John Belushi Is Dead (17 page)

“You've got to be kidding me. You're the one asking a hundred questions like this is a
Playboy
interview.”

“I am?” He looked down at his food and thought for a moment, and I could practically see the cogs turning in his head. “Sorry, I get a bit overexcited and don't realize I'm asking so many questions. I guess it's the writer in me.”

“No, I'm sorry,” I apologized, slumping into the table. It wasn't fair for me to be so hostile toward Jake. It wasn't his fault that Hank had never said anything about him. It wasn't his fault that I inexplicably didn't feel quite so special to Hank anymore. I picked up my coffee mug, stirring it absentmindedly. “I guess I'm just worried about Hank.”

“He's a strong guy, Hilda. Stronger than you know. He can take care of himself.”

I put the spoon down. “He doesn't have to take care of himself,” I said through gritted teeth. “He has me.”

“He's got me, too,” Jake replied defensively. “You and me, we're quite the Good Samaritans, huh?”

Something about the way he said it made me think of the cat in the Dumpster.
You're such good kids
, the woman had said. “I'm not trying to be a Good Samaritan,” I said. “Hank's my friend.”

“I didn't say he wasn't. Why are you so defensive?”

I picked up my bag and stood. Jake wiped his face with his napkin and stood as well.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Oh, come on, we're just having a conversation.”

“Look, Jake, I'm really tired. Maybe we can talk some other time.”

He wiped his fingers with his napkin. “At least let me drive you.”

“I'll get a cab. Thanks.”

I walked outside. He didn't come after me, and I hadn't expected him to. Out on Robertson Boulevard the sun was bright, too bright, and momentarily the photographers turned in my direction to see if I was anyone, saw that I wasn't, and skulked off toward another restaurant.

A
S THE CAB LEFT
Beverly Hills I felt terrible. Maybe I
had
been a bad influence on Hank. Maybe he'd been happier before I came along and pushed him to go out into a world he was scared of—for what reason I still had no idea. Jake was his neighbor and had obviously known him for much longer than I had. Did I really know what was good for Hank better than anyone else?

Benji was back from his vacation with his parents and ready to continue our expeditions, and to my surprise I was relieved. At least with Benji I knew who I was, where I stood in the pecking order of our relationship. There would be no surprises with Benji, or at least that's what I thought. Our next planned excursion was to the ritzy suburb of Brentwood, and the condo on Bundy Drive where Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman were stabbed to death. Benji picked me up outside my house and I could immediately tell he was agitated. His eyes were a little red, his movements jumpy. As we pulled out he hit the curb, sending one of the hubcaps flying onto my lawn.

“You think you might wanna get that?” I asked as we sped off.

“Later. We gotta get moving.”

“Are you okay?”

He gripped the steering wheel tightly. “I don't know, it's just being around my parents for so long, puts me on a fucking knife's edge. All that time in the woods with them, and no escape. I felt so closed in I could've killed someone. But I'm back now, and we're back together, doing what we do best.”

“Sure,” I said, unconvinced. He was starting to freak me out with his skittishness.

“That's right,” he continued. “Me and Hilda against the world. So what did you do while I was away? You must have been pretty bored without me, huh?”

“Totally,” I said as convincingly as possible. “I just hung out at home, you know, surfed the Net.”

“Did you go see that old guy again? Hank?”

“Maybe once,” I lied. “Can't remember.”

“Don't worry, Hilda. You can have other friends. I'm okay with it.”

Benji started talking about the good parts of his vacation: jet-skiing on the lake, the day he took his new dirt bike out and went riding through the woods. I was only half listening. I watched as the beautiful Brentwood houses went by, with their lush green lawns and high gates. I wondered if one day Jake might write a screenplay that would sell for millions of dollars, and would someday live in a house like that. Benji swerved onto Bundy Drive and the tires screeched.

“Chill out, cowboy,” I said. “You're gonna kill somebody.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. On the trip, Dad took me hunting
for the first time. It was awesome. We used handguns. It's so much more badass than hunting with a rifle. He even gave me my own gun as an early birthday present, even though I'm not legal yet. He totally trusts me with it.”

“You don't need a gun. That's crazy.”

“Is it? There are so many fucking psychos out there, Hilda. You can't trust anyone anymore. Especially in Los Angeles. This town breeds killers.”

I was shocked but not exactly surprised that Benji's dad had given him a gun. Mr. Connor was a big gun nut and always went hunting on vacation while Benji and his mom stayed back at the cabin and did something innocuous like playing board games. But I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to give his son a gun. He probably thought it would make a “man” out of him, and it's not like Mrs. Connor could have said anything to stop him. “I can't believe you went hunting,” I said, still reeling from the fact that Benji was now in possession of a firearm. “Hunting is so fucking barbaric, Benji.”

“I sure did! Got some birds, a rabbit. One night I snuck into the woods while Mom and Dad were asleep and bagged an owl. Do you know how hard that is to do?”

“Benji, what the hell are you thinking? What right do you have to kill another creature?”

“As much right as anyone else. It's Darwinism, Hilda, survival of the fittest. Here—”

He reached across me to open the glove compartment, and to my absolute horror, the handgun his father had given him came tumbling out, falling into my lap. I thought at the very least Mr. Connor would have locked it up in his gun case at home, but here
it was, lying in my lap, the muzzle pointed dangerously at my thigh. Benji scooped it up and cocked it like he was in an action movie.

“Christ, Benji! What the fuck are you doing?”

“Don't worry. It's not loaded.”

“Why are you driving around with that fucking thing? If the cops see you, they'll shoot you on sight! It's broad daylight!”

“I don't care,” he said, and waved it out the window like he was Dirty Harry. “Look out, motherfuckers!”

I grabbed his arm and pulled it back in.

“You're nuts, Benji, you know that? That's not a toy. What are you trying to do? Commit suicide by cop?”

Benji just laughed. He put the revolver back in the glove compartment and closed it. “Relax, Hilda. We can go shoot some shit later so you can see how well it handles. And we won't shoot any animals, seeing as how it makes you
so sad
.”

Before I could answer we had passed the house on Bundy Drive. The condo where Nicole Simpson died was an unassuming beige color and obscured by a flowering garden. The new owner had renovated the front to make it less recognizable. “We've gotta go 'round the back,” Benji said as we raced past. “That way we can see over the fence.”

“Look, maybe we should just go home,” I said, freaked out by the gun in the glove compartment, loaded or not. I wanted to be out of the car and as far away from Benji as possible. He looked at me with crazed eyes.

“God, just chill out, Hilda! You're so fucking weird these days.”

We screeched around the back alleyway and when we pulled up there was a car already there. A tourist wearing a Disneyland T-shirt was standing in front of the back gate, her husband taking
her photograph. As we pulled up they looked at us uneasily, the same guilty look I used to get when I first started death touring, that look of shame from being caught. Before I knew what was happening Benji had leaped out of the car and was charging toward them.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, his voice filled with menace. “Huh? I said, what the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the woman stammered, walking briskly toward her husband.

“You're sorry? What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“We were just taking a picture. We didn't mean to offend.”

“Offend?”

The couple ran to their rented car, with Benji following fast. He thumped on the hood, slammed down two closed fists while the man struggled to put the keys in the ignition. I jumped out of the car.

“Benji, stop it!” I screamed, too scared to go any closer. “Just stop!”

“You should be ashamed of yourselves!” he yelled, kicking their tires. “Have some respect for the dead!”

Just as the woman began to scream, the car roared to life and her husband slammed his foot down on the accelerator. Benji laughed as they sped away from us, nearly crashing into another car as they pulled out into the busy intersection, tires screeching. Benji stood with his back to me, panting hard, watching them go.

“That wasn't funny,” I said, my voice shaking. He turned around.

“Come on, Hilda, it was just a joke. Did you see the looks on their faces?”

I did. They were terrified. But it could have been worse. Benji could have taken his gun with him. “Benji, are you okay?” I asked softly. “You cool?”

“Fuck yeah, I'm cool!” he yelled again, wiping his hand across his nose. “Stop asking me that. I'm fucking great. Being alive is great, isn't it, Hilda? This is what it's about!”

I hovered near the car, hands in my pockets, not knowing what to do. I kept thinking about that revolver burning a hole in the glove compartment. Benji turned toward the condo's back gate.

“Well, come on,” he barked. “Get my camera.”

I took his camera from the front seat and slowly walked over, feeling like a hostage. He snatched it and jumped up, hoisting the camera high in the air and taking photos over the fence.

“Let's go around the front, too,” he said. “Leave the car here. You can give me a boost.”

We walked around the corner to the front of the condo. I tried to look casual even though my heart was pounding. When we thought no one was looking I helped Benji up onto the gate and held him in position while he took more photos.

“Your turn,” he said after snapping off a few shots. He jumped back down and helped me onto the top of the gate, his hands tight around my waist. I cringed at the feeling of his hands on my body. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

“You see the walkway?” Benji said. “That's where the bodies were found. The blood ran all the way under the gate and out onto the road.”

He didn't have to tell me. I'd seen the pictures. Nicole Simpson had nearly been decapitated. She had stab wounds all over her body, her chest, her neck. So did Ron Goldman, some poor guy from the
local restaurant who was returning a pair of glasses Nicole's mother had left there. Benji was right. The blood had run like a river through the paved tiles, pooling in the edges. So much blood.

“I want to get down now,” I said, and Benji dropped me, then started to take photos of the mailbox. The air was still and the neighborhood quiet, and in the silence I could imagine what it was like for Ron and Nicole that evening. Did they see it coming? How long did they fight, and when they gave up, did they know the consequence would be death? I tried to focus on the facts but all I could think of was the terror, the fear, and the despair. It felt like it was coming off the gate and the surrounding walls. I thought of Nicole's dog howling beside her body, a cry that woke the neighbors. The courtyard was narrow and the pathway short. Such a small space to hold so much pain.

I looked at Benji as he took photos, wondering what was happening to him. Sometimes it seemed so easy for someone to become a killer, to do things you never thought they could possibly do.

“Poor Ron,” Benji said as he snapped off another shot. “Wrong place at the wrong time, buddy.”

“Yeah,” I managed to say.

“Poor bastard dies because OJ couldn't stand his cokehead ex-wife anymore. Tell you what, if my wife ever acted like a hooker in front of my kids, I'd probably cut her up, too.”

Benji stood with his camera slung over his shoulder like it was a rifle. He picked a leaf off a nearby tree and tore it into tiny pieces that floated to the ground.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You know what's sad, Hilda?”

I swallowed. “What, Benji?”

I thought I almost saw a tear in his eye. “No one in this town cares about anyone else. Nobody notices anything unless it has something to do with them. Like, I could take my gun and kill you right now, and I bet no one would notice your body for days. No one.” He looked down at his feet. “It just makes me so sad, you know?”

B
ENJI DROPPED ME OFF
at home, and I didn't invite him in. I was relieved to be out of his car, away from him and away from that gun. I picked his hubcap up off the front lawn and handed it to him, and he carelessly threw it into the backseat.

“You want to do some more Black Dahlia spots tomorrow?” he asked. “We could go downtown to her old apartment.”

“I promised Lynette I'd help her out tomorrow with the yard work,” I said, thinking fast. I needed time to digest what the hell had happened that afternoon. All I knew was I didn't want to be near Benji at the moment, not when he was acting like this. He tilted his head quizzically at me.

“Helping Lynette? Has she got the day off?”

Tomorrow was a Wednesday. Shit. “Yeah. She's taking the day off. So see you later?”

I caught something in his eye that let me know he knew what I was doing, that there was no “yard work” arranged. I was backing
off, backing away from him. His face flashed recognition, but a moment later it was gone. I thought again about the gun.