John Belushi Is Dead

 

JOHN BELUSHI IS DEAD

Kathy Charles's debut novel is a different kind of thriller, a dark comedy about growing up, and a twisted love letter to Los Angeles.

“Dark, funny, endlessly fascinating and beautifully human. I stayed up all night reading… and then had crazy dreams.”

—Simmone Howell, author of
Notes from the Teenage Underground

“Fantasy and reality smash in this addictive debut.”

—Vogue Australia

“Has the potential to cross over… like Stephanie Meyer's
Twilight
and Jodi Picoult's books.”

—
Herald Sun
(Melbourne/Victoria)

“Captivating, easy to read in one sitting… better yet on a flight to L.A.”

—Bookseller + Publisher Magazine

“Dark and disturbing in the way really, really good books should be.… A compelling page-turner.”

—Stephanie Kuehnert

“A sophisticated novel… with loads of blackly humorous pop culture.”

—
Readings.com

“Fantastically strong and unique.… A smashing good read.”

—Persnickety Snark

This title is also available as an eBook

 

Gallery Books A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuter.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009, 2010 by Kathy Charles

Originally published in Australia in 2009 by The Text Publishing Company as
Hollywood Ending

MTV Music Television and all related titles, logos, and characters are trademarks of MTV Networks, a division of Viacom International, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First MTV Books/Gallery Books trade paperback edition August 2010

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Designed by Jamie Lynn Kerner

Manufactured in the United States of America

10  9  8  7  6  5  4  3  2  1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

ISBN 978-1-4391-8759-3
ISBN 978-1-4391-8761-6 (ebook)

 

For Christine and Peter, who gave me life
And Evan, until death do us part

T
HANK YOU TO MY
wonderful parents, Christine and Peter, who encouraged me to write, gave me their love of books, and didn't take away my Stephen King novels when my teachers thought I was too young to be reading them. I am eternally grateful for your love and support, for all the sacrifices you made, and all the times you wouldn't let me give up. I love you with all my heart.

Thanks to my beautiful sisters, Elizabeth and Lisa, and my awesome niece and nephews, Jack, Victoria, and James. Thanks to my amazing aunt, Karin Paulsen, for looking after me in LA and keeping me out of trouble (for the most part!). You are a magnificent, inspiring woman and I am so grateful for everything you have ever done for me. Thanks to Barry and Loretta at the Beverly Glen Deli in Bel Air, for the free meals and fantastic company (if you're in LA you won't find better eating, and I can highly recommend the waffle fries). To my agent, Wendy Schmalz, thank you so much for all your tireless work, and for always believing in me. Finally, my immense gratitude to Jennifer
Heddle, an amazing editor who made this book so much better, and the whole team at MTV Books.

Various sources were used to draw information for this novel. They include
Wired: The Short Life and Fast Times of John Belushi
, by Bob Woodward;
Outrageous Conduct: Art, Ego and the Twilight Zone Case
by Stephen Farber and Marc Green;
Helter Skelter
by Vincent Bugliosi with Curt Gentry;
Hollywood Babylon
by Kenneth Anger;
Severed
by John Gilmore;
Sharon Tate and the Manson Murders
by Greg King;
This is Hollywood: An Unusual Movieland Guide
by Ken Schessler;
Laid to Rest in California
by Patricia Brooks and Jonathan Brooks;
Black Dahlia Avenger
by Steve Hodel;
Deadly Illusions: Jean Harlow and the Murder of Paul Bern
by Samuel Marx and Joyce Vanderveen;
The Night Stalker: The Life and Crimes of Richard Ramirez
by Philip Carlo;
The Chris Farley Show: A Biography in Three Acts
by Tom Farley, Jnr. and Tanner Colby, and
L.A. Exposed
by Paul Young. My infinite respect and gratitude to Scott Michaels and all the Death Hags at
www.findadeath.com
, without whom this novel would not have been written.

Lastly, heartfelt thanks to my husband, Evan Butson, for making every day above ground a good one. I adore you with all my heart. You're my Hollywood ending.

 

John Belushi Is Dead

W
E HUNG OVER THE
fence at the Ambassador Hotel, watching the demolition. Benji stood beside me taking photos with his digital camera, his mouth open in disbelief. He was determined to document every moment. As the bulldozers tore into the side of the hotel, the sound of crushing mortar made me feel sick. The Ambassador had a long, star-filled history. To us the building was a holy shrine, and watching its destruction was like watching a death.

For the past year we had attended protest marches and signed online petitions. During that time the hotel had been used as a movie set and a cheap location for sci-fi and comic book conventions. But finally the decision had been made. The Ambassador had no future, and the demolition was to go ahead. Los Angeles is a town that exorcises its demons—cursed properties are seized and razed.

Benji and I revelled in the celebrity history of the Ambassador. In the golden days of Hollywood, the Oscars were held there.
Marilyn Monroe lounged by the pool. In 1968, the allure of the Ambassador was tarnished forever when Senator Robert F. Kennedy delivered a heartfelt victory speech in the ballroom after winning the California primary, only to be gunned down as he tried to make his exit through the hotel pantry. Some people thought the CIA was in on it, but most believed that RFK was assassinated by a Palestinian immigrant with a beef against the Kennedys, just another run-of-the-mill nut job in a town full of them. I preferred the theory that the Palestinian was just a patsy, that he'd been hypnotized and ordered to kill the senator, like something out of
The Manchurian Candidate
. Benji said he had a piece of the floor from directly beneath RFK's head. He bought it off eBay from a seller who claimed to be one of the workers hired to tear the building down. Benji said the dark stain on the corner that looked like barbecue sauce was actually Kennedy's blood.

Our mission for the day was to remove something from the demolition site, this time with our own two hands. Benji had dressed in combat fatigues, convinced it would help him blend into the scenery. A couple of ex-cops in black T-shirts patrolled the perimeter, German shepherds on short leads trailing beside them. We looked for ways to get through the fence undetected but couldn't maneuver around the guards. After we'd stood around for an hour, hands in our pockets and staring through the chicken wire, one of the guards came over. He was wearing aviator sunglasses and had a gun in his holster.

“Can I help you kids with something?” he asked.

“Good morning, officer,” Benji said politely, pointing at the crumbled ruins of the Ambassador. “Any chance we could come in and watch history unfold up close?”

The guard shook his head. “Private property,” he said, tipping his head at a sign that read
WARNING—DEATH
. “Dangerous, too. Why, a piece of rock could come flying off one of those bulldozers and hit you—bam!—square in the eye.” He threaded his thumbs through his belt, chewed his gum with the gusto of a cowboy, and stared into the sun like the sheriff of
Deadwood.
It was then I knew we would get what we needed.

“Can I make you a proposition?” Benji suggested. He removed a black, studded wallet from his back pocket, snapped it open, and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. The wallet rattled on its chain. Benji lived to negotiate.

“What do you mean, proposition?” the guard asked, adjusting his cap.

Benji handed him the bill: clean, crisp, and freshly minted.

The guard paused for a moment, then took the bill and examined it. He held it to the sun as if the light could confirm it was real. “What the hell is this all about?” he asked, looking around to make sure no one had seen the exchange.

A crane crashed through the ceiling of the hotel and a dust cloud made its way across the lot, shrouding everyone in dirt. Benji coughed and brushed dirt from his clothes. “We want some bricks,” he said.

The guard stared at him. “Bricks?”

“Flooring, too, if you can find any. But bricks would be a good start.”

The guard gazed out across the site, incredulous. His boss was sitting in the watch house taking a nap, feet hanging out the window.

“Make it twenty,” he said, turning back and licking his lips.

Benji had been expecting this, too. He took another ten from his wallet and handed it over. He always carried many denominations, always started small. Once people knew what we were after they would jack up the price—capitalism at its finest.

“All right, then,” the guard said, and grinned. He folded the bills and put them in his top pocket, then set off at a jog across the lot. Benji let out a high-pitched whistle and the guard turned around.

“Not that way,” Benji yelled over the bulldozers and cranes. “That way.”

He pointed toward where the ballroom had been, and the guard changed direction. A minute later he was running back, two whole bricks in his hands. He carried them against his chest, puffing and wheezing all the way. He dropped the bricks on the ground and started to cough.

“Careful,” Benji complained. “I paid for those.”

Just like you paid for the one off eBay, I thought. Only this time he could authenticate it.

The guard spat on the ground, then composed himself. It had obviously been some time since he'd been chasing criminals around the streets of LA.

“What the hell do you kids want those for, anyway?” he asked. “What's so special about a couple of bricks?”