Clay Tomlinson in the parking lot at Will Rogers State Beach, Timmy Miller’s aquamarine ’55 Chevy turned the corner on Las Palmas and idled in front of Ruffino’s, the take-out pizza joint that sat directly across the street from Nate’s News. “Maybe Baby” was playing on KRLA, and nestled underneath Timmy’s arm was a sharp-featured girl wearing dark sunglasses, and very tight white shorts.
“This is PK,” Timmy said to Burk, as he climbed into the rear seat.
Burk nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” PK said, without turning her head.
PK’s name was really Patty Kendall, and later that day Burk would learn that her father, Kenny Kendall, was an out-of-work actor and that she’d recently moved to the west side from Canoga Park, a suburb on the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley. Timmy had picked her up that morning, hitchhiking into Hollywood.
“That’s where I work,” PK said to Timmy, as they cruised past the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. “I got the job because my mom knows the manager. She’s a waitress at the Cinegrill,” she said, pointing across the street at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. “Before that she was a cigarette girl at Ciro’s.”
Burk leaned forward and rested his arms on the front seat. “My parents used to celebrate their wedding anniversary at Ciro’s.”
“No kidding,” PK said. “Maybe my mom sold them cigarettes.”
“Maybe.”
“I bet they noticed her for sure. She’s got really long dyed blond hair and boobs out to here. Some people think she looks like Mamie Van Doren, except she’s older. My mom, that is.”
Timmy said, “PK was in Goody-Goody last week when Tomlinson knifed that guy from Westchester.”
Burk felt his heart begin to thump. He glanced nervously at PK. “You were there?”
PK nodded, her back to him. Then she lifted up her sunglasses and swiveled around in her seat: Freckles were sprinkled across her forehead, and up close her blue eyes were as soft as faded denim. “You’re scared. Aren’t you, Ray?”
“Yeah. I am.”
“I would be too.”
Burk felt slightly embarrassed. They pulled up to a light, and he shifted his eyes away from PK’s face. “I just can’t fuckin’ believe he’s back in LA. What’s it been, Tim? Five years?”
“At least.”
“Nobody thinks Gene will show. But they’re wrong.”
There was a long pause. Timmy lit up a Marlboro and took a drag, waiting for the traffic to move before he glanced into the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry, Ray. Gene’s gonna kick his ass.”
Gene Burk turned thirteen on August 27, 1953. Summer ended two weeks later, and he rode his new sky-blue Schwinn two-wheeler across the schoolyard at Ralph Waldo Emerson Junior High School. A muscular boy that Gene didn’t recognize was standing alone near the bike rack. His hair was the color of brick, and he was wearing a dirty white T-shirt and jeans that were ripped in both knees.
“Hi,” Gene said, after he parked his bike. “My name is Gene Burk.”
“Who cares what your name is?” the boy sneered, and he walked away without shaking Gene’s hand.
By the first recess it was common knowledge that the new boy, Clay Tomlinson, had moved to Los Angeles after both his parents and his older sister were killed in a car wreck on the Indiana turnpike.
“It happened over the Fourth of July,” Suzy Farrel whispered to Gene during homeroom. “They were coming back from the state fair in Indianapolis.”
“Who told you that?”
“Lisa Sutter. She overheard Miss Gardner telling Mr. Fields in the library. They said it was a miracle he survived.”
Before the day was half over, more rumors about Clay’s background were passed along between classes and during lunch hour in the cafeteria: he had an older brother who died in Korea (true); the uncle he was living with, Luke Tomlinson, was a professional golfer (false: he managed a driving range in Panorama City); his sister was a dead ringer for Joanne Dru
“This is PK,” Timmy said to Burk, as he climbed into the rear seat.
Burk nodded. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” PK said, without turning her head.
PK’s name was really Patty Kendall, and later that day Burk would learn that her father, Kenny Kendall, was an out-of-work actor and that she’d recently moved to the west side from Canoga Park, a suburb on the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley. Timmy had picked her up that morning, hitchhiking into Hollywood.
“That’s where I work,” PK said to Timmy, as they cruised past the Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. “I got the job because my mom knows the manager. She’s a waitress at the Cinegrill,” she said, pointing across the street at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. “Before that she was a cigarette girl at Ciro’s.”
Burk leaned forward and rested his arms on the front seat. “My parents used to celebrate their wedding anniversary at Ciro’s.”
“No kidding,” PK said. “Maybe my mom sold them cigarettes.”
“Maybe.”
“I bet they noticed her for sure. She’s got really long dyed blond hair and boobs out to here. Some people think she looks like Mamie Van Doren, except she’s older. My mom, that is.”
Timmy said, “PK was in Goody-Goody last week when Tomlinson knifed that guy from Westchester.”
Burk felt his heart begin to thump. He glanced nervously at PK. “You were there?”
PK nodded, her back to him. Then she lifted up her sunglasses and swiveled around in her seat: Freckles were sprinkled across her forehead, and up close her blue eyes were as soft as faded denim. “You’re scared. Aren’t you, Ray?”
“Yeah. I am.”
“I would be too.”
Burk felt slightly embarrassed. They pulled up to a light, and he shifted his eyes away from PK’s face. “I just can’t fuckin’ believe he’s back in LA. What’s it been, Tim? Five years?”
“At least.”
“Nobody thinks Gene will show. But they’re wrong.”
There was a long pause. Timmy lit up a Marlboro and took a drag, waiting for the traffic to move before he glanced into the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry, Ray. Gene’s gonna kick his ass.”
Gene Burk turned thirteen on August 27, 1953. Summer ended two weeks later, and he rode his new sky-blue Schwinn two-wheeler across the schoolyard at Ralph Waldo Emerson Junior High School. A muscular boy that Gene didn’t recognize was standing alone near the bike rack. His hair was the color of brick, and he was wearing a dirty white T-shirt and jeans that were ripped in both knees.
“Hi,” Gene said, after he parked his bike. “My name is Gene Burk.”
“Who cares what your name is?” the boy sneered, and he walked away without shaking Gene’s hand.
By the first recess it was common knowledge that the new boy, Clay Tomlinson, had moved to Los Angeles after both his parents and his older sister were killed in a car wreck on the Indiana turnpike.
“It happened over the Fourth of July,” Suzy Farrel whispered to Gene during homeroom. “They were coming back from the state fair in Indianapolis.”
“Who told you that?”
“Lisa Sutter. She overheard Miss Gardner telling Mr. Fields in the library. They said it was a miracle he survived.”
Before the day was half over, more rumors about Clay’s background were passed along between classes and during lunch hour in the cafeteria: he had an older brother who died in Korea (true); the uncle he was living with, Luke Tomlinson, was a professional golfer (false: he managed a driving range in Panorama City); his sister was a dead ringer for Joanne Dru
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