Wired

The Short Life and Fast Times of John Belushi

John Belushi and I grew up in Wheaton, Illinois, and went to the same high school. He graduated in 1967, six years after I did. But we never met.

In the summer of 1982, I received a call at The Washington Post from Pamela Jacklin, a sister-in-law of Belushi, who had died of a drug overdose three months earlier. She said there were many unanswered questions surrounding John's death, and she suggested I look into it. John Belushi was not a natural subject for my reporting; I had concentrated on Washington stories and knew very little about his show-business world--TV, rock 'n' roll and Hollywood. But I was curious.

During the next 18 months, I interviewed more than 270 people--217 of them on the record, more than 50 on background--and the information they gave me makes up the core of this investigation into Belushi's life and death. With few exceptions, if any of the major figures in this story are present in a scene, the information came from them or it was generally confirmed by them. This applies particularly to matters regarding personal thoughts, feelings and states of mind. The quoted dialog comes directly from the participants as they said they recalled it.

Belushi was an embodiment of the energy and will of the Seventies. He could have been, should have been, one of those comedians whose work was measured in decades, across generations. But it wasn't. Why? What happened? Whatever the answers to those questions, his best and most definitive legacy is his work. He made us laugh; now he can make us think.

(John Ward Anderson, a Washington Post staff writer, assisted with this article.)

Late in the Afternoon of Thursday, October 25, 1979, John Landis, the director of the Blues Brothers movie, was in a rage as he got up and moved across the set. The film crew was waiting to begin the next scene. It was day 64 on location, nearly the last day of filming in Chicago, and Belushi was refusing to come out of his private trailer.

Like many in the movie business, Landis kept in close touch with the Hollywood grapevine. The gossip about his project was painful, yet true. The film was weeks behind schedule and millions over budget. Drugs were readily available on the set. The executives at Universal Studio were pressuring Landis to get control of his movie. They had rushed it into production without much thought following the enormous success of National Lampoon's Animal House and the Blues Brothers' hit record.

Landis felt like a helpless onlooker in his own movie. His mood alternated between giddiness and despair. He was eager to solve the problem of John's irresponsibility once and for all.

Landis reached the trailer and opened the door. There sat Belushi, a 5'9", ghastly, bloated, semi-adult parody of the Animal House fraternity slob Bluto, his character in Animal House. His curly black hair was disheveled; his gaze was fixed at a point several feet in front of his eyes. Cognac had been spilled all over. There was urine on the floor. On a table was a high white mound of cocaine.

"John, you're killing yourself!" Landis shouted. "This is economically unfeasible. Do not do this to my movie!"

John's head bobbed up and down.

"Don't do this to me. Don't do this to Judy. Don't do it to yourself!"

Belushi just stared.

"I'm going to get the stills man and get pictures of this and show it to you," Landis threatened.

John gave no sign, not even a shrug, that he was comprehending.

Was there no way out of this madness? Landis wondered. He scooped up the white powder, carried it over to the toilet and flushed it.

John stood unsteadily, muttering, and began advancing on Landis--220 pounds to Landis' 165. Landis made a tight fist, reeled back and hit John square in the face. John went down. Landis didn't know who was more surprised, but he thought, My God, I just slugged the star of my movie--a friend and collaborator--and he's big enough to kill me.

John didn't get up; he didn't move. He lowered his head and burst into tears. "I'm so ashamed, so, so ashamed." He rose, trembling, and threw his arms around Landis. "Please understand!"

Landis didn't. What was John finding in drugs? So much was being placed in jeopardy--career, family, life itself. Why? he asked.

"I need it. I need it," John replied weakly. "You couldn't possibly understand."

Judy Belushi, John's wife, arrived at John's trailer about two hours later, just as the sun was setting. John was asleep. He woke up a few minutes later and poured out his story. He'd been downtown in Chicago when a call had come at four P.M. ordering him out to the set at once for a dusk shot; he didn't get on the road until 4:30 and got caught in the rush-hour traffic and was late.

Judy tried to downplay the incident.

"You don't understand," John said, on the verge of tears. "You don't understand what they've done.... They've humiliated me." He did not say that Landis had hit him but simply that Landis was placing all the blame and guilt for the delay on him. John felt betrayed, particularly after all the times he'd spent waiting to do a scene or being called for no reason. The movie was a disorganized mess.

"They can't treat me like this," John said. "I've been working too hard. They can't blame me for fucking the whole day, costing them money." He said he wanted some cocaine.

"No," Judy said.

"I've got to have it. I can't possibly do this scene without it." But the cocaine had been flushed down the toilet. John took out more cognac and beer and began drinking fast. When Landis came back to the trailer to say John had to come for the scene, John screamed, "Fuck you! I'm not ready. Get out of here or I'll kill you!" Landis hesitated, then left.

Given the mood in the trailer, Judy decided to join John in drinking the cognac and beer. You either joined John or were quickly left behind.

All John's friends learned that sooner or later. Carrie Fisher, for one, was pleased with her role as his girlfriend in the movie--in real life, she was in love with his partner, Dan Aykroyd--but Belushi's drug problem was completely out of control.

"I'm an addict!" he had once shouted at her. He didn't mean drugs. He was referring to his life, the excitement, the possibility of more.

Fisher and Belushi formed a close relationship. She was attracted to his inability to handle his own intensity, enrolling everyone around him. "I've got an idea!" he would yell with conviction. John seemed always to be starting a club. Intuitively, he could gather up all the loose energy in the room, amplify it and change everything. Fisher trusted in him; she couldn't find it in herself to judge him.

John could get her to try almost anything. She didn't like liquor, but John got her to drink some Kentucky bourbon. And once they smoked some opium together.

She figured John was taking about four grams of cocaine a day, but it was difficult to tell. He had so much that she would kid him, "Hey, give us some." He usually did. Fisher knew both the appeal and the dreadful toll of drugs. Her father, Eddie Fisher, had been addicted to shooting speed for more than a dozen years.

As Judy was trying to reduce John's drug intake, she had laid down a law at the Blues Bar, which John and Aykroyd had reopened as a private retreat in Chicago. "No coke at the bar." Judy would argue to people offering cocaine, "I know you don't want to hurt John."

One night at the bar, Fisher was asked to keep an eye on John. He pulled out a big stash of coke and passed it to her. "You want some blow?" he asked.

"Should you be doing that?" she replied, trying to be a good enforcer.

"You want some or not?" John screamed.

She decided to let others play cop. That role wasn't for her.

•

On Saturday, October 27, Landis filmed the final scene in Chicago, the blowing up of a gas station; and on Sunday, the cast and crew headed for Los Angeles for three more months of filming and technical work to complete the film.

After spending several nights at The Beverly Hills Hotel, John and Judy moved into Candice Bergen's house, which they rented for $2000 a month. It was a small, elegant cottage/cabin hidden in several dozen acres of woods in Coldwater Canyon, 15 minutes from Universal Studio, where they were filming.

On Friday night, November ninth, John and Judy went over to the house of Ron Wood of The Rolling Stones and free-based cocaine for the first time. Wood wrote out the instructions of how to heat and purify street cocaine and then inhale the fumes. They left early, about 1:30 A.M. Judy wrote in her diary, "Good time. We need to blow out every once in a while."

The filming proceeded at a reasonable pace through Christmas. On New Year's Eve, the Belushis' third wedding anniversary, they gave a party at their house with three cases of champagne. Unexpected guests included Cher and California governor Jerry Brown. John turned 31 on January 24.

The filming took another week, and on February 1, 1980, Landis figured he had enough to put the movie together.

Soon after, John disappeared. No one had any idea where he had gone, not Judy nor Landis nor Aykroyd.

At any moment, Landis expected to hear a news broadcast: "John Belushi, the famous comedian, was found dead...." A few days later, John popped up, acting as if nothing had happened and seemingly unaware of the anguish he had caused. Landis felt obligated to make a serious effort to do something and called Judy. He told her that John needed help, that they had to get him treated, hospitalized, detoxed--formally committed if necessary.

Judy agreed; she'd do anything to stop him. Moderation hadn't worked.

That spring, in New York, after Judy talked seriously about committing him to a hospital, John agreed instead to hire a personal bodyguard to help control his drug use. He heard about a former Secret Service agent who had successfully helped the Eagles' lead guitarist, Joe Walsh.

Richard G. Wendell, called Smokey because of the bear tattoos on his arms, was just tall enough and heavy enough to be physically impressive but not overbearing. With seven years in the Secret Service and the Executive Protection Agency, Smokey, 34, was a professional watcher, a proven drug enforcer. Walsh recommended him highly, then, half-joking, warned Smokey, "I may have done the worst thing in your life for you and your family. I've set you up with John Belushi."

"I don't really know him," Smokey replied, though he had met John briefly with Walsh months earlier in Chicago.

"John doesn't know John," Walsh said.

Bernie Brillstein, John's manager, agreed to pay Smokey $1000 a week, plus (continued on page 76)Wired(continued from page 64) expenses. "It's going to be hard," Brillstein warned. "He's a difficult man. I'm sure you're well aware of John's problem."

On Wednesday, April 16, 1980, Smokey flew from his home in the Washington, D.C., suburbs to New York. He was scheduled to meet John that afternoon at the Record Plant, a recording studio on West 44th Street. From what everyone had said, Smokey realized it was a question not just of moderating John's cocaine use but of stopping it.

Smokey went to the Record Plant about two that afternoon with Walsh, who had agreed to help John record a version of Gimme Some Lovin' for the Blues Brothers movie-sound-track album.

John came in three hours late, apparently unconcerned that he had kept Walsh, one of the highest-paid rock-'n'-roll stars, waiting. He was bouncing, flying on cocaine, Smokey concluded.

"Hey, oh," John said. "What's going on?"

He was wearing blue-corduroy trousers, sneakers and a double-breasted sports jacket that couldn't be buttoned because he was so much overweight. His pockets were stuffed with small cups of Häagen-Dazs ice cream. He offered them around and began eating some himself.

"Hey, Smokey," John said, going over and shaking hands tentatively, giving a sharp glance, the Belushi stare, his eyes riveting and holding him. Smokey looked back as if to say, I know that you know that I know my job is to stop the drugs. It was a simple but clear communication.

"Hey, processed hair," John said to Smokey.

"Yeah, mine used to look like yours before I fixed it," Smokey replied.

"One for you," John said, walking away, strutting around the room rapidly with nervous, jerky movements. He put on some headphones to start the session.

A few minutes later, a well-dressed stranger entered the studio. He was toting a fancy walking cane, escorting two women and carrying three bottles of champagne.

John obviously knew the man and appeared very pleased to see him. A bucket was brought out for the champagne.

"This is Smokey," John said, introducing everyone. "He's going to be traveling with me, helping me, taking care of me. Today's the first day."

Smokey looked over the newcomers. He and Walsh eyed each other uncomfortably. The strangers were obviously drug people, Smokey concluded. He wondered how this was going to work. Would he be able to tell if some buy or drug transfer was taking place?

"I've got to go to the bathroom," John said, a little too smoothly. "But I'll listen to this first." He put the headphones back on and turned away.

The stranger immediately went to the bathroom and came out shortly afterward.

Smokey darted into the bathroom without John's noticing. In the small room, his hands and eyes began to search. In the chrome paper-towel dispenser, he found a small packet of cocaine. He slipped it into his pocket and returned to the studio.

John finished listening and headed for the bathroom. After several minutes, he pushed open the door, rushed out frowning and walked over to the stranger. Smokey strained to overhear the mumbled conversation.

"That's impossible," the stranger said and went to the bathroom. He came out looking bewildered.

Smokey watched as John poked around the room. There was the usual clutter from a recording session--food, drinks, coffee, fresh cigarettes--all lying on a table. A Vantage blue hanging from his mouth, John walked over and with studied nonchalance picked up a pack of Dunhill cigarettes.

"Let me see the cigarettes," Smokey said, walking up to the table.

"What cigarettes?" John snapped. "What are you talking about?"

Smokey said he thought John smoked Vantages.

"I don't smoke these, but I want to try them," John said.

Smokey grabbed the Dunhill box and tightened his grip. John swung around, but Smokey did not let go. Neither would give up, and soon they tumbled to the floor and were wrestling each other for the box. Smokey finally pulled it out of John's hand, stood up and flipped open the top. Inside was another packet of cocaine.

John got up and ran around the room shouting, threatening.

"Here's what we are going to do," Smokey said softly, addressing the stranger. "You can stay, but the more blow you leave around, the more expensive it's going to be. I have in my possession two grams. I know John can afford it. It's painful when you lose blow, but it's worse when it's wasted. Now, if this were Sweet 'N Low...." In one motion, Smokey quickly ripped open the packets, and before anyone could stop him, he had dumped the white powder into a cup of coffee on the table.

John was like a pinball machine on tilt, out of control, and he raced into the soundproof recording room. Through the window, the others could see that he was throwing things around, shouting so loudly they could hear his muffled voice.

John finally came back and motioned Smokey over to the side.

"Don't you ever! Ever again embarrass me like that in front of my friends!"

Smokey explained that there would have been no incident if John had let him see the cigarette box. Those were the rules, Smokey indicated. He had to be able to do his job without interference.

John glared.

Smokey figured he had better try to get and hold the psychological edge as soon as possible, even if it meant being fired the first day on the job.

John and Smokey went to a nearby Italian restaurant. Smokey had worked with rock stars before but had never seen so many autograph seekers as those who came in a steady stream to their table. It was also his first chance to see John eat: first an antipasto, then spaghetti, ravioli, a main meat course and dessert. After dinner, they went to John's house at 60 Morton Street, a row house on a pretty, tree-lined street in Greenwich Village. On the first floor, which was really the basement level, John and Judy had their bedroom. Next to it, John had a room he called the Vault, a large music room with sophisticated stereo equipment and soundproofing on the walls and door.

John took Smokey into the Vault, shut the door, put on a recording and turned the volume way up. He looked at Smokey to see how he liked the sound. "Is this too loud?" he asked.

Without saying anything, Smokey walked over to the amplifier and turned the volume up.

Bored, John turned off the music and went up to the main floor, where there were a large living room and dining room.

John said he wanted to go to the Blues Bar, another private bar (with the same name as the one in Chicago) that he and Aykroyd rented several blocks away. Smokey should call a limousine, John said, and while they waited, they talked about Smokey's responsibilities.

Smokey said he would get up with John in the morning and put him to bed at night; he would try to handle everything--credit cards, food, phones, security, travel arrangements, whatever John wanted.

John seemed to relax. "Now, as far as myself and my problem," he said, "I'm going to give you lots of ifs, ands and buts, and you're going to have to deal with it. I suppose you know in this business, drugs are one of the biggest problems, along with alcohol. Well, I'm no drinker....

"It's hard to go back and be constantly funny." He explained that there was (continued on page 166)Wired(continued from page 76) incredible pressure from everyone, expectations from everyone and from himself. "I'm sure it comes as no surprise that people in this business need something to keep themselves up and their minds going. You need drugs. You've got to be on top, got to store everything to use it." He said he had to always be alert to the comic possibilities in everything that happened around him and to him.

They sat in silence for a moment. Smokey was beginning to like John.

One of his favorite places, John said, one of the few places he could go to relax, was the Tenth Street baths. An old guy named Al ran the place, which also had a small restaurant. You've got to meet him, John said, and called Al on the phone. Soon John was ordering a second dinner--steaks, fries and salad. "I have this good friend who'll come over and pick it up," John said. "Smokey." He sent Smokey out when the limousine arrived.

Smokey walked to the car, told the driver the address of the baths and sent him off to pick up the food. He then climbed the outside steps to the second floor and waited. As soon as the limousine rounded the corner, John stepped out of the ground-floor door. He commenced a fast, happy walk up Morton Street. Smokey went down the steps and followed, increasing his own pace until he was in step right beside him.

John noticed Smokey, stopped abruptly and yelled, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Where are you going?"

"I told you to go get dinner."

"How heavy can two dinners be in the back of a town car? And besides, the driver looks strong enough to me."

"Goddamn!" John shouted and swung his arm up and slapped a street sign with the palm of his hand. He turned and went back to the house. Smokey followed.

Smokey checked the house to make sure there were no back-exit escape routes and sat down to watch television. About ten P.M., the food came and John devoured his second dinner. They then took the limousine to the Blues Bar. After a few minutes, John started to inch his way to the door, and he finally tried to run out alone, but Smokey managed to get out first through another door. When John reached the car and opened the door, Smokey was waiting in the back seat.

"Son of a bitch!" John yelled, slamming the door. He went back into the bar.

A little bit later, John raced out and got into the car alone. This time Smokey was too late and had to chase the car down the street. He finally caught up and pounded on the back. John ordered the driver to stop, then start again, then stop quickly. Smokey chased the lurching car for a block until it finally halted. He opened the door and got in.

John was laughing hysterically. "I finally got you!"

"That depends on how you look at it," Smokey said. "Aren't we in the same car together?"

"Yeah," John said. "I told the guy to stop."

"Why did you?"

"I don't know," John replied.

•

Five years earlier, Saturday Night Live was still new enough that John could often go unrecognized on the streets of New York. On Saturdays, he and Judy usually ate breakfast about noon--it was often their only time alone during the week--and then went to the broadcast of the show and the cast party that followed. The show, from the time producer Lorne Michaels first put it on the air, had been a hit.

But John was dissatisfied. Once, as the Belushis were going to breakfast, someone on the street yelled, "Hey, it's the bee!"

John turned away, gritting his teeth, and said to Judy, "I don't want to be known as that," referring to a running bit in which he dressed up as a killer bee.

The show was passing him by, he said. Chevy Chase was writing himself into more and more of the sketches. And even though they were getting about the same amount of air time, Chase was playing parts that spotlighted him--such as the "Weekend Update" news-parody segment--while John was submerged in gang skits, playing parts like the bees. He said that it was stupefying that success and stardom had come to Chase so fast. He could do many of Chase's parts better, he said, but he was being squeezed out.

Judy also noticed from her times at the Saturday Night office and studio that cocaine use was widespread. Chase seemed to have the most. He was enjoying the sudden fame and greater availability of cocaine. He felt that drugs were changing his generation the way the Beatles had changed it. It was OK to use drugs--pot, hash and coke. And if you were famous, Chase felt, you could do more drugs. And the show was big; at the least, it was at the top of the minors.

Judy agreed, believing cocaine was the logical drug for all of them. It gave a sense of clearheadedness, intellectual power. It was nonaddictive and it kept them awake as they wrote, polished and rehearsed into the early-morning hours. But it was expensive, and there was never enough of it for John. He bought a gram here and there, spending perhaps $200 a week for two grams.

Gary Weis, the film maker who made some of the two-to-five-minute films for the show, introduced John to Gary Watkins, a young actor who played bit parts in the show's parody commercials. Watkins could supply cocaine, and John began buying from him on a regular basis, depending on his cash supply: maybe a gram on Monday to get up for the coming week, perhaps another for Tuesday or Wednesday work and writing sessions at night; at times he had one for Saturday's rehearsals and the show itself. Sometimes he bought one for the weekend. Watkins usually came through. If not, Michaels, Chase, Aykroyd or writer Michael O'Donoghue often had some.

Cocaine was gradually becoming integral to John's life. He was a subject of constant conversation among his colleagues--because of some monstrous act or some flabbergasting kindness.

Lorne Michaels was the switchboard, and he heard nearly everything. In that environment, it was easy to see someone fuck up and go under but impossible to see oneself taking that dive. And John seemed to go in and out regularly. He was like a child who needed more of everything--attention, love, scolding, explanations. But he was capable of subtlety. By the end of each week, Michaels listed on a bulletin board the skits and parts that were ready for the show. Generally, there was 20 to 30 minutes too much, and that meant cutting. Michaels would study the board, shifting, dropping--concentrating on pace and mix. The other cast members regularly went in to lobby him. John went in and massaged Michaels' shoulders, saying nothing. It was always clear what he wanted. Nothing really had to be said.

Michaels kept three or four tickets to the live performance in his desk. Saturday Night tickets were the hottest in town, and hundreds of friends, relatives, celebrities, even NBC executives were turned down.

The extra tickets began disappearing, and Michaels discovered that John was taking them out of his desk late at night. He decided to say nothing. Since the demand was so high, it was best to have none and say no to everyone.

On the May 8, 1976, show with host Madeline Kahn, Dan and John played President Nixon and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger at their resignation-eve meeting, when they'd knelt and prayed.

Aykroyd, as Nixon, is in the Oval Office, hunched over, his jaw out, in a black suit with sleeves three inches too short. His movements are wild, jittery, almost fey.

John--Kissinger--enters. He is wearing a curly black wig, horn-rimmed glasses, a suit and a silk tie.

"Mr. Presadunt, ah----

There is loud, long applause.

Belushi: "I, I've just spoken vith your lovely daughter and your favorite son-in-law and, ah, they expressed a deep concern for your vell-being, vhich I, of course, share, and they suggested I come down here to cheer you up."

"You know I'm not a crook, Henry," Aykroyd asserts in a deep, frantic voice. "You know that I'm innocent!"

"Veil, ummm," John says, nodding his head.

"I am, Henry! I had nothing to doooo with Watergate, the bugging of Watergate. I had nothing to doooo with the cover-up, nothing to doooo with the break-in of Daniel Ellsberg's psychiatrist's office, nothing to doooo with the guy who was killed in Florida."

"Vut guy vas killed in Florida, Mr. Presadunt?"

"You mean you don't know about the young Cuban who was run over by the--never mind! Henry, get down on your knees and pray!" He shoves Belushi down by the shoulder, forcing him to his knees on a rug by the side of the desk. "Pray with me! Pray with me!"

"Aw, Mr. Presadunt, please. You've got a big day tomorrow, ah, so why don't ve just get into our jammies and go sleepy bye?"

"Yoooooou don't want to pray----"

"Veil----

"Jew boy!"

"Aw, come on, Mr. Presadunt, I don't vant to get into that again, OK? Please? You'll have to excuse me. I've got to go order the Strategic Air Command to disobey all Presidential orders."

"Right. Right, thanks," Aykroyd says, and as John leaves, he almost sings, "Jew boy!"

•

The Monday after Thanksgiving, November 29, 1976, John went to see Dr. Michael A. Rosenbluth, a prominent Fifth Avenue physician.

Dr. Rosenbluth had practiced medicine for 17 years and had previously run a drug-addiction clinic for eight years. He asked John for his personal medical history and stressed the need for him to be honest and complete. As John spoke, Rosenbluth wrote in his file:

Smokes three packs a day.

Alcohol drinks socially.

Medications: Valium occasionally.

Marijuana four to five times a week.

Cocaine--snort daily, main habit.

Mescaline--regularly.

Acid--ten to 20 trips.

No heroin.

Amphetamines--four kinds.

Barbiturates(Quaalude habit).

Rosenbluth questioned John about his excessive cocaine use and said he absolutely had to stop.

"I give so much pleasure to so many people," John said. "Why can't I get some pleasure for myself? Why do I have to stop."

"Because you'll kill yourself," Rosenbluth replied.

"My Whole life is being conducted for me, schedules are set and I have to be there," John said. It was exhausting and oppressive. Cocaine was relief.

"I want you to see a psychiatrist."

John greeted the doctor's advice with considerable hostility; there was no need and he had no time. The drugs were not that much of a problem: There was no heroin; he wasn't injecting anything. Judy was the most important person in his life, and he wouldn't do anything to hurt her.

"That's why you'd better quit," Rosenbluth said.

"I'm addicted to Quaaludes," John confessed; he needed them to sleep. Rosenbluth wrote him a prescription for 30.

•

Candice Bergen came to host her third show, the last one before Christmas, on December 11, 1976. She had been looking forward to it, but during rehearsals she was shocked by the change from the previous year. Doing a live show three times a month had taken a toll. The warmth and openness had dissipated, and in their place there was a cool toughness, especially in John. The pressure had squeezed something vital out of the show and out of the people. They seemed to resent one another and her. Saturday Night had become a coke show. Maybe there was no way to get through, week after week, without uppers. Bergen could understand that. Habits that had been scarcely affordable the year before were well within their incomes now.

Michaels had always encouraged his cast to use material from their own lives in the show, and this Christmas John had no place to go, because he and Judy had temporarily split up. In the final skit, Bergen appears oncamera:

"Well, it's the last show before Christmas, and after it's over we'll go out and celebrate before heading our separate ways for the holidays.... I guess Garrett [Morris, the only black in the cast] will be going back to Africa. Yes, everybody's going home, everybody except for Belushi.... Saturday Night proudly announces The Adopt Belushi for Christmas Contest...."

John appears and sings, "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire," off-key. He addresses the camera. "Hi, I'm John Belushi. You can call me Buh-looch, just like my close personal friend Chevy Chase does. You know, it's corny, but I love Christmas. Hey, I'd love to sit around the yule log and play with your daughter.... I'm not fussy. I like candied yams, plum puddings, roast goose stuffed with drugs...."

Bergen announces, "If you think you're that special American family, why not write us?"

She and the cast close with a song about Gary Gilmore, the convicted murderer who wanted to be executed: Let's Kill Gary Gilmore for Christmas.

Bergen left the studio depressed after the show. The good acting and the skilled writing only made the situation worse. There was a great deal of talent, but the humanity had been drained out. Drugs--cocaine--were the reason. She would keep a polite distance. She vowed never to host the show again. The cast had come to resemble what they were parodying.

•

Michaels fired and rehired John a number of times. Judy believed the problem was cocaine. There was so much going around the office that everyone's nerves were worn thin. People got wired on coke, made demands, said things they didn't mean, and before long, someone exploded. It was a ritual with Lorne and John.

During a college lecture early in January 1977, John jumped off a table and twisted his knee severely, damaging the cartilage. He was admitted to a hospital, where he had to take painkillers for several days. He was drowsy and upset. Judy took him some cocaine. He missed the January 15 show, which was hosted by consumer advocate Ralph Nader.

By late January, he was back. Michaels cast John and himself in the opening: Michaels is telling a doctor, "I cannot put Belushi on national television; he's in a coma." Belushi, wearing a bathrobe and three days' growth of beard, is rolled on in a wheelchair, out cold. Michaels walks over to him, looks down in disgust: "Hey, look, I, I can't put this guy on television. I mean, he's got to be awake."

The doctor says that John has to go on. "If I don't get paid, I'll be forced to cut off his drugs."

Belushi's head snaps up and his eyes pop open. "Live, from New York, it's Saturday Night!" he yells.

Tom Schiller, one of the regular writers, approached Belushi one day during the third season to say he had a go-ahead from Michaels to do a short film, and he wanted to do something with an old person. Belushi did a great old man; Schiller wanted a solo performance. As they started to film a few days later, Schiller was astonished at John's zeal; it was how he imagined Marlon Brando. John bowed his head, studied his lines, and in the silence of a trailer he had requested, he seemed to be pushing himself into the character.

The scene is a cemetery in Brooklyn. Fresh snow is on the ground; it is pleasantly cold and the air is wonderful. Belushi, dressed like an old gray eminence in a heavy, dark coat, arrives with hesitant step at the Not Ready for Prime Time Cemetery. He stumbles among the gravesites.

"They all thought I'd be the first to go," Belushi says in a deep, raspy voice. "I was one of those 'Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse' types, you know.

"I guess they were wrong. There they are. All of my friends...." He points at a grave. "Here's Gilda Radner. Ah, she had her own show on Canadian television for years and years--The Gilda Radner Show. She was a button, God bless her. There Laraine [Newman] is. They say she murdered her d.j. husband.... Jane Curtin.... She died of complications during cosmetic surgery. There's Garrett Morris. Garrett left ... then he died of an overdose of heroin....

"Over here's Chevy Chase. He died right after his first movie with Goldie Hawn.

"Over here's Danny Aykroyd. I bet he loved his Harley too much. They clocked him at 175 miles an hour before the crash. He was a blur. I was called in to identify his body. I recognized him by his webbed toes.

"The Saturday Night show was the best experience of my life," John says. "Now they're all gone, and I miss every one of them. Why me? Why'd I live so long? They're all dead."

He pauses and thinks about it. "I'll tell you why: 'cause I'm a dancer!" He changes his voice and posture, becoming youthful, dancing over the graves.

Baroque music was added and the film, titled Don't Look Back in Anger, ran on March 11, 1978.

Michaels thought that it was prophecy. John would outlast them all.

•

The glorious summers on Martha's Vineyard were legendary: temperatures ten to 20 degrees cooler than in New York City and a brisk breeze blowing regularly across the island's 100 square miles. John and Judy had bought a huge house on the beach from former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, and whenever they used it, Judy could almost see John pull the plug, wind down and relax. Aykroyd was at his own house on the island, and John often used the hot tub there or fell asleep on a couch. He loved the island life. Driving around in his black jeep on simple errands gave him pleasure. He'd stop at Sandy's for a fishburger or at Alley's to see if there were any new Conan comic books or at the market for fresh swordfish. He got oysters in nearby Tisbury Great Pond and barbecued steaks and hamburgers. He built a model airplane, watched afternoon soap operas or whatever was on TV. He spent many afternoons at Larry Bilzerian's clothing store, Take It Easy Baby, buying things or just watching the women fold clothes. Or he went to the island bakery or played golf.

The beach in back of their house was one of the finest on the East Coast--wide, clean and private. John and Aykroyd christened it Skull Beach, and people needed a special skull-inscribed pin to use it. Even the Chilmark police wore the pins. John loved to swim or body surf in the large waves that came with a big wind. He once took a mud bath with Aykroyd's mother.

Other times, John liked going to the home of author William Styron, who had a house in Vineyard Haven, on the north end of the island. On August 4, 1981, the Styrons were having a birthday party for one of their children. One of their guests was singer Carly Simon.

A serious, troubled woman, Simon was attracted to John's daring and irreverence. She felt drawn to people with dark and troubled sides to them. Her own marriage to singer James Taylor had crumbled because of drugs, and in some way, she felt John might shed some light on her experience. She drove to the party about midnight. John was lurking among the cars, looking half like James Dean and half like the parking-lot attendant. He went up to Simon, who was wearing a dress so thin that she hadn't worn underwear because it would show through. He greeted her and pulled up her dress. She pulled it down and grimaced. His eyes were alive, and he was high and crazy.

John took her to the lawn and put her on the ground. Ignoring the people standing by, he climbed onto her and started making a fake, exaggerated humping motion. Then he stood and picked her up, tipped her upside down over his shoulder and carried her into the house, parading her around among the guests. Simon was used to a teasing relationship with John, but this had gone too far. She had no control over the situation.

Simon tried to pull her dress down to cover herself. She was upset and humiliated and almost in shock. Having John around was a macabre thrill for her: He had courage and he was dangerous. He took so much energy, patience, understanding; he almost stole them from you.

One fall afternoon, when the Vineyard was fogged in, Simon rented a limousine and invited Judy to ride back to New York City with her. She felt a close alliance with Judy, a kind of camaraderie and solidarity between psychologically battered wives. Both were trying to cope with the same marital problems--drugs and infidelity. Taylor was still having bouts with heroin and had gone off with Kathryn Walker, who later played John's wife in Neighbors, his 1981 film with Aykroyd.

At least John's infidelities were passing fancies, temporary attractions and probably not very sexual, Judy said. Still, she wasn't sure if she could stick it out and wondered how much one woman could take. When John was in California, she said, he went nuts, and that cast her in the old role of the bodyguard.

Simon said she knew the feeling, playing the gargoyle, trying to keep the bad influences out of the house. There were too many people around who wanted to please their famous husbands, and those people were too quick with their drugs.

How was Bill Wallace doing at keeping away the drugs? Simon asked. Bill "Superfoot" Wallace, a world karate champion, had been hired the year before as a trainer to help Belushi lose weight. Inevitably, he became a drug enforcer and later replaced Smokey Wendell as John's caretaker.

Judy said Wallace wasn't as smart as Smokey: John could trick him. You had to be on his heels all the time to succeed. She'd been on duty a lot recently--particularly in California.

By the end of 1981, Belushi had starred in a string of commercially unsuccessful films--"1941," "The Blues Brothers," "Continental Divide" and "Neighbors"--and was determined to exert more creative control over his next project, a comedy that he wanted to co-author and that came to be titled "Noble Rot."

On Monday morning, January 8, 1982, John and Wallace took two first-class seats on United flight number five to Los Angeles. They were picked up about 2:30 p.m. by limousine and taken to the Château Marmont, a hotel that looks like a French Norman castle, perched high above Sunset Boulevard in the center of Hollywood. John checked into room 69, rented a maroon Mercedes-Benz 380 SL sports car for $85 a day and drove to the private club on the Rox, where he bought drinks for people who stopped by--six Alabama Slammers, eight shots of Johnnie Walker Black. He ran up a $152 bill and added a $200 tip.

The couple in the room next to his had a baby, and they complained to the management about the noise coming from John's room--stereo, TV, loud talk. John complained about their baby, and on January 19, he moved to room 54, a $200a-day penthouse.

John and his old friend Tino Insana decided to give a party. John had promised Tino's mother on her deathbed that he would help her son professionally, and Tino was later given a small part in Neighbors. John also had arranged for Universal to pay Tino $5000 to work on writing a sequel to The Blues Brothers.

Tino cooked pizza for the party, and John invited Brillstein, Landis and Fear, the punk group he was promoting. It was a quiet evening as John held court on the balcony overlooking Los Angeles.

"This is the way it should always be," he told Brillstein. "What I love is having the guys together." There was much talk about future movie projects--Spies Like Us, with Universal, and the Blues Brothers sequel.

John was also blowing his nose a lot and, as usual, tossing the used tissues onto the floor. One time, he hit Brillstein's wife, Deborah, on the shoe. She was sick of John's mess and snapped, "Is that how your mother brought you up?"

John leaned down, picked up the tissue and said, "I'm sorry."

He obviously needed someone to look after him. The next day, he hired a mature Englishwoman named Penny Selwyn to be his secretary at Paramount, where he was writing the script for Noble Rot.

"Do you use drugs?" he asked.

"Yes," Selwyn said, "but very little." She said she took a line or two of cocaine occasionally.

"I'm the same way," he said. "We should get along fine."

On Saturday, January 23, John went to the airport to meet Judy, who was coming from New York on a seven P.M. flight to be with him for his 33rd birthday the next day. She was surprised that he had come to pick her up. He had never done that before. As they greeted each other, she had the feeling that he had been doing a lot of cocaine, but she decided not to say much.

She found a Quaalude on the floor of their room at the Château and was put off by the seediness of the hotel.

"Are you sure you want to stay here?" she asked.

John said he was.

The next day, Brillstein had a small birthday party for John. It was Super Bowl Sunday, and Aykroyd, Judy and some friends went to Brillstein's house to watch the San Francisco 49ers beat the Cincinnati Bengals, 26--21.

Brillstein felt depressed afterward. He loved his house and kept it neat. Even a five-minute visit from John could inflict remarkable chaos; and the birthday party and a three-hour football game had been disastrous. There was no telling what was gone or broken or misused. It seemed that John had dipped his fingers into everything in the refrigerator.

Christ, what a pain, what a big kid, Brillstein thought. He loved John, understood his impulses, his resistance to some things, including much of Hollywood. When it worked--when a deal was made, a movie put together--well, then the millions could roll in, and Brillstein shared the wonder of that. But that night, it felt grubby and cheap.

Actress Penny Marshall of Laverne & Shirley knew John well and loved him as a friend. She thought he could probably get away with anything. He acted from his gut, and his need for attention and approval was boundless. He had said to her many times, "Maybe I'm no good."

When John had gone to the Academy Awards with Lauren Hutton in 1978, he had really been proud.

"Why do women go out with you?" Marshall had asked. "Because you're so good-looking?"

He wrestled her to the ground in a friendly way.

But during this period, in early 1982, he would take his cocaine to Marshall's place and spill it all over himself and her house. One time, she had to suggest to him that he take a shower.

It was about that time that John had said to her, "Hey, I got smack."

"Don't you ever fucking use this!" Marshall shouted, grabbing the heroin and flushing it down the toilet. She had used heroin once, and it had made her feel "carsick."

•

During his days and nights of nonstop partying throughout Beverly Hills and Hollywood, John would often end up in the company of actresses, models and an occasional Playboy Playmate. On the evening of Tuesday, February 16, after a day of heavy drinking and cocaine abuse, he met April Milstead. April, 25 years old, was a thin, striking woman with large, pretty eyes. Her companion was Charles W. Pearson, 32, a well-dressed rock-'n'-roll singer who had released two minor albums. Pearson looked a little like Mick Jagger and he cultivated the same droopy, hip look.

Milstead, an Air Force brat, was happy in Los Angeles. Her ambition was to not have to work. When she and Pearson had arrived 18 months earlier, she had not looked for a job, but when his music career didn't flourish, she had started working as a waitress in the Moustache Café, a bistro on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood. She had been there a month when a well-to-do Englishman fell in love with her. "I think I can help you out," he said.

When he opened a bank account for her, she quit her job and told Pearson, "I've hit the jackpot." She used a lot of cocaine and some heroin, at times shooting it up.

Pearson, who had grown up near Washington, D.C., had been around drugs since the age of 13. He felt that Milstead, who was down to 105 pounds, was doing too much and that it made her unattractive, but he loved her very much.

John was infatuated with April. He hovered over her, following her around and teasing her, suggesting that they run off together. She teased him back. She invited him to join Pearson and her at a private party at Dotson's, an art-deco-furniture store. He accepted.

It was 8:30 A.M. when he drove back to his bungalow, where he had moved in search of more privacy.

About nine o'clock, he called April. "Why don't you come over?" he asked. "If you can find some coke, bring it."

Next, he called and awakened Joel Briskin, who was in charge of managing him that week while Brillstein was out of town. "What are you doing today?" he asked. "Are you terribly busy? I've got a lot of stuff you could help me with."

When Briskin arrived at the Château, John escalated his demands. "I'm going nuts. I can't find my phone numbers, can't find my messages." Briskin looked around. There were scripts, pieces of paper, food, bottles all over the living room and back bedroom. John was unshaved and complained that he didn't have a fresh razor; but, more important, he had talked with Jack Nicholson the day before and was upset about the fact that Nicholson had better movie deals than he.

"How come Nicholson gets this?" John asked. "I should be getting this." Apparently, Nicholson got a percentage of each ticket sold--ten percent or more--and John didn't get his percentage until after the studio started breaking even.

Briskin tried to tell John that he had a great deal.

"Well, I don't understand it.... I'm not going to do the picture [Noble Rot]."

Briskin got out a pen and a yellow legal pad and went through the phone messages, asking each time whether or not John wanted to return the call. Within an hour, John was somewhat more organized. They had coffee and juice.

John said he'd had a good night's rest, but Briskin noticed that the bed hadn't been slept in. John wanted some cash; Briskin gave him $400.

Milstead and Pearson arrived sometime after ten A.M. and walked to the back bedroom with John. Milstead sold John two grams of cocaine for $300. Briskin went back and found them looking at some white lumps.

"This is really fabulous stuff," Milstead said. She thought she was helping John avoid being ripped off on buys.

Briskin asked to look.

"Do you want to buy some?" Milstead asked.

Briskin asked to see it closer.

"Why?" John snapped.

"I want to see what you're doing to yourself."

John told Briskin to buy him a Deering grinder to break down the lumps of cocaine.

John took out a black bathrobe with a leopardskin sash that Tino Insana had given him. Holding it up, he told Milstead that it was a birthday present from a good friend--Keith Richards of The Rolling Stones.

Briskin and Pearson drove to a head shop and purchased the grinder. Briskin also stopped around the corner at Schwabs' drugstore to get John a new toothbrush, tooth paste and a razor.

When they returned to the bungalow, John ran the coke through the grinder, took a picture off the wall in the living room, laid out the fine white powder in long, narrow lines on the glass and snorted several. "You know, Joel," he said, "I just love cocaine." Briskin knew.

Briskin was struck by Milstead's arms. He could see little dark bruises on the inside of her forearm--needle marks.

On Friday, February 19, he took John $600 in cash. He knew it was for cocaine.

•

Near downtown Los Angeles, in a small apartment at 133-1/2 Bimini Place, Catherine Evelyn Smith was getting up. Smith, 35, had cut her heroin habit to about $25 a day, down from $500 a day in the good times when she'd been dealing. But she had close friends in the trade, and for $25 she could get what was referred to as half a tenth--one half of one tenth of a gram of heroin. At 70 percent purity, it kept her going.

That Monday, March 1, 1982, Smith and John Ponse, 47, her roommate of three years, a Dutch Indonesian waiter at the Polo Lounge in The Beverly Hills Hotel, began the day at Jerry's Family Coffee Shop on South Vermont Avenue. Ponse had breakfast. Smith had a double vodka with orange juice. Drinking made the heroin habit almost bearable, considering the fact that the addiction kept her from sleeping. When it was time for her fix later in the day, she would already have the hot and cold sweats, would be shaking and feeling weak. She would ache to the bone. It was hard to think of food, and she was often swept with waves of nausea. Her sinus passages drained, her eyes huge, she was depressed and crying a lot these days. It was a rotten life. Ponse thought Smith had a light addiction. On a scale of one to ten, she had a six, and was getting by.

Smith's life had had its ups and downs. She had become pregnant at 17 and had to give up her baby, a great trauma, since she herself had been adopted. She started dating Levon Helm, who went on to play the drums and sing for Bob Dylan's backup group, which later became The Band. She was 5'6", with a very good figure, and was quite beautiful. She married a man named Paul Donnelly, but that marriage lasted only 13 months.

Smith met folk singer/songwriter Gordon Lightfoot and lived with him from 1972 to 1975. During that time, she recorded the backup vocals for High and Dry on his Sundown album. From 1975 to 1977, she drove the tour bus for Hoyt Axton and also sang backup for him. Together, they wrote Flash of Fire, which got on the charts briefly and continued to earn her modest royalties. In 1977, she was with Rick Danko, the bass player and a singer for The Band. Later, Richard Manuel, also of The Band, flew her to California.

Once there, she rented a house in Bel Air and became deeply involved in the drug scene, hanging out with rock bands and going to parties.

She met The Rolling Stones and quickly latched onto them. They took her wherever they went, and it was then that Smith was introduced to heroin. By 1978, she had a very secret heroin habit that she kept from friends who were nonusers.

She had an even darker secret: She had become a dealer. Smith had gone to Thailand in 1978 as a middleman under an assumed name to arrange for the purchase of a kilo (kilogram--1000 grams, or about 2.2 pounds) of China White heroin for a dealer in the States. It took three weeks to recruit and coordinate the carriers and get passports for them, and when the heroin was finally smuggled in, Smith never got the $10,000 she had been promised. She asked a friend if she could have the dealer killed, but never followed through.

The next year, Paul Azari, a 33-year-old drug dealer who operated under 13 aliases, was helping wealthy, prominent people leave Iran after the fall of the shah. Some of those people had access to large amounts of pure heroin.

Azari arranged for the delivery of 19 kilos (about 49 pounds) of Persian Brown heroin to Smith's apartment in the Sunset Towers on Sunset Boulevard. The street value was about $13,000,000 ($700 a gram), and Azari had paid just under $4,000,000 ($200 a gram). Smith sold the heroin, and Azari came by and picked up the money each day; Smith's share of the profit was taken out in heroin, which she kept in tin boxes in her closet.

Smith gave a lot of parties in her apartment, and she sold to hundreds of people--many she knew, many she didn't. Some were just faces or people in cars or chauffeurs in limousines. Several drivers delivered movie scripts with cash inside. Smith kept a small book with the names, phone numbers and addresses of her Hollywood customers.

One entry in her address book was Gary Weis, the Saturday Night Live film maker. He used the Persian Brown while filming a Hollywood feature, Wholly Moses!, at night, and he was afraid that word about him and heroin might get around.

After eight months, the 19 kilos were gone, and Smith turned down other chances to deal large amounts. She was afraid of being caught.

By early 1982, Smith was relying on Ponse for money, and for a while, he was willing to give her $50 a day for her habit. In a period of deep anxiety, however, she had taken 50 Stelazines accidentally, thinking they were Valiums. The paramedics had to be called and her stomach pumped. After that, Ponse cut her back, but he often gave her $20. So her question each morning was where she would find the next fix, the next $25 or five dollars.

At nine A.M. that Monday, Smith was at Rudy's, a small, windowless bar with a pool table on Santa Monica Boulevard. There she could find a bookie and bet on the horses. If she won, there might be a little more money. While waiting, she exchanged jokes with the regulars. It was a life of jokes, waiting and heroin. By four o'clock, she would hit happy hour at The-odore's Café on Santa Monica, where the juice and double vodkas were only $1.58.

•

Later that day, April Milstead answered her door; it was John, and he insisted on coming in. He said he wanted some heroin. Did she know where to get any--just a little, perhaps a tenth of a gram?

The going rate for a tenth is about $60, Milstead said. Several weeks earlier, she had bought a tenth from Cathy Smith, whom she had met the previous fall at Dan Tana's, a bar on Santa Monica. Milstead could call Cathy and get the heroin herself, and John would never even have to meet her.

Smith was at her apartment watching TV when the phone rang that evening. She'd already had her heroin for the day.

"John Belushi is in town and is looking for some stuff," Milstead said. "Can you get some?"

Smith had met John and talked with him briefly during the second season of Saturday Night Live, when The Band was the musical guest, and during the filming of 1941 three years before, when he had been doing lots of cocaine. She had never associated him with heroin.

"I'll have to check and call you back," Smith replied.

He would pay a couple of hundred, Milstead said. That was enough for four tenths of a gram--a good, long party, particularly for those not regular users.

Smith said she'd stop by Milstead's for the cash first. "I have other places to go," she said, "and this has to be fast." She, too, had other customers to meet.

The three miles to Milstead's was a long drive in the rain. The apartment was set back, and Smith noticed a Mercedes in the driveway. John was behind the wheel. Milstead was standing outside, having an intense argument with him.

"Well, John," Milstead said, "are you going to do it or not?" John seemed worried that he was going to be ripped off and was asking questions. How long would it take to get the stuff? Where would they meet, at Milstead's or at the Château? What was the quality? How many people were going to step on it (cut and dilute it) before it was delivered to him?

"Hi, John," Smith said. "Long time no see."

"Hi," he said.

"How long you in town for?" she asked.

"About a week."

Just then, Smith's car started idling down as if it were going to stall. She ran back to it, ripping her jeans and cutting her leg on the sharp bumper.

"I want my money back," John said to Milstead. "Forget it, I'm not getting it. That's it. I don't want it."

"Here's your money," Milstead said, handing him $60 through the window. But, she said, if he wanted some stuff again, Smith wouldn't do it. Milstead was bored by his indecisiveness. "When I have it and you don't, don't ask me for any."

John reconsidered. "OK," he said, handing back the money.

Smith ventured to the Mercedes and April gave her $200--three tenths for herself and one tenth for John at $50 a tenth. (John was paying Milstead ten dollars for her role as middleman.)

Smith backed out and drove two blocks when her car stalled. She heard honking behind her and turned around. John pulled over, got out and walked up to the window. "I want my money back."

"Here, take your money," she snapped, shoving $50 at him. "I don't have time for this." She asked if he could help start her car.

"No," he said, "it's a rented car and they don't have jumper cables." He started walking toward his car and then turned back, saying, "Wait a minute," and handed her the $50. "How long is it going to take?" he asked for a second time.

"It's not getting any shorter talking to you."

John pulled his car around and headed off. Smith flagged a camper whose driver helped start her car. She drove to Theodore's Café, where another customer gave her $100. She was in a hurry to join Belushi, so she told her several customers that Janet Alli, a friend also involved in the local drug scene, would be back shortly with the heroin. She then drove down to the parking lot of Miller's Outpost, a clothing store at the corner of Pico and Robertson.

Alli and her connection--who supplied relatively pure China White--were there in an old green Volkswagen, waiting for the cash. Of the $200 from Milstead and the $100 from the customer at Theodore's, Smith kept $25 for herself, handing Alli $275 for a total of six tenths. The implied agreement with John was that Smith would get some for herself. That was the way she'd done it with others when she had provided the connection for the drugs.

Alli was buying for three other customers, and all told, she passed about $700 to her connection. Her profit was about $100. Her connection didn't like dealing with too many people and used Alli as an intermediary whenever possible. He left and returned about 15 minutes later. Alli met him by the phone booths, where he passed the packets to her. She then gave Smith her share.

"If it's good, I'll want more," Smith said. When she got in her car, however, it stalled again.

•

John, meanwhile, had gone to the apartment of comedian Richard Belzer, who was preparing a routine for The Tonight Show the next week. He wanted John's help, but John was distracted and not very helpful. He couldn't sit still and pulled out some cocaine. Later, he called Milstead's to see if Smith was back with the stuff. She was.

Shortly after that, John arrived at Milstead's, where Smith was waiting. April took him aside and warned him that Smith was bad news; she lived off other people's money and drugs. At that moment, she was shooting about three fourths of one of the tenths into her own vein. She welcomed the extra shot.

Milstead did not like to shoot herself up and asked Smith to do it for her. Smith, thinking Milstead didn't know enough about shooting and might be careless injecting herself, agreed. She gave April about half a tenth, not sure how big a load her body could handle.

John seemed fascinated with both the process and the effect, watching intensely in Milstead's bedroom. "You think you could do that for me?" John asked.

Smith considered herself a superb nurse with a full working knowledge of drugs. She had read books and articles about how to revive overdose victims, and she had once saved the life of someone who had overdosed in her apartment. Better to have her shoot John than someone like April.

"Do you have a syringe?" John asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"Shoot me up."

"I don't know why you'd want to do that." Smith explained that she didn't like shooting drugs into people, and she expressed mild surprise that he did heroin.

John said that he'd taken heroin before, back in New York, but he didn't like people to know. He said he wanted a speedball--a mixture of cocaine and heroin. The high of the coke and the dulling effect of the heroin, mixed properly, could create a wonderful sensation, he'd heard.

The China White heroin did not have to be heated, and neither did the cocaine. Taking a small amount of coke and even less heroin--$10 to $20 worth of each--Smith placed them together in a teaspoon and added a small amount of bottled water. She mixed the substance and then wadded a cotton ball as small as possible and dropped it into the liquid. Sticking the needle into the cotton, she drew out the mixture into the syringe; any impurities would tend to adhere to the cotton.

Next, she tied John's arm with a web belt to make the vein come to the surface. Then she deftly jabbed in the needle.

John seemed to love the impact, which normally hit in ten to 20 seconds. In Southern California, Smith knew, it was often described as the feeling of scoring a touchdown in the Rose Bowl.

About midnight, the party moved to John's bungalow. As they stepped over the threshold, he grabbed Smith's arm. "Let's go in this bathroom," he said, turning into the small bathroom nearest the living room. "I want to do another hit."

Smith wanted to keep it as private as possible, so she closed the door. John took out some cocaine, a fresh supply neatly wrapped in small paper bundles, and handed her a bundle. Earlier, he had given her the heroin to hold, but he kept charge of the cocaine. They agreed this show would be coke--not a speedball.

As a precautionary measure, Smith said, she would do a shot first. She wanted to be careful not to give John too much and needed to test the purity. "I don't know what the quality of this coke is. If the quality is appreciably more, there could be problems." She prepared about a line and injected herself. She didn't particularly like coke; if she took a hit, she needed just that much more heroin to come down.

Next, she prepared a shot for John--all coke and only about half of what she had given herself. She asked how it was.

"Great," he said, leaving the bathroom with a big smile on his face.

John turned on loud music and talked about scripts and wine while the drugs continued. The hazy bull session lasted for hours. John snorted some heroin.

Milstead watched Smith shoot up John. Once, when the front bathroom was unoccupied, she went in to check out her eyes in the mirror. John followed. She continued to stare into the mirror. He undressed and took a shower while she stood there. She bit her cheek; he seemed incapable of embarrassment.

About seven A.M., when all the drugs were gone, they drove over to Duke's coffee shop in the Tropicana Motor Hotel on Santa Monica. John ordered a cheese blintze, and after finishing it, he started eating from Milstead's plate with his hands, putting on a Bluto show.

John and Smith drove over to her place so she could change clothes, and then they went back to the Château. John called Brillstein's assistant, Gigi Givertz, and said that he didn't have his credit card and needed money to buy some cassettes. She sent over $600 with Bill Wallace.

Smith wondered how John always had so much cash. He seemed generally to have $1000, and when his cash got low, he was resupplied at once by Brillstein's office, usually through Wallace. The money clearly went for drugs. He seemed to have four or five grams of coke most of the time. She asked him how it worked.

"There's several thousand dollars of cocaine built into the contract," he said. "Extra money for the length of the contract ... not said, but that's what it's for." In the Noble Rot contract, he got $2500 a week even when he was just working on the script and not acting. But everything--hotel, limo, credit cards--was paid by his accountants in New York. So he had the money to use for drugs; that was its purpose, he said.

•

On Wednesday, March third, Belushi disappeared for the day with another woman and everyone--Brillstein, Briskin, Wallace and even Smith and Milstead--searched frantically for him.

At 5:50 A.M. Thursday, John called Judy at Morton Street. It was 8:50 in New York, still too early for her. She had the flu and was angry that they hadn't talked for days. He said he would call back at a reasonable hour.

Later that morning, John called the office he shared with Aykroyd in New York and left a message on the answering machine: "I'm coming home on the redeye tonight."

About that time, 11 o'clock in New York, Aykroyd was just going into the office, and he picked up the phone on the answering machine. He heard John's voice--not sure whether he was actually on the line or it was an old message playing back. But there it was, his partner's voice: "I'm coming home on the redeye tonight." Boy, Aykroyd thought, he really sounds down and tired. He considered getting on the line and thought about what to say: Hey, what's wrong with you? You better come home. But that might set John off, so he hesitated.

Everything had to be very deliberate with John. Aykroyd always had to sit Belushi down eye to eye and say, You have to see that this is not good, that you or your behavior or this business decision we made is not good. Or, I have a disagreement with you. He couldn't be short with John. Two or three lines on an important subject could be disastrous. And John's voice was bleak. A scolding could throw him off the path home.

It probably was John right there on the line, but the redeye would bring him back the next morning. That would be fine, Aykroyd decided, and hung up. He sat down at his typewriter in the corner office to start one of the first scenes of a script he was writing with John. Before he started, he told the secretary, "John's gone off the deep end."

•

John called Milstead. "I want to see Cathy," he said. Fifteen minutes later, he called again. "Have you found Cathy?" he pleaded. Milstead promised to try harder.

Finally, John called Brillstein.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Brillstein asked.

"I'm getting out of the shower."

John promised to go right over to Brillstein's office.

At 9:24 A.M., he placed a call to Judy. She was now awake and took the call on the upstairs phone.

"I'm sorry I didn't come home Sunday," John began. "They hate our script for Noble Rot. I'm going to stay for a meeting." That was a courtesy to the studio, he said.

Judy thought he sounded better, more frustrated than depressed.

"You can't believe what they want me to do," he said. "Now they want me to do The Joy of Sex. You won't believe the script. They want me to put on a diaper!"

Judy was glad to hear from him, but she knew the cocaine was way, way out of hand. She called Smokey Wendell in Virginia; it was time to re-enlist the drug enforcer.

"Would you be free to spend some time with John?" she asked.

"Yes. When?"

"Right away, if possible," Judy said.

"OK," Smokey answered. "I can take a flight tonight to L.A." He had heard from friends on the West Coast that John was back into his old habits.

"I'm not sure we want to gang up on him," Judy said.

Smokey said that he had recently left messages for John at the Château but hadn't heard from him. He wanted more details from Judy, though they had previously agreed to make no direct references to drugs over the phone.

"The problems are back again," Judy said. "But worse, stronger. He hates L.A., you know. And we're having marital problems."

"We don't have to get into that over the phone," Smokey said. Wouldn't it be best for him to fly to California at once?

Judy said no.

"Are you sure? I can pack in 15 minutes and get the first flight and be there in the morning."

"No," Judy said again. "I'm going to talk to him tonight, and we can talk tomorrow."

"We've got to get him out of L.A.," Smokey said.

Judy agreed. The conversation lasted 13 minutes.

That night he packed a suitcase, ready to go the next day.

•

In Los Angeles, John called Milstead again to ask her to promise to renew her search for Cathy.

He returned to the bungalow about 11 o'clock and ordered a Continental breakfast. Then he went to Brillstein's office.

"For someone on a binge, you look pretty good," Gigi said as he walked in.

"I feel fine, feel great," John said, claiming to have slept about 24 hours straight. He took his stack of phone messages and had a cup of coffee.

Gigi was glad to see things had calmed down. He looked well rested and strong.

He went into Brillstein's corner office and took off his warm-up jacket. It was time for a serious talk.

Brillstein explained that they were at one of those crucial points in his career. John was still big money for the studios; they would pay close to $2,000,000 for a picture, but that enthusiasm was going to run down if there were a fuck-up on the Paramount deal. Animal House was a 1978 movie. That was really John's last hit. It was now 1982. "We need a big raucous hit," Brillstein said. "We need it now. Do Joy of Sex," he implored.

He was driving hard, confessing his anxieties. A lot of money and many other things--careers, credibility, clout, leverage--were on the line.

John seemed to be warming to the idea of doing Joy. "OK, OK," he said. But he was up and down, and Brillstein couldn't tell where he would land. John always made him earn a victory.

"I want to buy a new guitar," John said, "and I need cash."

"How much?" Brillstein asked.

"Fifteen hundred dollars."

Brillstein thought that was outrageously expensive. John explained that the guitar he wanted had been made specially for Les Paul, who had pioneered the development of the electric guitar.

"I'm not going to give you money," Brillstein said. "You'll use it on drugs."

"Am I here?" John asked. "Am I OK?"

As Brillstein well knew, John knew how to apply pressure with a new angle, a new hobby, a new excuse--always the same game, always new rules.

•

From New York, Aykroyd called Brillstein's office and John took the phone. Dan needled him about his disappearance the day before.

"How is it you can disappear in Canada for two goddamn weeks and everyone doesn't go crazy?" John asked. "Why me? Where were you yesterday?"

"Well, John," Aykroyd said, "I was here in New York writing a project for us. That's where I was." He told John that they had an offer from a U.S. Navy captain to cruise on a ship leaving from San Diego the next week. John showed little interest. "Do me the solid favor of your life," Aykroyd said. "Come with me on this Navy cruise. We'll have time to clean out physically and mentally, and we'll be able to plan the strategy for the next series of projects that we're going to do together and discuss their order. Come on, man."

"No," John said sharply.

"Why?"

"I get seasick," John said.

"You can take pills."

John wouldn't budge and Aykroyd carped some more. He was worried and didn't want to show his concern, but it came through. "You got to get on the ship," Aykroyd said.

"Who the fuck are you?" John screamed. "You disappear! No one says anything to you. You can go anywhere you goddamn please! Why are you picking on me?" He hung up.

Brillstein called Aykroyd back and sent word that John apologized.

Brillstein wanted to focus on one issue: After the flops of 1941, Neighbors and Continental Divide, they needed a hit. When the meeting resumed, John agreed that a commercial success for Paramount, a movie that would put him on top again, should be next.

Then he brought up the guitar. It was just what he wanted, he told Brillstein.

Large decisions could turn on small ones, Brillstein realized. "Gigi," he called, "get $1500." He turned to John. Buy the guitar, he said. It's on me--"a belated birthday present."

John walked out of the meeting to find the secretary. "Where's the money?" he asked.

She had to go get it.

He went back to the meeting but came out again. Gigi suspected that the guitar was an excuse to get cash, but it was so good to see John looking and feeling well. She knew that Judy was having a tough time. Had he talked with Judy recently? she asked.

He said Judy had the flu.

"Judy and I will always be together," John said. "We just will." He reminded Gigi that he and Judy had started out together as kids. Their 1980 trip to Europe had been good, because it was just the two of them, no outside distractions. They had had to count on each other and, he added almost pensively, "We were there for each other."

Gigi handed John $1500.

He went back to the meeting but acted impatient. Finally, he said, "What am I sitting here for?"

•

About one o'clock, Bill Wallace reached John at the Château and said that he had been looking for him all day Wednesday. John said everything was OK.

Then John called Milstead. Had she found Smith?

Milstead said Smith would be over in half an hour.

"Great, fine," John said. "I'll be right over."

While she waited, Milstead got a phone call from her mother, calling from her office at a top-secret message center in the Pentagon. They were chatting when Smith arrived and let herself in.

"Hi, Cathy," Milstead said.

"Who's that?" her mother asked.

"Oh, a friend, Cathy," Milstead said.

Smith went into the kitchen and started rummaging around. "Where's the coke?" she yelled.

Milstead slammed her hand over the phone.

"What's that?" her mother asked.

"Oh, nothing."

Smith screamed out again, "Where are the works?"--meaning the needles.

Milstead slammed her hand over the phone again.

John arrived. "Hi, John," Milstead said.

"Who's that?" her mother asked.

"John."

"John who?"

Milstead decided to tell. "John Belushi."

"I know people in the office who'd like to talk to him," her mother said, indicating she'd like to pass the phone around the Pentagon.

"Forget it," Milstead replied sharply; she had to go. She got off the phone and kissed John hello.

He took half a gram of cocaine, put it on the television set and said, "Here, this is for you."

"John, you look good, really good," Milstead said. He had color in his face.

He had brought a lot of cocaine, and he and Smith did several coke shots in the course of the next half hour. Suddenly, they headed for the door. "We'll see you later, April," Smith said as they left.

By early evening, Aykroyd had finished writing the day's scenes. He had promised to go over to Morton Street to have dinner with Judy and watch the premiere episode of the TV show Police Squad!, for which John's friend Tino Insana was a writer. He also wanted to tell Judy that it looked like John was coming home that night on the redeye.

Aykroyd locked the office, walked out and down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square and over to Morton Street. He and Judy had had many such talks as they now had. The cycle of John out of control on drugs was in full swing for the first time in four or five months.

"I may have to put myself on the line," Judy said. That meant a threat of divorce, something to whip John into shape. "If he doesn't come home soon, I'm going to move out."

The message on the answering machine said John was getting the redeye that very night, Aykroyd said.

No, Judy explained, she'd heard from him and he had one more meeting.

Aykroyd said that the following day was the limit. John couldn't spend another weekend in that environment.

Judy said she was looking for a new way to convince John that it couldn't go on that way.

Aykroyd recounted a recent visit with John. He had obviously been on coke and downers and needed time away from the business.

Judy wasn't sure what the next step should be. What should they do?

If he didn't come home before the weekend, Aykroyd said, he'd go out there and somehow get him home, perhaps take him to the Vineyard or figure out some program for the three of them--or just him and John--to take off and leave the temptations of urban night life behind.

Maybe treatment, Judy said, maybe institutionalization.

Aykroyd was thinking in terms of an environment in which they could all clamp down, stop all the drug taking and cut off the availability.

Judy said she had reached Smokey, and that was the best chance they had. It was the only thing that had really worked. Repressive as it might be, it was an answer.

If he weren't back the next day, Aykroyd said, he would go out there and take Wallace or Smokey to track him down. "We'll handcuff him, if necessary," he said, and get him on that plane.

It was about midnight when Aykroyd left to go home. He was torn by the extent of his responsibility. John was in charge of his own life. How much intervention was needed? How much good would it do? To force him out of Los Angeles--if it were possible--would tear a hole in John's soul, break his spirit. He would scream and kick and howl. Would that kind of intrusion help or hurt? There was a greater distance between the two of them than had ever existed before, but there would be future projects together. Now John was on his own, and maybe he needed that. Or did he? Was there a call for help? Aykroyd wasn't sure.

•

In Los Angeles, John called Brillstein and Paramount and said he agreed to do Joy of Sex. Then he met Smith. He had many packets of new cocaine. They took about four more shots and then went to the Guitar Center and spent about half an hour looking at musical equipment. John bought a floor pedal for his drum set in New York. They agreed to meet at On the Rox later for dinner.

When John arrived at On the Rox about nine o'clock, he called his secretary, Penny Selwyn, at home. "Where the hell have you been?" she asked. "For all I know, you could have been dead on an overdose and in a gutter."

"I've just been around. I can't remember." He sounded in great spirits and said he'd talked with Judy and that everything was fine.

"So what's been going on?" she asked. "Is there a movie?"

"Can you imagine what those fuckers want? Now they fucking asked me to do The Joy of Sex. Did you read it?"

"You must be kidding," Selwyn said. "Yes, it's absolutely hideous. You poor guy." She felt sorry for him. Joy of Sex was the biggest joke of all time on the Paramount lot.

"None of those guys have any imagination. I'm going to have to just go in and show them."

"Great," Selwyn said.

"Tino and I are doing something. I need you at the office.... Tomorrow's the day everything is going down."

"When will I see you?" Penny asked.

"Call me in the morning."

"God, no wonder you've been so upset."

"It's going to be OK."

In fact, John had a plan for the next day. Tino and he were going to ride around in a limousine and work on the 29-page movie treatment they had written the previous summer about a 33-year-old public-relations executive named Steve who goes to a convention in New York City and gets involved with a woman named Cheri and a punk-rock musician, Johnny Chrome. Eventually, Steve goes punk himself, leaves his job and wife and dyes his hair blue. Johnny Chrome, at the end, is found dead in Cheri's apartment, leaving her to explain his death to Steve.

Cheri explained, "Johnny's dead. He was on the H."

"Heroin?"

"He O.D.'d."

"Listen," Steve said, trying to cheer her up.... "Let's go out and toast the great Johnny Chrome, who never had a chance.... Hurry up and get dressed...."

"What are we going to do with Johnny?"

"I don't understand."

"Johnny died here last night. We both did the same heroin. He did more, a lot more. He died."

"Are you sure he died of an overdose?"

There, lying on the bed, was the young, dead body of Johnny Chrome. Steve hesitated, then lifted the dead arm to feel for a pulse.

"He's dead, all right. God, look at this arm. It's full of holes. He was a junkie," Steve said.

From On the Rox, John next called Insana. He explained that he wanted to do some work on the treatment the next day. It seemed important to him. Since Tino had written the first draft the summer before, John had been pushing for a crucial new scene. His character, Steve, was going to be talked into shooting up heroin by Johnny Chrome.

To lend credibility to the scene, John wanted to shoot up oncamera. Insana had been horrified; Judy had been angry.

But John had raised the issue with Robert De Niro and had concluded that he had found a strong ally who agreed that doing heroin oncamera would significantly enhance the scene. De Niro was a leading advocate of Method acting: An actor had to experience the character both physically and emotionally. John loved De Niro, called him Bobby D. Several years before, the two had taken some cocaine together and De Niro had hurt himself and needed to get medical treatment.

Insana was not eager to work on the script. John sounded drunk or high. The script had too much to do with drugs, and Insana didn't like them. They were a time bomb. But he loved John and he agreed to get together with him the next day.

"We'll talk in the morning," John said, "and I'll come over to your place."

John had been trying all week to get in touch with an old New York acquaintance, Richard Bear, a piano player and cocaine supplier. Bear had finally agreed to meet him that night at On the Rox.

He arrived and the two had a talk. John explained the punk movie and how his character shoots up heroin. "Well, listen," he added, "when we do this, I'm going to use real heroin."

"That's not acting, John," Bear said, rather surprised. Bear himself had never shot heroin, though he had snorted it once, years before, in Europe. He said that it seemed like a bad, dangerous idea.

"No, no," John said. "I'll have a doctor there." He seemed to be seeking support.

"I don't know, John," Bear said. "That's very real, and if you need it to be that real, then you're going to do it. But I don't know."

John said there was going to be a punk band in the movie and he wanted Bear to be in it. "We'll all have a great time. I've got to get you involved in punk." John said punk music was sort of like the blues--for and by the down-and-out. Punk was anti-everything, he said, and that was the way he was feeling, particularly anti-Paramount. John began a 15-minute tirade against the studio and the executives--all "motherfuckers" who were ignorant. He said he would like to punch out the head of the studio. "That's why punk music is so cool, because they'll never understand it. But we can do it. They'll never, never understand it, but it's going to take over the world."

John then asked Bear if he had any cocaine.

"All I got is this," Bear said. "I have a gram for myself."

"Come on, give me half."

"Here, have a line," Bear said, handing a bundle to John.

John went to the washroom; when he came back, half was gone.

Soon Smith arrived, and John went back to the office of the owner of On the Rox. It was a seedy, small room that looked like an add-on attic. With a nod, John signaled to Smith to join him. He handed her the cocaine. She prepared the cocaine-and-water mixture, shot herself up and then John.

John left and walked across the parking lot to the Rainbow for some dinner. Smith sat down to have some wine and also ordered some shrimps.

Singer Johnny Rivers and Todd Fisher, Carrie's brother, arrived. John returned and was introduced to Rivers. They shook hands and went back to the kitchen, and Rivers sang Kansas City.

Meanwhile, both De Niro and Gary Watkins had been trying to reach John at the Château. At 9:09, De Niro left a message for John: "At Dan Tana's if you want to meet." At 10:13, he left another message: "I'm on way to On the Rox. Return to hotel at 10:30 P.M." Watkins also called the Château and left a message at 10:51.

At 11 o'clock, a Saturday Night Live rerun started. It was from the second season, five years earlier, on January 15--the week John had been in the hospital with a knee injury and hadn't done the show. He had called in during the "Weekend Update" news segment to speak with Jane Curtin.

John and Smith sat down before the large Advent screen at On the Rox. A large, still head shot of John came on with the caption In Happier Times. The audience listened to his conversation with Curtin.

"Hi, Jane. This is John Belushi."

"Hi, John, how are you?"

"Well, ah, not too good, actually. You probably noticed I haven't been in the show yet. Well, it's because I'm in the hospital. I have a hurt leg, you know; I got a knee injury, kind of like a Joe Namath kind of thing. I've been here a week, Jane, and, ah, nobody's even called. There hasn't been any publicity about me not doing the show. I mean, when Chase was in the hospital, there was a lot of publicity...."

"We didn't want to depress everyone during the first part of the show," Curtin says. "We thought we'd wait until the good-nights to tell them about it."

"I'm OK," John says. "I just want to tell everyone.... It got operated on. But I will be back next week, with or without my leg.... Who's this new kid in the show?"

"Billy Murray. Isn't he terrific? He can do anything."

"Yeah, sure. I'm sure he can. How about a samurai? Can he do a samurai?"

"Oh, John, Billy does the best samurai I have ever seen. It's like watching Toshiro Mifune."

"Yeah, well, imitations are easy to achieve. Can he act, Jane? Can he act?"

Smith noticed that John had a broad smile, lighthearted and self-satisfied. She hadn't seen him unwind, ease up on himself and those around him all week long. It was always the phone, meetings, scripts, another shot, which he was growing to love. He seemed to soften while watching the rerun, and he lingered by the set a few more minutes.

Todd Fisher went up to John. "John, it's Todd, Carrie's brother."

"How's she doing?"

"She's in London," he said, doing Return of the Jedi, the third part of the Star Wars series.

"Yeah," John said. "I wish she and Danny had got married."

He signaled Smith that it was time again. They went to one of the washrooms, shut the door and each got a shot of John's cocaine.

About midnight, De Niro walked in. John asked him to go back to his bungalow at the Château Marmont when On the Rox closed. De Niro said he would.

Later, Bear went down to the parking lot with John and told him he was thinking of staying, maybe moving out to Los Angeles permanently. That unleashed a torrent from John. "I can't wait to get out of this fucking town! I hate this fucking place! I hate the people! I hate the bullshit! I hate the studios! You come into this town for 48 hours and then you better get your ass out. Thank God I'm leaving here. Thank God this will be my last night in L.A.!"

Bear said he had to go.

"Meet me later," John said, describing the location of his bungalow. They were going to talk about the new scene and the screenplay. De Niro was coming, too.

Bear left for another party but said he might stop by.

About two o'clock, waiting for the car in the On the Rox parking lot, John saw someone selling drugs and bought a gram of coke for $100. "I got some coke," John told Smith. "Let's go back to the Marmont." He asked if she would drive.

Smith loved the Mercedes. She got behind the wheel, heading east down Sunset Boulevard. John asked her to pull over quickly. She turned into a closed service station. "I'm going to get sick," he said, opening the door. He threw up, heaving and gasping.

At the Château, John went to the back bathroom and threw up again.

"John, are you all right?" Smith asked.

"What are you sick from?"

"I don't know," John said. "I ate all this greasy food at the Rainbow."

•

That night, comedian Robin Williams, an On the Rox regular who knew John from New York, had stopped by the Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard, as he often did, on impulse to give a 45-minute stand up improvisation. He took the 1:30 A.M. time slot, which he liked best; there was the least pressure at that time of the morning. Williams was getting ready for a 60-city tour and he wanted to practice.

When he'd finished, he went a few blocks down the Strip to On the Rox, but it was closed. The post-two A.M. crowd in the parking lot was large. One of the bouncers noticed Williams and said both Belushi and De Niro had been asking for him. Williams phoned De Niro's room at the Château, and De Niro said they were meeting at John's.

Williams got into his silver BMW and drove over to the Château. He was let into John's room and was told that he'd be back shortly.

So Williams called De Niro again from Belushi's bungalow. "Hey, where are you?" he asked, feeling weird and out of place. He could hear the voices of at least two women in the background of De Niro's room.

"I can't," De Niro said.

A few minutes later, John and Smith returned. John greeted Williams warmly and sat down on the couch with Smith.

Smith was delighted to meet Williams, but from the instant she walked through the door, his discomfort increased. He had never seen John with such a hard woman; she had clearly been around. Williams did not consider himself a spring chicken, but Smith was frightening. She seemed somewhat out of place in John's life, at least from what Williams had seen. Even the room, tacky and messy, seemed part of this different ambience. Dozens of wine bottles were open and scattered around. Williams wondered what John, who was overweight and depressed, was doing and why. He emitted a certain melancholy. He seemed not embarrassed but a little out of sorts that Williams was seeing him in that condition.

Grabbing his guitar, John strummed a few chords. He didn't find the sound he was looking for and put it down.

He stood up and got out some cocaine, and Williams had a little. Then John sat down and his head dropped as if he had fallen asleep or passed out. In about five seconds, he lifted his head.

"What's up?" Williams asked. He had never seen anyone go out like that and come back so quickly. "Are you OK?"

"Yeah," John said distractedly. "Took a couple of 'Ludes." He sat there on the verge of sleep.

Williams decided it was time to go. He felt sorry for John and thought that if he knew him better, he'd probe and find out what was going on--perhaps even recommend that John get away from this strange company and the decaying room. But that was just a thought that flashed by. Williams realized he was an outsider. He got up and said good night.

•

De Niro appeared from the back of the bungalow, slipping in through the sliding glass doors. Smith didn't dare to shake his hand. His quiet, penetrating stare seemed to say, "Back off, look out."

"Help yourself to the coke," John said.

De Niro snorted a few lines from the table. He found Smith trashy and was surprised that John was with such a woman. He also felt that John seemed wired. There wasn't much to say, and he headed back to his room shortly after three o'clock.

"Do you want me to leave?" Smith asked John.

"No, stick around," he said. "Can you get some more coke?"

Smith said she really wouldn't know how, especially at this hour. "You haven't had any sleep for days," she said. "Why don't you go to sleep?"

John produced a little more coke from his pocket. Smith mixed it with some heroin for a speedball. She gave herself the first shot, then made one for John that had half a tenth each of cocaine and heroin.

John got up and took a shower, and she washed his back. Smith then showered. Her clothes were dirty, and John told her to wear his new jogging suit.

Smith made an experimental gesture of sexual intimacy. John was not interested and turned away. She knew well that heavy drug use killed any desire.

John said he felt chilly.

"Well, get under the covers," Smith said. "I'll turn up the heat." She tucked the blankets around him and turned up the thermostat.

Smith went to the living room and started to write a letter. She stopped at the top of the third page.

She wanted to get back to Ponse's apartment and wondered if she could take John's car. She got up and went back to his room. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

From his bed, John mumbled something and waved her off, unfriendly.

She went back to the living room and tried to call Canada.

Coughing and wheezing--very strange noises--were coming from the bedroom, so she went back again. John was making heavy, choked-up sounds. She pulled back the covers. "John, are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said, waking up. "What's wrong?"

"You don't sound right.... Do you want a glass of water?"

She filled a glass and handed it to him. He took a couple of swallows and said his lungs were congested.

Smith said she was going to get something to eat.

"Don't leave," John said, a plaintiveness in his voice. He eased himself down under the covers, rolled over on his right side and closed his eyes.

Smith dialed room service but couldn't get through. She called Milstead, but there was no answer there, either. She tried room service again and it answered. She ordered two pieces of wheat toast with jam and honey and a pot of coffee. The order came about 15 minutes later, around eight o'clock. Smith added a one-dollar tip to the $4.50 bill and signed John's name.

About ten o'clock, Gigi tried to get through to bungalow number three, but the desk said there was a do-not-disturb message on John's phone line.

About 10:15, Smith checked John. He seemed OK and was snoring loudly. She put the syringe and spoon they had been using in her purse; the maid might come to clean up, and she didn't want her to find them. She left the bungalow, took John's car and drove to Rudy's bar to have a brandy and place a six-dollar bet on a horse.

•

Bill Wallace had left two messages at the Marmont. He was driving around doing several errands during an early lunch hour, about noon. He stopped at Brillstein's and picked up a typewriter and a tape recorder for John. Then he drove to the Château.

"Shit," Wallace said, noticing that John's car wasn't there. When he got to number three, he knocked several times. There was no answer, so he let himself in with his key. He set the typewriter down and looked along the 25-foot-long hall to the back bedroom. It looked as if someone were in the bed. If John were sleeping, there would be snoring and wheezing. There was not even a hint of the familiar harsh, raspy breathing. The place was hot, a dry, breathless heat. The mess and squalor were John's--there was that particular resoluteness behind the disorder. Wallace felt a slight eeriness as he moved down the hall. Someone was clearly gathered in a tight fetal position under the covers, with his head under a pillow. Wallace recognized John's form. He walked slowly to the side of the bed, reached over and gently shook John's shoulder. "John," he said, "it's time to get up."

There was no response--no groan, no pulling back from the touch.

"John," Wallace said again, "time to get up."

Nothing. Wallace pulled the pillow away carefully. John's lips were purple and his tongue was partially hanging out. He was not moving.

Something like a flame ignited in Wallace. He had taught C.P.R.--cardiopulmonary resuscitation--at Memphis State and recognized the signs.

He flipped John's nude, heavy body over onto its back. The right side, where blood had apparently settled, was dark and ghastly. Wallace, his heart leaping and racing, reached into John's mouth with trembling fingers and drew out phlegm, which spilled and puddled on the bed sheet in a thick stain. There was a rancid odor. With one near-involuntary motion, he clamped his own mouth down onto John's and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. He tried for several minutes--straining and horror in each motion. The body was cold, and John's eyes contained nothing. There was no movement, not the stirring of a response, a breath, a nerve, a moan. John was dead, gone. But there was an irrational hope and a requirement--the requirement that John not be dead. Tears flooded Wallace's face. He was disoriented.

The room was quiet. A glass of wine stood on the dresser. A script for The Joy of Sex lay on the upholstered barstool near the bed. Other things cluttered the room: an advance copy of the April Playboy, with Mariel Hemingway on the cover; a belt speckled with silvery punk cleats; some powder on the table; John's red jogging shoes on the floor.

Wallace jabbed at the body, tried some more mouth-to-mouth. He wailed, "You dumb son of a bitch! You dumb son of a bitch! You dumb son of a bitch!"

•

The next day, Richard Bear got in touch with De Niro, wondering what they should do about John's death.

"Don't talk to anybody about that," De Niro said. "We'll put our heads together. We'll get together in New York."

But, Bear said, John had been planning this punk movie and wanted to shoot up heroin oncamera; he had had the screenplay and a director.

"Well, I know John wanted to do that," De Niro replied.

"Bobby," Bear said, "they rehearsed the scene. That's what killed him.... They were doing it!"

"Don't say a word to me," De Niro said. "Not to me. Don't say a word to anybody.... You, me ... we'll put our heads together. But don't talk to anybody."

Dr. Ronald Kornblum, who performed the autopsy, found traces of both heroin and cocaine at the injection points on Belushi's left arm. He ruled that, in his opinion, "John Belushi, a 33-year-old white male, died of acute toxicity from cocaine and heroin."

Two days later, about 1000 family members and friends attended a memorial service at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine in New York. Taking a small tape recorder from his blue knapsack and holding it up to a microphone, Aykroyd, as he had promised John six months earlier, played a tape of the Ventures' The 2000-Pound Bee. At first, everyone seemed stunned, but soon people were laughing.

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Cathy Smith fled to Canada and granted an interview to the National Enquirer (for $15,000) in which she was quoted as saying, "I killed John Belushi." The article and Judy Belushi's call for a thorough investigation led to the convening of the Los Angeles grand jury in late September. Smith denied the Enquirer quote later, but on March 15, 1983, she was indicted by the grand jury and was charged with murder in the second degree--killing with malice--and with 13 counts of furnishing and administering heroin and cocaine.

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In three long interviews six months after Belushi's death, Dan Aykroyd said, "Heroin is such an enjoyable stone.... I can tell you firsthand, right now, from my three or four experiences with it, that's the best stone on earth.

"And when [John] would ask me for money ... I'd usually give it to him, even though knowing he might go out and buy something with it. And it was like, I would warn him and say, 'You shouldn't do it,' whatever, 'but I'm not going to refuse you money. Here it is; you take it. You go.'

"And had I been with him that night with Cathy Smith and everything, and he said, 'I want you to come on and try this stuff,' I probably would have been right there alongside him.... I liked the guy so much, I would have done anything for or with him...."

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Bill Wallace stayed in Los Angeles and traveled around the world giving karate seminars and exhibitions. He said, "His friends killed John. I tried to keep him away from the drugs. It would have been so easy for them to say no, but they didn't."

Smokey Wendell moved to California and continued to provide security and antitemptation enforcement to various music personalities.

Robin Williams voluntarily testified before the grand jury investigating Belushi's death under an agreement that he would not be asked about his own drug use. Although he hadn't been that close to Belushi, he said he had never been so near a death and that it had scared him--not just the drugs but the fast-lane lifestyle.

Of Hollywood, Williams said, "The danger of the place is that if you don't have people there who can ground you down, you just start whirling. There are people there who will support any mood you want."

Carrie Fisher starred once again as Princess Leia, in Return of the Jedi, which was the summer of 1983 box-office favorite. She married singer Paul Simon that summer. At Belushi's memorial service, she remembers watching "all these people who I'd seen do drugs with him, and you know what they were thinking--hoping? That what he died of was not what they liked to do best."

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Three months after Belushi's death, in the summer of 1982, someone left a sign on his grave in Martha's Vineyard. It read, He could have given us a lot more Laughs, But Noooooooo.

"He realized it was a question not just of moderating John's cocaine use but of stopping it."

"He was like a child who needed more of everything--attention, love, scolding, explanations."