Hollywood Ending (7 page)

We stopped at a food stand on Ventura Boulevard and bought French Dip Sandwiches for lunch. The stand was next to a florist that was used in our favorite TV show, ‘Six Feet Under'. We sat under an umbrella and watched the cars come and go, loading up with bouquets and posies. Benji dripped mustard on his Nine Inch Nails T-shirt and swore.

Our next stop was the highlight of the day, the one we had been waiting for. We drove through Laurel Canyon and passed the Canyon Country store, an iconic grocery shop frequented by boho musicians like Jim Morrison, who would drink orange juice on the porch before scoring drugs from the neighbourhood dealer in the parking lot. We only caught a glimpse of the ruins of Houdini's mansion, set high up on Laurel Canyon Boulevard above the racing traffic, obscured by trees. The staircase that led to the mansion fell haphazardly down the cliff face, the servant quarters the only part of the house still remaining. I had read on the internet that many believed Houdini still haunted the ruins of his mansion, that the walls of his Hollywood Hills home would forever be the only ones he would never escape.

The Hollywood Hills were beautiful, wild and deadly. This was where coyotes attacked the pets of movie stars, where George Reeves, the original Superman, went upstairs during a party at his house on Benedict Canyon and shot himself. Errol Flynn held orgies at his infamous House of Pleasure, and speeding cars regularly ran off the road along Mulholland Drive, plunging down the cliff face. As we drove up Laurel Canyon, cars hurtled back down the hill at terrifying speeds, and a passing truck nearly took off one of our side mirrors. On the radio Courtney Love sang about flying away to Malibu. There were always songs about our town on the radio. Even with the murders and the rapes and the car jackings and earthquakes, the radio played songs like ‘LA Woman' and ‘California Dreaming', convincing us this was the only place we would ever want to be.

We drove past quaint chateaux and larger, more extravagant homes. Cielo Drive was easy to find. A brand new street sign had been erected higher than the others, to discourage theft. Another sign, ‘Not A Through Street', was erected next to it. The houses were inconspicuous in their plainness; lawns were trimmed and walls whitewashed. Two neighbours stood on the corner, coffees and papers in hands, oblivious to the scrutiny of the world and the prying eyes of curiosity seekers. One of them tipped his cap to the other and set off in a jog, sneakers hitting the pavement hard. Above them the sky suddenly turned grey and threatened rain.

‘Here,' Benji said, pointing to a concealed driveway. ‘This looks like it.'

We made a tight turn onto a dirt road with a sharp and steady incline. After a few houses we came across a wooden sign that read ‘Private Driveway' and listed five house numbers, each one carved on a quaint piece of oak and hung one above the other. The house number we were looking for changed every six months, moving up or down a digit, and Benji had been careful to check the latest incarnation on the internet. We came to the end of the road and stopped at a set of gates higher than the others, the walls flanked by security cameras. Benji shut off the engine and picked up his camera. I leant back in my seat, overwhelmed.

‘Are you coming?' Benji asked impatiently. I opened my door, heaved myself out into the grey day and shivered.

On a hot August evening in 1969, actress Sharon Tate and four other people were murdered in her home by the Manson Family. Sharon was pregnant, and her baby did not survive. All that remained of the house where she lived and died was the original telephone pole; everything else had been levelled. I touched the stone of the gate with an outstretched hand. It was still warm from the morning's sunlight, had not yet cooled under the rain clouds that had started to gather. I placed my face against it, felt the thick texture, and ran my hand along its surface. Sharon Tate was only twenty-six when she died. A millionaire had bought the property a few years ago and destroyed it, erecting a modern structure in its place. I had seen photographs of Sharon Tate and her friends dead in the front yard and the living room. Now, the places where their bodies lay had been smoothed over, purged of demons.

I listened. The canyons loomed around us, silent and patient. I was sad that so little remained in the spot where it actually happened. I believed that life was made up of energy. When someone committed a violent act, that energy would become even stronger, fuelled by anger and hatred, fear and desperation. That energy wouldn't dissipate. It could hang in the air, even years later. The canyons were the perfect place for that kind of energy. The hills trapped the impulses inside, where they fermented, growing stronger every day. I could feel it in the ground. It ran through my hands like bolts of electricity. It reminded me of the day my parents died, the static that hung in the air that night, and for one brief moment I felt closer to them. I was back there.

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I heard the whirr of a surveillance camera as it zeroed in on me.

‘Better go,' Benji said, putting the lens cap on his camera. We got in the car and drove away. My head didn't clear until we were back amongst the noise and traffic on Sunset Boulevard.

EIGHT

Later that night I sat in my bedroom looking at websites about the Manson Family. Leslie Van Houten was up for parole again. There was no way she would be released, even after thirty-seven years in prison. All the Manson Family murderers who were put on death row had their sentences commuted when California abolished the death penalty, but there was no way any of them would ever get parole. Murderers like that became part of the public consciousness, part of our collective nightmare. Kill an unarmed grocer in a robbery gone wrong and you might get twenty years. But if you kill John Lennon you can be pretty sure you ain't seeing the light of day ever again.

Lynette was working late in her office as usual, and the house was quiet. All the lights were off except for a small desk lamp above my computer. I was looking at a photo of Leslie Van Houten in her jail manacles when the phone rang.

‘Hello?' I said. A voice filled with gravel snapped back.

‘HUH?'

I waited. ‘Uh…hello?'

‘Is this Hilda?'

‘Yes it is. Who's this?'

‘This is Hank.'

My mind was blank. ‘I'm sorry, who?'

‘HANK!' the voice boomed back. ‘From Echo Park.'

‘Echo Park?'

‘You came to my place, you and your friend with the camera. You took photos of my bathroom.'

‘How did you get this number?' I asked, already knowing the answer.

‘I called that wise-ass friend of yours. He left his card with me. I called and he gave me your number.'

‘I'm sure he did.'

‘So I was thinking I'd call, figured I had something you'd like to see.'

Great. Now I was getting obscene phone calls from senior citizens. ‘Not interested,' I said.

‘You will be.'

‘Listen, I'm flattered, but you're not really my type, get what I'm saying?'

‘No! Not like that, for Christ's sake. Like the sink. The sink in the bathroom you wanted to see. I got something like that for you.'

‘Then why don't you give it to Benji, you know, the guy who was with me? He said he was interested if you ever wanted to sell anything.'

‘'Cause it's not for him! It's for you!'

‘You know what? This is very nice of you mister—'

‘HANK! MY NAME'S HANK!'

‘—Hank, but I can't come over. I don't have a car.'

‘Get a cab. There's plenty of cabs in this town.'

I scrambled for excuses. ‘It's more complicated than that,' I said, hoping my vagueness would make him give up. I was wrong.

‘It's as complicated as you wanna make it. What I got, I think you'll like. I think you'll like it a hell of a lot.'

I don't know what came over me, whether it was the darkness of the house, the silence, or merely curiosity about what was on offer. Hank waited on the other end of the line, his breathing raspy. Jesus, I thought. He'll probably kill me. Chop me up over all those old newspapers in his apartment.

‘Well, all right,' I said, against my better judgment. ‘Just don't try anything. I'll be telling people where I'm going.'

‘I said it ain't like that. You will get a kick out of this. Trust me.'

‘When?'

‘I'm an old man. I ain't got all the time in the world.'

I rifled through an imaginary diary in my head, every page blank. Benji had mentioned a dentist appointment he had the next day. ‘I suppose I could squeeze in some time tomorrow.'

‘Done!' Hank cried, and slammed down the phone.

Done. I looked around my room, the sound of the dial tone still echoing in my ear. I looked again at the photograph of Leslie Van Houten. When she was first convicted she was just another gangly hippy teenager with scraggy brown hair, a glint of mischief in her eye. Now she was an old lady, her face gaunt, grey hair pulled back tight in an old-fashioned bun. She had put a pillowcase over dress-shop owner Rosemary LaBianca's head, tied it with electrical cord, and held her down while another Family member stabbed her in the stomach with a knife.

I wondered if she thought it was all worth it now. I wondered if in agreeing to meet with Hank, I was getting myself into something I was going to regret.

NINE

The next day I took a cab to Echo Park. It was going to cost a fortune but I couldn't bring myself to take the bus. There was something unsavoury about riding public transport in Los Angeles. All I could think of was the song by Billy Idol about the killer travelling on the bus, reading books about murder and thinking about his next victim. It was The Night Stalker's favourite song. He'd play it on his Walkman as he skulked through people's yards, looking for an unlocked window or open pet door. Anyway, I didn't really have to worry about money. Lynette made enough and gave me a healthy allowance to keep me quiet and out of her hair.

The driver turned on the radio and The Ramones were playing. I couldn't believe that three of the band members were dead already. ‘Can you turn it up?' I asked. The cabbie leant over, turned a knob, and The Ramones and their special brand of frenetic punk rock blasted through every corner of the cab.

‘Pretty rockin' huh?' the cabbie yelled over the music.

‘Hell yeah.'

‘Most girls your age, they like the pop music, you know? Britney Spears. Christina Aguilera. They don't like the good stuff. They think Maroon 5 is rock and roll. I got more if you like.'

The cabbie put in a CD of hard rock hits—AC/DC, Nine Inch Nails, Metallica. We drove down the freeway, the music battling against the sounds of the other traffic. Fifteen minutes later we pulled up outside the drab apartment block in Echo Park. The same mail catalogues were still on the lawn, dry and brittle like fossils. I paid the driver.

‘You okay?' he asked, looking up at the apartment. ‘You need me to wait?'

I considered it for a moment. ‘No, I'm fine. Thanks for the tunes.'

The cabbie shook his head and drove off. I looked up. Unlike the day before the curtains and windows were wide open, making me feel a little better about being there. At least if I screamed it would be carried on the wind.

‘YOU!'

I jumped. Hank was hanging out the window, waving.

‘Hello,' I called, waving back.

‘Come up! Come up! Christ, don't just stand there.'

‘Okay.'

I walked up the stairs. The front door was already open when I got to the top, Hank standing there in a pair of white shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt. He waved me in. ‘Hurry. Come on, get inside. Quickly.'

‘I'm Hilda,' I said, stepping inside.

‘I know who you are. What the hell you think I've been standing up here waving my arms for? Get inside, quick!'

Hank threw the door closed behind me, giving one last look outside as if he suspected I'd been followed. The apartment was much cleaner than two days ago. The bottles had been cleared away and the ashtrays emptied, but the smell of alcohol still hung in the air. With the windows open and the breeze coming in, the place seemed much nicer, more inviting. I stood in the doorway as Hank dashed to the kitchen, scooping the kettle off the stove. On the bench were two matching cups and saucers. He poured us tea and brought the cups into the living room.

‘Don't just stand there like a freakin' hatstand,' he growled. ‘Sit down.'

I sat on the edge of the dusty old couch, as far away from Hank as possible. Again I looked around the room. No easy exits. The door was locked, but if I needed to I could jump out the window, break a few bones. I was curious about people who put themselves in situations where death was almost inevitable. The wife who gives her violent husband a second chance. The girlfriend who lets her ex-boyfriend visit late at night to return her books, a knife concealed in his jacket. I always thought I was much smarter than that, but here I was, in a strange man's apartment with the door locked and only an open window for escape. Maybe I had a death wish?

‘Tea?' he said, handing me a cup of hot, milky liquid.

‘No thanks. I can't stay long.'

‘Sure you can. Take the goddamn tea.'

I took the cup.

‘Everyone's always in a rush,' Hank said. ‘Rushing here and rushing there. No one takes the time to sit anymore.'

‘I really can't stay long,' I said again. ‘I'm due back—'

‘To what?'

‘Well, I have stuff to do.'

‘What have you got to do that's so important?'

‘Excuse me?'

His lip curled. ‘You heard. A girl who spends her time going into strangers' houses to take photographs of bathroom sinks ain't got a lot going on in her life, if you get my meaning.'

‘Kinda hard to miss it.'

‘You know that friend of yours?'