Hollywood Ending (16 page)

‘Gotta go round the back. That's where the killer entered,' Benji grunted.

We took the back alleyway and when we pulled up there was a car already there. A tourist wearing a Disneyland T-shirt was standing in front of the back gate, her husband taking her photograph. As we pulled up they looked at us uneasily, the same guilty look I used to get when I first started death-touring, that look of shame from being caught out. Before I knew what was happening Benji had leapt out of the car and was charging towards them.

‘What the hell are you doing?' he shouted, his voice filled with menace. ‘Huh? I
said
, what the hell do you think you're doing?'

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' the woman stammered, walking briskly towards her husband.

‘You're sorry? What the hell do you think you're doing?'

‘We were just taking a picture. We didn't mean to offend.'

‘
Offend?
'

The couple ran to their car, Benji following fast. He thumped on the bonnet, slammed down two closed fists while the man struggled to put the keys in the ignition.

I jumped out of the car. ‘Benji, stop it!'

‘You should be ashamed of yourselves!' he yelled, kicking their tyres. ‘Have some respect for the dead!'

Just as the woman began to scream, the car roared to life and her husband slammed his foot down onto the accelerator.

Benji laughed as they sped away from us, nearly crashing into another car when they pulled out into the busy intersection. Benji stood with his back to me, panting hard, watching them go.

‘That wasn't funny,' I said, afraid to go any closer.

He turned around. ‘Come on Hilda, it was just a joke. Did you see the looks on their faces?'

I did. They were terrified. But it could have been worse. Benji could have taken his gun with him. ‘Benji, are you okay?' I asked softly. ‘You cool?'

‘Fuck yeah, I'm cool!' he yelled again, wiping his hand across his nose. ‘Stop asking me that. I'm fucking great. Being alive is great, isn't it Hilda? This is what it's about!'

I hovered near the car, hands in my pockets, not knowing what to say. I kept thinking about that revolver burning a hole in the glove compartment. Benji turned towards the back gate of the condo.

‘Well, come on,' he barked. ‘Get my camera.'

I took his camera from the front seat and slowly walked over. He snatched it, jumped up, hoisting the camera high in the air, and took photos over the fence.

‘Let's go round the front too,' he said. ‘Leave the car here. You can give me a boost.'

We walked around the corner to the front of the condo, trying to look casual. When we thought no one was looking, I helped Benji up onto the gate and held him in position while he took more photos.

‘Your turn,' he said, after snapping off a few shots. He jumped back down and helped me onto the top of the gate, his hands tight around my waist.

‘You see the walkway? That's where the bodies were found. The blood ran all the way under the gate and out onto the road.'

He didn't have to tell me. I'd seen the pictures. Nicole Simpson had nearly been decapitated. She had stab wounds all over her body, her chest, her neck. So did Ron Goldman, some poor guy from the local restaurant who was returning the pair of glasses Nicole's mother had left there. Benji was right. The blood had run like a river through the tiles, pooling in the edges. So much blood.

‘I want to get down now,' I said.

Benji dropped me, then started to take photos of the mailbox.

For a moment I forgot about him and once again found myself in the grip of that old death drug. The air was still and in the silence I tried to imagine what it was like for them that evening. Did they see it coming? How long did they fight, and when they gave up, did they know the consequence would be death? I tried to focus on the facts but all I could think of was the terror, the fear and the despair. It felt like it was coming off the gate and the surrounding walls. I thought of Nicole's dog howling beside her body, a cry that woke the neighbours. The courtyard was narrow and the pathway short. Such a small space to hold so much pain. I wanted to open the gate and let it breathe. I wanted to let all the fear out.

‘Poor Ron,' Benji said as he snapped off another shot. ‘Wrong place at the wrong time buddy.'

‘Yeah,' I managed to say.

‘Poor bastard dies because OJ couldn't stand his coke-head ex-wife anymore. Tell you what, if my wife ever acted like a hooker in front of my kids, I'd probably cut her up too.'

Benji stood with his camera slung over his shoulder like a rifle. He picked a leaf off a nearby tree and tore it into tiny pieces that floated to the ground.

‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. You know what's sad Hilda?'

I swallowed. ‘What, Benji?'

I thought I almost saw a tear in his eye. ‘No one in this town cares about anyone else. Nobody notices anything unless it has something to do with them. Like, I could take my gun, and kill you right now, and I bet no one would notice your body for days. No one.' He looked down at his feet. ‘It just makes me so sad, you know?'

TWENTY-TWO

Benji dropped me home, and I didn't invite him in. I was relieved to be out of his car, away from him and away from that gun. I picked his hub-cap off the front lawn and handed it to him. He threw it into the backseat.

‘You want to do some more Black Dahlia spots tomorrow?' he asked. ‘We could go downtown to her old apartment.'

‘I promised Lynette I'd help her out with the yard work.'

‘Has she got the day off?'

Today was Tuesday. ‘Yeah. She's taking the day off. So, see you later?'

I caught something in his eye that let me know he knew what I was doing, that there was no ‘yard work' arranged. I was backing off, backing away from him. His face flashed recognition, but a moment later it was gone. I thought again about the gun.

‘Fine,' he said, sniffing loudly and wiping his nose with his finger. ‘Smell you later.'

And then he took off.

As I walked up the path I heard the phone ringing. I scrambled for my keys and the ringing stopped, but as I put my key in the door it started again, shrill and insistent. I raced inside and picked it up.

‘Hello?'

‘Who's this?' the voice asked.

‘This is Hilda. Who is this?'

‘Hilda? It's Jake. Jake Gilmore. We met the other day. I'm Hank's neighbour.'

‘I remember.'

‘So I made an impression on you? Nice.'

‘What do you want?'

‘I'm calling about Hank.'

‘Why? What's wrong?'

I heard something crash in the background and Hank's voice, angry and distressed. He yelled something that I couldn't make out and then there was another crash.

‘What was that?'

‘He's tearing the place up,' Jake said. ‘The neighbours are threatening to call the cops. I found some sedatives the hospital sent home with him but he refuses to take them. Can you just come over please? Seriously, if they call the cops his ass is getting hauled out of here, and I don't have money for bail, you dig?'

I heard more noise in the background, and an angry woman's voice yelling. ‘How about you go inside and mind your own business?' Jake yelled back.

‘Okay, I'm coming,' I said. I hung up and called a cab.

When I arrived at Distant Memories I saw Jake's apartment first, the blinds drawn. I walked up the concrete stairs to Hank's place. Jake was outside the front door, arguing with an old woman who was shouting in another language. His arms were folded like a bodyguard, and he was rolling his eyes.

‘Lady, this is his daughter,' he lied to the woman when he saw me, but it didn't matter because she wasn't listening. The other neighbours were standing in their doorways watching the madness with curiosity: a housewife in a bathrobe, a little boy in a diaper and Spiderman T-shirt. ‘She's going to take care of everything. Isn't that right, Hilda?'

I walked past Jake and went straight into the apartment. The place was wrecked. The couch was toppled over and bottles lay broken on the floor. In the kitchen the cupboard doors were open, the contents strewn out across the linoleum. Hank was nowhere to be seen.

‘Okay everybody!' I heard Jake yelling outside. ‘There is nothing to see here. Please return to your respective places of residence. We thank you for your understanding during this difficult time.' He backed inside and closed the door.

‘Where is he?'

‘In there.' He pointed to the bathroom. ‘He's put something against the door. He's been in there an hour.'

‘Hank Anderson!' I yelled, giving the bathroom door a hard knock with my fist. ‘What the hell is going on in there?'

No answer.

‘Hank?' I yelled again. ‘You're not doing yourself in are you?'

Jake said, ‘Maybe we should kick the door down.'

‘Don't you touch my goddamn door!' Hank yelled back. ‘I told you to get out of here!'

‘Open the door!' I yelled.

‘No! They're trying to kill me!'

‘Who's trying to kill you?'

‘The doctors. Everybody. Everybody knows what I did. They want to poison me!'

‘Hank, come out here. No one is trying to kill you.'

‘You all want me dead!'

‘Hank, I'm your friend, so is Jake. We're concerned about you.'

‘
He's
not. He's a spy. He wants me dead.'

‘That's ridiculous,' Jake said through the door. ‘I just brought some frozen quesadillas.'

‘Jake is not a spy,' I said. ‘Do you think a spy would be caught dead wearing neon sneakers?'

‘Hey! These sneakers cost me three hundred bucks!'

Hank opened the door a crack. ‘I'm not taking the pills,' he said.

‘Fine. Don't take them. If you want to keep feeling like shit, that's up to you. But you can't stay in the bathroom forever.'

Slowly the door opened. Hank looked terrible. He hadn't shaved and smelt like he hadn't showered since returning from the hospital. He was wearing a ratty blue dressing gown with holes in it, and was blinking like an animal emerging from a long hibernation. He looked us both up and down and pulled his robe tightly around him. I glanced into the bathroom behind him. The mirror was shattered, glass glistening across the floor and sink. A garbage bin lay on the floor, rubbish strewn everywhere. He'd used the bin to break the mirror.

‘Come on Hank,' I said. ‘Let's get you into bed.'

He shuffled out into the living room, defeated. I turned to Jake.

‘Give me a minute,' I said. Before he could answer I walked into the bedroom with Hank, closing the door behind us.

Hank slid into bed, exhausted. I closed the blinds, turned off the lamps and pulled the sheet up around him.

‘That was a hell of a show you just gave us,' I said, trying to sound strong. ‘You want to tell me what's going on?'

Hank rolled over like a petulant child, turning his back to me.

‘You're lucky no one called the cops,' I said.

He grumbled into the wall. I looked around the room. There was nothing personal in it, no books or photos or pictures. Just the bare essentials: furniture, clothes on the floor, a lamp.

‘Hank, I know you're not crazy,' I said.

‘It would be better if I was,' he muttered.

‘Is this my fault? Maybe we shouldn't have gone out. You know, to the movie. I didn't know it would upset you.'

‘It's got nothing to do with you,' he roared back, suddenly fierce again. I heard footsteps outside.

‘Hilda!' Jake yelled, knocking on the door. ‘You cool in there?'

‘We're fine,' I yelled back, but we weren't. Nothing was fine. I looked at Hank's back. I was suddenly overcome with the urge to embrace him, lie down and wrap my arms around his body, and fall into a deep sleep. Instead I walked out of the bedroom and closed the door. Jake was standing in the middle of the living room, his sneakers dazzling amidst the chaos. We looked at each other.

‘You know, those sneakers really are ridiculous,' I said, and couldn't help giggling.

Jake looked at his feet. ‘You really don't like them?' he said, crushed. ‘I thought they were cool.'

‘Maybe in the eighties,' I said. ‘But then again, what do I know? I'm just a moody teenager, remember?'

‘Hey, don't be like that. I'm sorry. You actually did a really great job there.'

‘I did?'

Jake started picking up bottles from the floor and throwing them under his arm. ‘Sure you did. Did you see anyone else out there taking control of the situation? You should be a hostage negotiator.'

I went into the kitchen, found some plastic shopping bags, along with a dustpan and shovel. Together we tidied the room, sweeping up glass fragments and returning furniture to its place.

‘You don't have to do this,' I said as we collected the rubbish from the bathroom and turned the bin the right way up.

‘Hell, I'd look for any reason not to have to go downstairs and work,' he said. ‘The studio's riding my ass for these scenes and I'm as blocked as John Candy's colon.'

‘What a colourful image.'

‘After we finish cleaning up do you think you might want to, I don't know, grab a coffee with me?'

I shook my head ‘That didn't work too well for us last time.'

‘I know. We got off on the wrong foot, that's all. Come on. I owe you. My treat. I know if I don't get out of this apartment soon I'll be the one going batshit crazy. This place has some bad juju.'

‘Okay. But no more Beverly Hills coffee shops. I get to choose.'

He smiled. ‘You get to choose,' he agreed. ‘But I get to pay.'

‘No arguments there.'

‘Unless you really want to.' He smiled. ‘Just kidding.'