John Belushi Is Dead by Kathy Charles Page A

sped off, her child still hanging out, attached to the car seat. She watched her child being dragged along the side of the road.”
    â€œThat’s a repeat.”
    Lynette pursed her lips. “Stories like that make you put your life in perspective,” she continued. “Make you realize how lucky you really are.”
    â€œJust another day for you and me in paradise.”
    She examined me through her thick, black-rimmed lenses. “Have you done something to your hair?”
    â€œIt’s pink.”
    â€œSo it is. Do you like it?”
    â€œI just love it.”
    â€œGood. As long as you’re happy.”
    I leaned over her casebooks. “What are you working on?”
    â€œIt’s a murder case,” she said as she scribbled something down on her notepad. “It’s gang related.”
    â€œCool. Got any crime-scene photos?”
    She put her pen down and adjusted her glasses. “Hilda, I findyour fascination with murder a little disconcerting. This is a very sad and horrific crime.”
    â€œBut you said it was gang related.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo then he probably had it coming.”
    She took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. “Life isn’t as black and white as that, Hilda,” she said, sounding annoyed. “It’s not fair for you to judge other people when you have no idea what they’ve been through, the social and economic circumstances they were born into—”
    â€œAll right, you don’t have to give me a sermon. I’m not the jury.”
    â€œThank God for that,” she said, putting her glasses back on and straightening up. “Then the poor boy would have no hope.”
    â€œAnyway, you’re the one obsessed with murder, not me. You made a career out of it.”
    â€œI’m not obsessed with murder, Hilda. I’m helping people.”
    â€œCome on, just one look…”
    I tried to slide one of the case folders away with my finger, but Lynette snatched it back.
    â€œNo, Hilda. Trust me when I say you are better off not seeing this.”
    I had never viewed any of Lynette’s case files. She kept them under lock and key and never once made the mistake of accidentally leaving one out. She obviously had no idea what I had access to on the Internet.
    â€œYou’re probably right,” I said, giving up. “Wouldn’t want to warp me now, would we?”
    I was halfway out of the room when Lynette spoke again. “Youknow, we could feed a third-world country with the amount of dinners I’ve made for you and you’ve never eaten. It’s very wasteful.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œI hope you had a proper meal at the Connors.”
    â€œSure did,” I lied, my stomach still full of Mrs. Connor’s chocolate-chip cookies.
    â€œWell, I hope you’re more thankful toward Mrs. Connor than you are to me. I’d be very embarrassed if you weren’t.”
    I went back over to where Lynette was sitting and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “I said I’m sorry.”
    I felt her soften. “Next time call,” she said, still trying to sound mad.
    â€œOkay,” I yelled over my shoulder as I left the room, taking the milk carton with me.

6
    J OHN B ELUSHI ONCE SAID that happiness is not a state you want to be in all the time. I knew what he meant. He was talking about the uncontrollable urge to fuck it all up, the desire to put a knife in the toaster of existence just to see what would happen. To put a bomb under your blessings and watch them blow sky-high. To swan dive off the precipice and give in to the free fall.
    Belushi had it all: money, fame, a wife, a home. But he didn’t want to live in the safety of these creature comforts. He wanted to exist on the knife’s edge, the sharpest point of the blade, where you could fall either way—the only guarantee being that you will inevitably get cut. He rolled the dice, tossed the