Stars Screaming (17 page)

Warren glanced at Burk, holding his eyes for the briefest of moments, and then looked past him, distracted. “Let’s go with a twenty-five millimeter,” he said to Chickie, putting a viewfinder up to his left eye. “We’ll start on the billboard and pan down to the street; then we’ll pick up Crumpler and follow him into the bar.”

“You want me to light the phone booth?”

“Yeah. But keep everything flat.”

When Warren lowered the viewfinder, Burk held out his typewritten pages. “Here they are,” he said.

Warren looked over at Talbott, who was now standing just behind his right shoulder.

“The business in the bar,” Talbott said finally. “Before we see Crumpler.”

“Oh, yeah,” Warren said, nodding. “I thought we could put some topspin on the opening.”

“I nailed it,” Burk said. Talbott reached out, but Burk ignored him. “I want Jon to read it first.”

“Don’t need to. I’ve decided to improv it,” Warren said, and gazed off down the street. “I’m gonna use some old character actors, guys you would recognize but who don’t work much. I’m just gonna let them riff about the biz, keep it real, let the cameras roll, and see what we get.” Warren turned his head and looked at Burk with a smile that was both meek and superior. “I think it’s gonna be cool.”

Burk said, “I spent all morning on this. You should’ve let me know before I did the work.”

“I just came up with it,” Warren said, beginning to ease away. “I’m sorry, man.”

After Warren disappeared into the bar, Talbott blinked his eyes and tried to look contrite. He said, “If it’s any consolation, he’s been shooting your pages word for word. This is the first thing he’s changed.”

Burk remained silent, fighting back his anger as he watched a long black limousine double-park in front of the Raincheck. Before the driver could open his door, Tom Crumpler stumbled out of the backseat with an idiot smile plastered on his face.

Someone said, “That dude is righteously fucked up,” and an electrician with a weight lifter’s body took Crumpler by the arm and led him inside the bar.

Burk turned and started back up Santa Monica Boulevard. He passed Snake Myers, who was leaning against a camera truck speaking softly into a walkie-talkie. Burk heard Warren’s voice over the light interference. He said, “Make sure Burk is off the dailies list, and under no circumstances do I want him on the set while we’re shooting.”

Burk ducked inside the Billiard Den and called Loretta from the pay phone by the men’s room. She was currently officed at Universal, polishing an original screenplay,
Scorched
, the story of a sexually precocious teenager living in Las Vegas with her showgirl mom and a retarded brother. Hal Ashby was supervising the rewrites but had not yet committed to direct.

“What did you mean this morning?” Burk asked Loretta when she picked up.

“Just what I said: that we should take a break, not see each other for a few weeks.”

“Are you seeing anyone else?”

“I can see anyone I want, Ray.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A dull-looking kid with half-shut eyes came out of the men’s room and leaned against the wall across from Burk. He was wearing baggy sweatpants and broken leather sandals that were patched together with duct tape. “You gonna be long?” he asked Burk, smiling in an unfriendly manner.

“Awhile.”

“How long’s awhile?”

Before Burk could reply, Loretta said, “Who’re you talking to, Ray?”

“Some hippie kid waiting to use the phone. I’m at the Billiard Den.”

“That’s across from the Raincheck. I thought you weren’t supposed to go by the set.”

“Warren wanted me to revise a scene. I just dropped it off.”

The kid against the wall said, “I gotta call home to Rockford, Illinois, and I gotta do it soon so my folks can wire me the cash.”

“I’m bringing Louie down this weekend,” Burk said to Loretta, keeping one eye on the kid. “Sandra wants to see him on Sunday.”

“When did you find this out?”

“I got a letter from her last week.”

“How come you never mentioned it?”

“I don’t know,” Burk said. He sounded evasive. “I’ve got a lot of things on my mind.”

“Yeah, right,” Loretta muttered, clearly annoyed.

“It’s been almost two years since he’s seen her. That’s a long time.”

Loretta started to speak, then stopped. The kid against the wall took out a dime and held it up to Burk’s face. “I gotta make a call,” he said. “It’s important.”

Burk was going to tell the kid to fuck off but there was something crazy in his ratlike eyes, a look that made him seem ready to explode.

“I gotta get back to work,” Loretta finally said. “Let’s talk in a couple of days.”

Burk ate a taco and a big, sloppy burrito at a fast-food stand on Robertson. Loitering at a table nearby were a group of derelict teenagers who looked deeply stoned on acid. A girl wearing a purple velvet Salvation Army dress glanced at Burk and smiled. Pinned over her right breast was a button that said
If it moves
,
fondle it.

The boy next to her stood up suddenly to order a strawberry shake. He wore a belt of bells and a blue shirt with the signs of the zodiac all over the front and sleeves. At the counter he did a weird little dance, tossing his head about and flailing his arms awkwardly. Suddenly he stopped and turned around, his eyes taking on a weird glow as he unsuccessfully tried to stare Burk down.

By now it was nearly four o’clock, closing in on the cocktail hour, and Burk decided he needed a drink fast. But instead of driving back to his hotel, he took Robertson north to Sunset, made a quick left, and pulled into the parking lot next to the Cock and Bull. A few spaces away, he noticed a high-breasted blonde get out of a white Corvair. She was wearing a red silk blouse and white Levi’s that were so tight that Burk could see a crease between her legs. He followed her inside and watched her walk past the bar, joining actor Mike Connors in a back booth.

At the far end of the bar Aldo Ray was playing liar’s dice with a pudgy man dressed in a dark suit that fit him too snugly through the chest. When Burk took a seat nearby, he overheard Aldo Ray say, “Fucker’s got a hit series, and all of a sudden he’s got more gash than Errol Flynn.”

The pudgy man nodded, meeting Burk’s eyes for a brief moment before he said, “I worked with him on
The Baron of Arizona.
We were both kids.”

“Vincent Price and Ellen Drew. Who directed that?”

“Forgot. Budd Boetticher, I think. No, wait. . . .”

Burk said, “Sam Fuller.”

“That’s right,” the pudgy man said, and Aldo Ray shot Burk a look.

“McQueen was in here yesterday,” said the bartender. He was a swarthy man with shrewed eyes that were sunk deep into his face. “He was with Lee Marvin and what’sisname, his other motorcycle buddy.”

“Keenan Wynn,” the pudgy man said. “Talk about a guy who can put away the booze.”

Aldo Ray lit a cigarette and took a quick drag. “Christ,” he muttered, “I’d drink too if my old lady ran off with a fag.”

Mike Connors stood up. On his way to the cigarette machine he waved to Aldo Ray and his pudgy friend. “Mike’s a good guy,” Aldo Ray said.

“Yeah?” The pudgy man sounded unconvinced. “If he’s such a good guy, how come you’re not doing a guest shot on
Mannix
?”

“Aldo don’t work the small screen,” said the bartender, after he poured himself a shot of Johnnie Walker Red.

“That’s right. I’m a movie star,” Aldo Ray said, and everyone at the bar grinned, especially those who were familiar with the notorious stag reel that he did back in the early fifties with stripper Candy Barr.

The stacked blonde sitting alone in the back booth was now staring at Aldo Ray. Her lips parted in a small, canny smile that hardened her eyes. The bartender leaned across the bar. He said, “Her name’s Cherry, which obviously she isn’t.”

Aldo Ray nodded and ran his fingers through his short blond hair. “So much pussy, so little time,” he said, his gravelly voice sounding detached while his small blue eyes caromed off the bartender and landed on Burk’s face. “You an actor?”

“No,” Burk said. “I’m a writer.”

“That’s good. Too many fuckin’ actors in this town.”

“And not enough good writers,” the pudgy man said. “How’d you know about Fuller? You’re too young to remember that flick.”

“My dad knew him. He used to come by his newsstand.”

“Which one is that?”

“Nate’s News on Las Palmas.”

“So you’re Nate’s kid? No kidding.” Aldo Ray said, smiling for the first time. “I liked Nate. Good man. He had the only place in town that carried my hometown paper. The
Crockett Courier.
Crockett, California. Good town. Clean. Good people. The opposite of this shithole.”

The door to the restaurant opened and Robert Culp walked inside with a stunning dark-haired woman hanging on his arm. She was wearing blood-red lipstick, and a red velvet jumpsuit that was at least a size too small.

Burk and the pudgy man both turned and watched the hostess seat them in a booth across from Mike Connors.

“You working on anything?” Aldo Ray asked Burk.

Burk nodded. “A movie I wrote is in production at Paramount.”

Aldo Ray arched an eyebrow. “As we speak?”

“It started shooting on Monday.”

“What’s it called?”

“
Pledging My Love
”

The pudgy man glanced at Burk, his face showing more interest. “The Jon Warren picture. I was supposed to read for something next week. Some kid’s stepfather, I think. You wrote it, huh?” Burk smiled. “Congratulations. Maybe you could put in a good word.”

“Give the kid a break,” Aldo Ray said.

“I just saw you in a
Wild
,
Wild West
," Burk said to the pudgy man.

“Two weeks ago. I played a Russian strongman in a traveling circus.”

From down the bar, Burk heard a short, humorless laugh. When he turned he saw a man hunched over his drink, one eye closed, the deep lines in his face visible in the unsteady light. “I haven’t worked in a year,” he said. “Twelve goddamn months since I’ve had a fuckin’ part, and these no-talent cocksuckers waltz in here like they own the world.”

The bartender took a step in the man’s direction and said, “Easy, Kenny. Settle down.”

“Settle down, my ass!” the man said. “Don’t tell me to settle down or I’ll wipe up the floor with your skinny ass.” The man lit a cigarette and flipped the match into the ashtray. “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” he said to Burk. “Huh?”

“Nothing,” Burk said and glanced at Aldo Ray, who just shrugged.

The man dragged on his cigarette and angrily shook around the ice in his glass. Picking up the phone, the bartender said, “I’ll call you a cab, Kenny.”

“Okay, Petey-sweetie,” the man said with an exaggerated lisp. “You call me a cab and I’ll call you a train.”

“Guy was a hell of an actor,” Aldo Ray said, dipping his shoulder toward Burk as he lowered his voice. “You recognize him?”

“Kenny Kendall,” Burk said, trying to keep his lips from moving too obviously. “I knew his daughter back in the fifties.”

“PK,” the pudgy man said, nodding. “She hangs out at the Melody Room. Nick Adams used to fuck her. Hell, everyone used to fuck her.”

Kenny Kendall made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and pointed it at the pudgy man. “Bang, you’re dead!” he said, and pulled the imaginary trigger. “Bang! Bang! Bang! You’re all fuckin’ dead.”

After Kenny Kendall’s cab arrived and Pete the bartender and a busboy helped him outside, Burk used the pay phone to call in for his messages. “Maria Selene, that’s all,” the hotel operator said. Burk tried her office, but Nora told him she’d left for the day.

On his way back to the bar, Burk saw Mike Connors sitting alone in his booth. On television his face had a strength that was missing in person. He winked at Burk, smiled, and quickly averted his eyes.

The blonde with the ample chest was now standing next to Aldo Ray, hugging his arm. “I told Mike I recognized you,” she was saying, “but I wasn’t sure, so I thought I’d come up close for a better look.”

The pudgy man elbowed Burk lightly in the ribs. “They were neighbors in the same apartment building when Aldo first came to town.”

“The Argyle Manor,” said the blonde. “That’s when you were dating Wanda and I was going with Rory Calhoun. Aldo fixed my fridge one afternoon,” she said, grinning slyly as she peeked over her shoulder at Mike Connors. “One thing led to another. Right, Aldo?”

Aldo Ray nodded as he stubbed out his cigarette. He pointed at Burk. “This is Ray Burk. He’s a writer.”

“He’s too cute to be a writer,” the blonde said, squeezing Aldo Ray’s arm; then she tossed her hair behind her shoulder and Burk noticed a large irregular mole beneath her left ear.

“I knew someone who lived at the Argyle Manor,” Burk said. “She was from Michigan. I met her a couple of years ago.”

“This was back in the early fifties,” the blonde said.

“She was here then too,” Burk said. “In 1949.”

The blonde reached across the bar and placed her hand over Burk’s wrist. “Was she your girlfriend, Ray Burk?”

“Who?”

“The girl from Michigan.”

“No,” Burk said, wincing when he felt her nails bite into his skin. “Just someone I knew.”

Mike Connors called out the blonde’s name. It sounded to Burk like Arlene. She released Burk’s hand and said, “I gotta go” then she slipped a business card into Aldo Ray’s pocket. “That’s my service,” she said, moving away. “Call me.”

Aldo Ray looked at the bartender. “I thought you said her name was Cherry.”

The bartender shrugged. “That’s what she called herself last week,” he said. “Maybe she’s got two names. Maybe that’s her nickname. What do I know? I just mix drinks at this joint.”

“Don’t get hot,” the pudgy man said.

“Her name was Bonnie Simpson,” Burk said, and Aldo Ray turned and gazed at him with a confused expression.

The pudgy man said, “He’s talking about someone else, Aldo.”

“The day I met her it was hot and muggy. She was wearing a camel’s hair blazer and lilac perfume. On her feet were brown penny loafers with soles that were worn thin. I think about her constantly.”