John Belushi Is Dead (12 page)

The agent stopped smiling. The couple looked at him for an explanation, and I dragged Benji off, begging him to shut up as his laugh echoed down the street.

Y
OU DIDN'T TELL ME
you were bringing
him
.” Hank scowled, refusing to open the door more than an inch. Benji saluted like a captain and tried to get his hand through the door, almost getting his fingers chopped off as Hank tried to close it on him.

“I can't catch a cab every day,” I said. “He gave me a lift. It's cool.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Anderson,” Benji said, beaming. “Lovely day.”

Hank looked over our shoulders. “You got anyone else with ya? Huh? Any more of your little friends?”

Benji looked behind himself. A Korean woman stepped out of her apartment and threw a saucepan of hot water onto the concrete.

“There's one!” Benji cried as she scampered back inside. “No, wait, she's gone.”

I kicked Benji in the ankle. “It's just us,” I assured Hank, “and I got you these.”

I held up a bag from Blockbuster, filled with tapes. I took one out and shook it at him. “
Psycho
? I've got
Lawrence of Arabia
, too. The uncut version.”

Hank closed the door in our faces, and for a moment I thought we'd been given our marching orders. Then we heard the sound of a chain unlocking, and the door opened. We slithered through the crack Hank had made for us.

“Wipe your feet,” he snarled at Benji, who did a little tap dance on the welcome mat before stepping inside. Hank walked to the kitchen to prepare some tea. I put the bag of tapes on the coffee table and sat on the sofa. Benji slid over and whispered in my ear.

“Looks like you're not the only do-gooder who pays him a visit,” he said, referring to the apartment's cleanliness. “Jealous?”

“You promised me you'd be nice,” I whispered. “And anyway, he probably cleaned it himself.”

“Doubtful. The dude can barely stand up. By the way, I am being nice. I just want to know what time we give him the sponge bath. Or should I leave for that? Give you both some privacy?”

I didn't bother dignifying Benji with a response, but he was right about one thing: the apartment was really clean, even cleaner than the last time, when I'd arrived to find all the dishes washed and the ashtrays emptied. I couldn't imagine someone Hank's age having the energy to do all of that and figured maybe there was some kind of service like Meals On Wheels that cleaned old people's apartments. Benji put his boots on the coffee table and looked around with a smug expression. Hank brought the tea over on a little tray and stopped suddenly.

“Hey!” he yelled with such force that I jumped.

Benji looked at him calmly. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yeah, I'm talking to you. Get your feet off my table.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I thought it was a footrest. My mistake.”

If there was any doubt in my mind that it had been a bad idea to bring Benji, it had now evaporated. He seemed intent on behaving badly. I stared at him, imploring him with my eyes to be civilized, but he was already helping himself to tea, filling his cup with a ridiculous amount of sugar. Hank stared at Benji, incredulous, as he put in four lumps, then five, then six. He stirred the tea with a spoon and took a mouthful, closing his eyes as if it were the most glorious thing he had ever tasted.

“Mmmmm,” he moaned. “Now that is a perfect cup of tea. Where do you get your tea, Hank?”

“Supermarket.”

“I mean, who gets it for you? Do you have someone who comes here and cleans up, runs errands?”

Hank fixed himself a cup and leaned back. “Somethin' like that, yeah. I got someone who helps out.”

I sat between them feeling like the meat in a macho sandwich. I could practically feel them peeing in their seats, marking their territory.

“Look at all this great stuff I got,” I said, leaning forward and rifling through my bag from Blockbuster. “I thought you could do with a few more tapes. And I found this.”

I handed him a copy of
The Girl Can't Help It,
starring Jayne Mansfield. On the cover she was wearing a tight red dress, her enormous breasts busting to get out.

“She was a nice lady,” he said, “but she weren't no great actress. I prefer Janet Leigh.” He picked up the copy of
Psycho
and read the back cover.

“Hilda tells me you knew Jayne Mansfield,” Benji said. “That you worked on her pool.”

“That's right. I did.”

“I get it. You were the sexy pool man, giving her what her husband never could?”

“Benji!” I almost shrieked. “What the hell?”

“It's cool, Hilda. It's just guy talk. Hank knows what I'm talkin' about. He knows what goes on with the hired help. Am I right, my man?”

Hank grinned, saying nothing.

“Yeah, he knows.” Benji said, pleased with himself.

“We were thinking maybe you'd like to go out,” I offered. “Benji has a car—we could take you someplace if you wanted.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To get some fresh air.”

“Plenty of air in here.”

“Come on, Hank,” Benji said, slapping his knees. “Let's go cruising.”

Hank stayed in his chair. “Ain't nothin' I can see out there that I can't see in here,” he said, motioning to the television set and the tapes.

“You don't wanna drive on down to Pink's, get some hot dogs?”

Hank sank into his seat and muttered an almost inaudible no. This was not the Hank I was familiar with. It was as if Benji had him cornered. All his bluster and bravado were gone, and in their place sat a frail old man being interrogated in his own home and scared to go outside. For a moment I forgot Benji was there. I leaned toward Hank and put my hand gently on his arm.

“Are you nervous to go outside?” I asked softly, and Benji leaned forward in his seat and pointed at Hank's arm.

“Hey, man, what's that?”

Hank swiftly placed his fingers over the blurry ink blob. “What?” he cried.

“Under your fingers, man. What's that on your arm? Is that a tattoo?”

“It's nothing,” Hank said, talking fast. “Got it when I was a teenager. Just a stupid mistake. Take it from me, sonny, when you fall in love for the first time, don't be dumb enough to have her name tattooed on your person. Sure, they got laser surgery these days. But in my day, well, let me just say, acid hurts like a son of a bitch.”

I laughed, relieved. Benji sat back, his eyes darting around, unsatisfied. “Believe me, I wouldn't be stupid enough to do that for a girl,” he said, shooting me a look that could have withered a vine. “So tell us a story about Jayne Mansfield. Seeing as how you knew her so well.”

Hank poured himself another cup of tea, made himself comfortable. “Frankly, I didn't know her that well. Just saw her coming and going, in and out of the house, sometimes in her bathing suit, sometimes… well, not in her bathing suit. If you catch my meaning.”

“Oh yeah.” Benji whistled.

“She was a beautiful woman but had no self-respect. Didn't care who saw her naked. Me, I was just off the boat, and, well, I was damn impressed by her. By the whole town. I'd never seen anything like it.”

“Off the boat?” I asked. “From where?”

“Norway,” he said without hesitation. “Came out when I was eighteen.”

“Was your family with you?”

Something passed through Hank's eyes. “No. Just me.”

“What was it like back then?” Benji asked, and to my surprise he sounded genuinely interested.

“You mean Hollywood? You're asking the wrong person. I only ever saw people's pools, or their hotel rooms as I was cleanin' them.”

“Did you know any other famous people?” Benji asked, almost drooling into his cup. It was alarming how fast he could turn from interrogative bulldog to salivating sycophant.

“I once built a mailbox for Mickey Rooney.”

Benji put his cup down. “Awesome.”

“More tea?” Hank asked.

“No, it's cool. I'm not much of a tea drinker.”

“How about a beer, then?”

“Now you're talking!”

Hank stood, walked back over to the kitchen, and grabbed two cold beers from the fridge. “Your boyfriend's pretty cool,” Benji said, leaning in. “You two have my blessing.”

Hank handed Benji a beer and sat back down. Benji tore the cap off and drank a little too enthusiastically, showing his age. “Take it easy, tiger,” I said. “You're driving, remember? If we get pulled over, you'll lose your license.”

“Hey, Hank,” Benji said, wiping foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hilda's got something in common with Jayne Mansfield.”

“Benji, don't!”

Benji fixed me with a cold stare.

“Do they?” Hank said, looking at me. “And what would that be?”

Benji took another drink. The room filled with the smell of alcohol. “Don't flip your lid, Hilda. I was just gonna say you both dye your hair.”

I downed my tea. “We have to get going,” I said, standing. Benji stood as well, finishing his beer.

“That's right, old man. Places to go, people to see. It's a big world out there—you should try it out sometime.”

“Maybe I will,” Hank said, not standing, taking another drink. “I just might take you up on that,
boy
.”

“W
HAT THE HELL WAS
that all about?” I asked as I put on my seat belt. Benji started the engine and laughed.

“What? What's the problem now?”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole?” I said.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

Benji plugged his iPod into the cigarette lighter and busied himself with making a song selection. I looked back at Hank's apartment in time to see him closing the curtains, shutting himself in once again. Benji slammed his foot on the accelerator and we roared off, tires squealing.

“Slow down!” I yelled over the music, AC/DC at their rowdiest. I turned the volume down and Benji scowled.

“I just wanna get the hell out of this dump. I don't know how people can live like that.”

“People live the best way they know how, Benji. You wouldn't know a thing about it. Your mom still presses your underwear.”

“What's your problem, Hilda? You got something to say?”

“Yes,” I said, turning to him, angry. “Yes, I have something to say.” I breathed deeply, forming the words in my head before saying them aloud. “I am not a specimen.”

“What?”

I balled my fists, defiant. “I am not a specimen. I am not something you can keep in a jar and poke with a stick whenever you feel like it.”

I caught something in Benji's eye that told me he knew what I meant. Instead, he tried to laugh it off with a joke.

“Is this
The Elephant Man
?” he said, slurring his words as he added,
“I am not an animal, Benji! I am a human beeeeing!
”

“You know what I mean,” I said, not letting him off the hook. Benji knew exactly what I was talking about—the fact that he had made it look like he was going to mention my parents' accident to Hank, even though he knew how I felt about telling people. “You're supposed to be my friend, Benji. That's my private business. That's
my
story. It's not for you to tell.”

“As if I'd say anything about it,” Benji said defensively. “God, give me a little more credit, Hilda.”

“It sure sounded like you were going to.”

“Look, I'm sorry, I really wasn't.” He gave me a small smile. “Truce?”

I didn't say anything. I didn't tell him that sometimes I thought he was friends with me only because he was fascinated by what had happened to me. It was as if he wanted to see how I developed and grew, if I was going to be normal or turn into one of those people who walks into McDonald's with a rifle and starts shooting. Half of me believed that Benji was just dumb and insensitive sometimes, but the other half was less convinced. We pulled up in front of my house and I got out.

“Hey, don't be mad, Hilda. Wanna go to Wonderland Avenue tomorrow? The place where John Holmes and those drug dealers bludgeoned all those losers to death?”

“It was never confirmed that John Holmes was actually there,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “The evidence against him is entirely circumstantial.”

“Yeah, because porn stars are such model citizens. Come on. Don't make me beg.”

I turned back and managed a grin. “How can I stay mad at you? You had me at ‘bludgeoning'.”

I
CONTINUED TO VISIT
H
ANK
, but there was no way I was going to let Benji come along after his last performance. I would go to the apartment in Echo Park in the afternoon, after Benji and I had completed our expedition for the day.

As summer went by we visited the people and places that made up LA's ghoulish tapestry of despair. The bend in the road near Bakersfield where James Dean met his grisly end in a car he affectionately named Little Bastard. The apartment where Sal Mineo, who also starred in
Rebel Without a Cause
, was stabbed to death during a robbery gone wrong. We even did a dedicated Night Stalker tour, driving the same roads and freeways as Richard Ramirez had, right to the doors of his victims.

We hung around the bus station where Ramirez regularly met with his fence, eager to offload jewelry and other valuables he had stolen from his victims in exchange for cash to feed his dope habit. But that's not why Ramirez killed people. The dope was a way to
curb his addiction to killing; it mellowed him out, kept him balanced. It didn't work very well. Richard Ramirez loved to kill. It fed his soul, a soul he believed belonged to Satan. He was convinced that his killing spree would earn him a place at Satan's throne in the afterlife.