you interested in buying it?”

She looked down at Benji's T-shirt, which featured a picture of Charles Manson with the words
BEING CRAZY USED TO MEAN SOMETHING
in bold lettering. “No, we're just having a look,” Benji said, and you could almost see the relief on her face.

“Oh, okay, well, you have a nice day,” she said, and hurried off down the street, casting a concerned look back in our direction. Benji pointed his camera at the house and started taking photos. He handed the camera to me.

“Hey, get a pic of this,” he said, bending over and pointing at the
FOR SALE
sign with a cheesy grin on his face, as if he were standing beside Walt's statue at Disneyland. I took a photo. He leaned casually on the sign, looking into the distance. I took another photo.

“Pretty hard to offload a house where a guy had his head cut off,” he said, scratching his neck.

“How old was he again?”

“Ninety-two.”

Benji walked up to the windows, put his hands around his eyes, and peered in. The hardwood floors were bare and a pile of real estate brochures was stacked high on the kitchen counter.

“Imagine surviving being blacklisted in Hollywood, clawing your way back into the industry, watching your wife die of cancer, and then finally you're in your twilight years and bam! Some LSD-crazed psycho breaks into your house and cuts off your head for no reason.”

“Didn't that guy kill someone else, too?” I asked. Benji turned around and sat on the front lawn and I joined him. The grass was freshly cut, and the smell tickled my nose.

“Sure did. The guy broke in here, cut the old man's head off, then climbed over the back fence carrying the head, and killed the guy in the next house. Cut off his
dick
.”

“God. What a bummer.”

“Totally. He dumps the head with the other body, then makes his way over to the Paramount studios and tries to get in but is taken down by some security guards who can sense something is seriously messed up with this dude.”

“No shit.”

I pulled at the lawn with my fingers. The earth felt warm beneath me. Sometimes I didn't mind that one day I would become part of the soil, that we all would. It seemed like the only logical way to keep the human race ticking. Other days it frightened me beyond words. But not today. Today it felt natural and right. I watched the ants crawl up my leg, and Benji scanned through the photos on his digital camera. He pointed the lens at me.

“Smile.”

“Benji, don't,” I said, putting my hand in front of my face.

“Oh, come on,” he moaned. “Just one picture.”

“I don't like having my picture taken,” I replied, but that wasn't it. I just didn't want Benji to have any photos of me. I couldn't shake the feeling that I wouldn't like what he would do with them.

“Maybe one day we could have a place like this,” he said, giving up on taking my picture. “After school finishes we could get a bungalow in West Hollywood or Laurel Canyon.”

“I thought you were going to college in New York? Remember? You wanted to walk the streets in a trench coat like James Dean.”

“I said that when I was, like, sixteen.”

“And that was soooo long ago.”

“I don't know what I want to do anymore. I just wanna do this.”

“This?”

“You know, drive around, look at stuff. Hang out with you.”

“Sounds like a great way to make a living.”

Benji busied himself with his camera. I could tell he was hurt. He had talked about us moving in together before, and every time he brought it up, I dodged the issue. It wasn't that I didn't want to live with Benji; I just wasn't sure how much of him I wanted in my life on a day-to-day basis. I had my own demons to contend with and couldn't handle his as well. Anyway, I still didn't know what I wanted to do after school. I wasn't even sure I would make it that far. I felt like death was still riding my back.

A car drove past, the driver honking the horn. Benji put away his camera and lay down in the grass. I wondered what I could do to make amends and decided to tell him about my adventure from two days ago. I hadn't been sure about whether I would mention it to Benji, but if I planned on visiting Hank again, which I did, it would be difficult to keep it from him. I picked at my chipped nail polish and tried to act casual.

“Hey, you know that old guy from the other day? That guy called Hank?”

“You mean the creepy guy from Bernie Bernall's place?”

I paused. “I went to see him two days ago.”

Benji sat up. “What do you mean, you went to see him?”

“I went back to his place.”

“What? Why? Why the hell didn't you tell me you were doing that?”

“You were busy getting your teeth whitened.”

Benji got up on his elbows, his face reddening. “What the hell would you do a stupid thing like that for?”

My mouth dropped open. “Well, why would you give him my phone number?” I stammered.

“It was a joke! A stupid joke because you like
Harold and Maude
! You know? And we'd laugh it off and not be having this conversation about you going alone to some sleazy old dude's place. I didn't know you liked
Harold and Maude
that much. I didn't think you'd go on a fucking date with the guy.”

“It wasn't a date, you dick. He said he had something to give me.”

Benji scoffed. “I'm sure he did.”

“Here. Look.”

I took the heart-shaped jewelery box from my bag and pulled out the tile. Benji snatched it from me and examined it closely.

“Is this from his bathroom?”

“No. It's from Jayne Mansfield's swimming pool.”

Benji looked at me, disbelieving. “Bullshit.”

“It's true. He worked on her pool when he first came to LA. Be careful with it.”

Benji put the tile in the palm of his hand, almost shaking.

“Can I have it?”

“You've gotta be kidding me.”

I snatched the tile back and put it carefully in the box. Benji lay down again, sulking.

“That was still a stupid thing to do,” he said. “That guy was nuts. The way he freaked out when we knocked on the door. He's hiding something. You said so yourself.”

Benji was right. I could feel it, too, something about the way
Hank looked at you, as if he was always trying to decide whether he could trust you.

“He had a mark on his arm,” I blurted out, not sure if I wanted Benji to know but not able to help myself. “It was all blurred and burnt, like someone had tried to take it off with acid. It was near his wrist.”

“Russian mafia.”

“But he didn't have any others. Don't the Russian mafia have tattoos all over their bodies?”

“Maybe he wasn't that high up. Maybe he only made it to single-tattoo status.”

I thought about the size of the mark, the blueness of the ink. “I think he was in a concentration camp.”

“Naaaah. If he was ever in a concentration camp, there is no way he would try and get rid of that number. It's like a badge of honor among those people.”

“Those people?”

“Yeah. It's a sympathy ticket.”

I let it slide. Benji was always saying things purely to be controversial. At least, I hoped that's what it was.

“Anyway,” I said, “I was thinking I'd go see him again. He seems lonely.”

“Do what you gotta do, but I don't think the dude's got piles of cash hidden under his mattress, if you know what I mean. When that guy pops off, he's leaving a big fat zero, so if you're planning some kind of Anna Nicole Smith agenda, I think you've backed the wrong horse.”

“You're disgusting. It's not like that.”

“Okay. I'll come, then.”

I realized I had unconsciously tightened my grip on the grass. Hank had been something I wanted to keep to myself, something just for me, but now I had no way of telling Benji I didn't want him there. I was worried about what he might say or do. But there was no way I couldn't let him come. Hank would be fine with it, I figured. He was a tough guy. He could handle a kid like Benji.

“Okay, sure. I mean—you don't have to. It's pretty boring over there.”

“On the contrary, it sounds like there's a mystery afoot.”

I couldn't fault him there. I had to admit I was intrigued by Hank, by what he said and what he didn't say. He seemed eager to have visitors and at the same time uncomfortable with their presence. I reasoned to myself that we were doing a good deed, that visiting Hank in his old apartment and keeping him company was akin to community service. But in my heart I knew it was the dead cat all over again. Something about Benji's eagerness also made me anxious.

An expensive car pulled up in front of us and a man in a business suit got out. He was followed by a young couple with anticipation etched on their faces, and they looked at us curiously as they started to walk up the path. The man in the business suit looked at me and gave a confused smile.

“Can I help you?” he asked. He looked at Benji lying on the grass, eyes closed. The couple locked hands nervously.

“No,” I said, getting up and dusting myself off. “We were just leaving.”

“Hey,” Benji shouted from the ground. “You interested in buying this place?”

The guy held his girlfriend's hand tighter. “Don't know yet,” he said with a forced smile.

“Oh, this place is great,” Benji said, getting up, and the real estate agent smiled with relief. “It's the kind of place you could really lose your head over.”