The Dead Circus

A Novel

John Kaye

• Publisher: Grove Press
• Year: 2020
• Print ISBN: 9780802140173
• eBook ISBN: 9780802192066
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

From the acclaimed author of Stars Screaming, "a fine new novel . . . [that] pulls some of the dregs of Manson's dark legacy into the light" ( The Oregonian).
 
It's 1986. Devastated by the death of his fiancée, private eye Gene Burk becomes obsessed with an unsolved mystery from his days with the LAPD: the death of up-and-coming rockabilly star Bobby Fuller. While attempting to reconstruct the circumstances that led to Fuller's demise, Gene is unexpectedly contacted by a woman from his fiancée's hometown, a survivor of the Manson Family who needs his help to escape her past.
 
As Gene travels back in history to the moment Manson partied alongside Bobby Fuller and the Beach Boys, he lays bare Los Angeles in the sixties, its relative innocence and its seedy underbelly, and uncovers how those currents have shaped not just history but his own life and those of the people he loves. "Masterfully creating and sustaining a palpable, pure, elegiac paean to lost hopes and dreams, Kaye seems to suggest that the human impulse toward yearning and hopefulness can exist unmarred by and side by side with rampant corruption and pure evil" ( Booklist, starred review).
 
"A looming thundercloud of a book; it begins in a Southern California that seems permanently infused with sunshine and ends in one that has been forever submerged beneath the dark surf of a noirish nightmare." — The New York Times Book Review
 
"A great baggy monster of a book, shifting shape, made up of tales of murder, desertion and love, as full of life as the city it describes." — The Washington Post

Part

One

One

Hollywood Nights

At about nine P.M. on an unseasonably warm Saturday night in November of 1965, Gene Burk was sitting at a ringside table inside P.J.’s, a rock- and-roll dance club on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. Headlining that weekend was the Bobby Fuller Four, a heavily electrified rockabilly band that was rapidly becoming the act to see within L.A.’s thriving grassroots club scene. On this, their first gig at P.J.’s, they would break all existing attendance records, and club owner Carl Reese would quickly sign them to an exclusive six-month contract.

Seated at a reserved table not far from Gene was Nancy Sinatra, one of the stars of The Ghost in the Invisible Bikini, a schlocky horror film in which Bobby Fuller was appearing as the leader of a hard-core surf band. At first Bobby had found the script unreadable and tried to drop out of the project, but Herb Stelzner, his manager and the owner of his new record label, convinced him that the movie exposure would help promote his first album, which he was now recording.

Right now Stelzner was standing in the back of the club, trying to appear nonchalant as a small shiver of fear skipped along his spine and spread slowly through his chest. Standing next to him, his face cold and reprimanding, was Carl Reese, who had just informed Stelzner that “the boss,” meaning Frank Sinatra, did not like Bobby dating his daughter. In fact, he wanted it to stop.

“They’re just a couple of kids having a good time,” Stelzner said, as he nervously tugged down the sleeves of his jacket. “It’s nothing serious.”

Carl Reese accepted a bourbon and soda from a passing waitress and raised the glass to his lips, pausing for a moment as his hazy blue eyes scanned the crowded room. He smiled when he recognized Gene Burk. He knew Gene was a cop. He’d seen him around town, in joints like The Zanzibar and Ernie’s Stardust Lounge, looking slightly uncomfortable as his partner, Eddie Cornell, hassled Hollywood’s growing coalition of dope pushers, pimps, and petty crooks. He also knew that Gene had grown up in Los Angeles and was basically a good guy, a music freak who was known to smoke an occasional joint when he was not on duty.

Gene turned his head. He saw Reese looking at him intently. Herb Stelzner said, “I’m going backstage.”

“Talk to Bobby. Tell him what Frank said.”

“I’ll tell him after the first show.”

Just before the houselights came down, Gene was joined by his younger brother Ray, who apologized for being late.

“Guess who’s here,” Gene said.

“Who?”

Gene gestured to his right. “Nancy Sinatra.”

Ray was silent for a moment. Then his heart began to speed up as he turned and looked at Nancy carefully for several seconds. During his senior year at Westside High they’d gone out once, double-dating with Ricky Furlong, a bashful boy and a baseball phenom who would later have a nervous breakdown during his rookie season in the major leagues.

Gene said, “When was the last time you saw her?”

“At State Beach, the summer before my sophomore year at Cal. I said hello but she looked right through me, like I was fucking invisible.”

When the Bobby Fuller Four took the stage, Ray was still staring at the back of Nancy’s head, cringing inside as he recalled their one and only date. He’d taken her to a party at someone’s house in Mande-ville Canyon, a rich kid from Chadwick, this private high school in Palos Verdes. The rich kid’s parents were in Las Vegas for the weekend, guests of comedian Buddy Hackett, and by midnight, Ray and Furlong had finished a fifth of Wild Turkey and were both passed out in the backyard. Nancy, who had no real friends at the party and no way to get home, walked the two miles into Brentwood and called a cab.

At school on Monday Ray saw her in the cafeteria and tried to apologize, but she moved her head in denial, continuing to talk to her girlfriends as if he weren’t there. Then, just when he was about to give up, she turned her face toward him, and he could see the hostility in her stony eyes.

“Ray Burk,” she said, her icy smile only making his anguish worse, “you have no idea how lucky you are.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t tell my dad.”

Now, a little over five years later, separated only by a row of tables, she was oblivious to Ray’s presence, clapping along with the audience as Bobby Fuller segued into his second number, “I Fought the Law,” a rocked-up version of the Crickets’ song that he was performing live for the first time. “This is a fucking great tune,” Gene said to Ray, who nodded but was not completely in the present. “Ray?”

“Yeah?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

Ray turned and looked at his brother. “Tell me.”

“You’re thinking of going over there. Right?”

“Maybe. Just to say hello.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s been five years. She can’t still be pissed.”

“Forget about her,” Gene said, starting to sound a little aggravated. “It’s over.”

Midway through the first set, Gene found his attention drawn to a slender teenage girl who was leaning lazily against the far wall. She had a wide crooked mouth, and her unblinking eyes seemed haunted and trancelike as she stared into the smoke that swirled around her face. The phony ID that she carried in her plastic wallet said she was born in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, which was true, but the rest of the information, including her name and date of birth, was false.

Standing behind the girl was an older guy, small and wiry, wearing flowered bell bottom pants, a bowler hat, and a raspberry-red leather car coat. He was the rhythm guitarist for Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, a British band that was touring the U.S. with Gerry and the Pacemakers and the Dave Clark Five. Two days ago he’d met the young runaway backstage at a concert in Phoenix, Arizona, and he’d snuck her on the tour bus after the show. Right now she was staying in his room on the tenth floor of the Continental Hyatt House Hotel.

His name was Archie; hers, she told him, was Alice, which was her real name and not the name on her ID. They would only be together for one more night. She would then hitchhike up the coast, stopping first in Santa Barbara for a week before continuing on to Berkeley, where she would remain for one year, a girl who turned her back on her past and tried hard to keep the devil out of her heart.

After the show, Archie took Alice’s hand and led her backstage to meet Bobby Fuller. Nancy Sinatra was standing a few feet away, chatting with starlet Sharon Tate and her current boyfriend, hair stylist Jay Sebring. Sharon suggested that they all meet later at The Daisy, a private discotheque on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills.

“Ryan will be there,” Sharon said. “And so will Natalie Wood and Peter Fonda. Jay spoke to Peter this afternoon at his shop.”

Nancy shook her head. “I can’t,” she said, aware that The Daisy was her father’s favorite after-hours hangout, the only place where Mia Farrow, his new bride, felt comfortable. “I’ve got an early tennis game tomorrow morning.”

Alice was standing next to Archie. He was speaking rapidly in a slurred Cockney accent, explaining to Bobby how much he admired his songs, especially “Memories of You,” the frantic rocker that closed his first set. Although Archie was obviously smashed, Bobby knew the praise was sincere and thanked him.

“When are you going to tour the U.K.?” Archie asked him.

“Next year.”

“If he’s got a hit album to support it,” Herb Stelzner said, after he moved over to join the group.

Archie turned to Stelzner and regarded him with suspicion. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Bobby’s manager and I own his label.”

“Then how about a show of confidence in your artist, mate. He’ll do fucking great in Britain,” Archie said. “He’s got the perfect sound. Last year Gene Vincent and the Blue Caps sold out the Albert Hall.”

Herb Stelzner smiled tolerantly. “Gene Vincent is a legend in the U.K. Plus the Animals headlined that tour. I know how to do my job, son,” he said, making his voice a little louder and stronger. “When it’s time to cross the ocean, we’ll be there.”

Throughout this discussion, Alice was staring at Sharon Tate, drawn deeply into her beauty. She was so irresistibly pretty that being in her presence made Alice feel suddenly, unexpectedly sad.

Bobby said to Archie, “Who’s your girlfriend?”

“My name is Alice, and I’m not his girlfriend,” she said with some defiance. “We hardly know each other.”

Alice broke away from Archie and came up behind Sharon Tate, hesitating for a moment with her hand raised before she tapped her gently on the shoulder. Sharon Tate turned and stared into Alice’s eyes, which now contained a peculiar brightness. “Yes,” she said. “What is it?”

“Are you a movie star?”

“Not yet,” Sharon said, glancing at Jay Sebring, who squeezed ner neck affectionately.

“You will be,” Alice said, her voice filled with both envy and desire. “I’d stake my life on it.”

Outside P.J.’s, Gene was saying goodbye to his brother, who was swaying in his tracks. “Be careful driving, Ray.”

“I’m okay. Don’t worry.”

“You’re not okay. You’re drunk.”

Ray lit a cigarette and stared into the street for several seconds before he spoke again. “I should’ve said something.”

“To who?”

“Nancy.”

“Fuck Nancy. She’s history. Start thinking about yourself,” Gene said.

“Stop giving me advice.”

“I’m your big brother. I’m supposed to give you advice.”

On his way back inside the club for the second show, Gene noticed Carl Reese standing near the backstage entrance, talking to a big man, bigger than Reese, and older—maybe sixty—who was wearing a blue knit polo shirt and white linen pants. His name was Jack Havana and, along with being the money behind P.J.’s, he was a known hoodlum and the largest purveyor of pornography on the West Coast. He and Reese were also partnered in several other businesses, including a chain of dry cleaners and the Arroyo Lodge and Racquet Club, a resort in Palm Springs.

Gene had met Havana for the first time back in 1949, when he was nine years old and Havana came by his father’s newsstand one Friday, offering him magazines that he could sell underneath the counter.

“I don’t peddle anything I can’t display,” Nathan Burk told Havana.

“You can make a bundle,” Havana replied.

“No thanks.”

Nathan’s wife Mona was standing a few feet away, listening to this conversation while she worked the register, which she did every weekday afternoon during the summer. When she caught Nate’s eye, she said, “Maybe you should think it over.”

“I don’t need to think it over. I know what’s right.”

Jack Havana nodded thoughtfully, his expression calm and undisturbed. He let several seconds go by before he said, quietly, “You should listen to your pretty wife.”

Nathan Burk looked over at Mona, who everyone said was a dead ringer for Hedy Lamarr. She was staring at him with almost pity in her face. “He sells dirt,” he said to her. “Is that what you want?”

“I want a nice car and pretty clothes,” Mona said, turning away as the color rose in her cheeks, a color that was several shades lighter than her deep, rich, red hair. “I want things that money can buy. Is that so bad?”

Gene saw Jack Havana once more that summer. He and Ray had just walked out of the Vogue Theater after attending the matinee of Criss Cross, a gangster film starring Burt Lancaster as an armored car driver who gets double-crossed by his ex-wife, Yvonne De Carlo. At the corner of Wilcox and Hollywood Boulevard, while they were standing immobile, waiting for the light to change, Ray said, “What’s Mom doing in that car?”

“What car?”

“There.”

Ray was pointing at a white Lincoln Continental convertible that was moving slowly east on the palm-lined boulevard. In the front seat a woman with wavy red hair was sitting between two men...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Also by John Kaye
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• First Words
• Part One
• Part Two
• Part Three
• Acknowledgments