Hollywood Ending (15 page)

TWENTY

We drove down Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills where all the famous people go to get photographed by the paparazzi. B-grade celebs loitered on the streets and spent ridiculous amounts of time looking in store windows, shielding their faces from the cameras and smiling coyly.

Jake gave his car to a valet and we walked into a small coffee shop that was swarming with the young and rich of Beverly Hills. I immediately felt out of place. I pulled my Wayfarers from my bag and tried to act like I was too cool to care what I looked like, but I needn't have worried because no one gave me a second glance. They were all too concerned with themselves, with their appointment books and cell phones. Jake himself took a call on his cell as we walked in, and held up two fingers to the host who seated us in the middle of the room. The windows were reserved for celebrities, where they could see and be seen. It confirmed for me again why I liked them better dead.

‘No, I can't have the rewrite with you tomorrow, I've had a family emergency,' Jake said, winking at me. ‘How about next week? Yeah, Monday should be fine. Should we meet at the studio? Okay good buddy, take care.'

He snapped the cell phone shut, took off his baseball cap and let his black curly hair come tumbling out, swishing it around like a shampoo commercial. He picked up the menu and scanned it.

‘You work in the film industry?' I asked, guessing from his phone conversation.

‘Yes, I do,' he said, beaming proudly. ‘I'm a screen-writer.'

‘Have you written anything I would know?'

‘Probably not. At the moment I'm mainly a script doctor. Most people don't realise there's sometimes twenty or thirty writers on these big movies. Audiences complain about seeing five or six names credited on a screenplay, but they'd have a fit if they knew how many writers were really involved in the crap that's out there.'

‘What does a script doctor actually
do
?'

‘We fix things. We all have our areas of specialty. Dialogue, fight scenes, car chases. Mine is sex.'

‘Excuse me?'

Jack smirked. ‘Sex scenes. Where they go in the movie, how they play out, the length, the amount of nudity involved.'

‘Are you serious? You mean, like the hand on the misty window in
Titanic
?'

‘Can't take credit for that one. But that was good work. Even I can admit that.'

The waitress came over to take our order. ‘I'll have an egg-white omelette,' Jake said, smiling up at her, ‘with mushroom and spinach and a fruit cup on the side. Gotta have my protein.'

The waitress giggled. ‘For you, miss?'

‘Just coffee.'

‘You don't want to eat?' Jake asked.

‘I'm not hungry.'

‘Hank's gonna be fine,' he said, picking up on my unease. ‘You should really eat something.'

‘I can't.'

‘You'll have to excuse her,' Jake said to the waitress. ‘We've had a very traumatic experience today. Our dad is in hospital.'

‘Oh no,' the waitress said.

‘What?' I almost shrieked.

‘He was hit by a bus. The 108 out of Echo Park.'

‘How horrible,' the waitress said, putting her hand on Jake's shoulder. ‘Will he be okay?'

‘He's in a coma. They expect him to make a full recovery, but until then my main priority is looking after my little sister here.'

‘You're so lovely to do that,' the waitress smiled, and patted me on the head like I was a puppy. ‘You poor little thing. I'm sure your dad will be okay.'

‘Why thanks,' I grumbled.

‘You're lucky to have such a nice brother.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Listen, I really shouldn't do this, but I'm going to comp your meals today. Don't worry about paying for anything.'

Jake took her hand. ‘Why thank you so much Ruby,' he said, looking at her name badge. ‘I'll have a side order of toast too. Whole wheat. And my sister will have a fruit salad.'

‘You got it sweetheart,' she said, writing it on her pad and leaving.

‘That wasn't funny,' I said.

‘Come on, we got a free meal didn't we? Anyway, enough of this small talk. Let's get serious. So, Hilda, what do you do?'

‘I go to high school.'

‘High school, huh?'

‘I've nearly finished. One more year to go.'

‘Right, so you're like, uh, sixteen or something?'

‘Seventeen.'

‘Seventeen. Okay. Do you live around here?'

‘Encino.'

‘Wow. You're a fair way from home.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘So, I understand you're part of some cult obsessed with death?'

I froze. ‘Did Hank say that?'

‘Something like it.'

‘I don't belong to a cult. It's more like an informal online community.'

‘Obsessed with death.'

‘I guess. How do you know all of this?'

‘So you're not a member of the Children of God?' he said, ignoring the question. ‘You're not trying to convert Hank into some weird Jonestown-type deal?'

‘Of course not. I don't even believe in God.'

‘Interesting. So you told Hank his apartment was haunted?'

‘No. I didn't say his apartment was haunted, I just told him someone died there.'

‘But now he obviously thinks it is. He thinks this actor guy, Bernie or whatever his name was, pushed him over.'

‘I didn't mean for him to get scared,' I said, guilt growing in my stomach like a baby alien. ‘I didn't know he'd take it that way.'

‘Well, the dude's pretty messed up about it. Next thing he'll be calling for an exorcism or asking for the Ghostbusters.'

‘Like I said, I never told him the place was haunted. Are you saying this is all my fault?'

Jake sat back. ‘Far from it. I just want to get to know you. I get the feeling we'll be seeing each other around. We can't pretend we're strangers.'

The waitress came back with our food. I picked at the fruit salad with a fork while Jake wolfed his meal down. A piece of egg caught on the corner of his lip and made me feel a little sick. There was something off about Jake, something not quite right in the way he had appeared out of nowhere, an extra who seemed to have suddenly burst forth as a major player. The egg dropped from his lip back onto the plate and he scooped it up with a forkful of mushrooms.

‘So how old are
you
?' I asked.

Jake swallowed. ‘Twenty-five.'

‘And how did you become a screenwriter? Did you go to college?'

‘I did, but I dropped out. I'm more your “loner” writerly type.'

Something flashed in my mind: the first day Benji and I went to Hank's apartment, the figure in the apartment below Hank's hunched over a desk, music blaring.

‘So, this “death” thing you're involved with—'

‘It's not a “thing”. I just like visiting places where people have died.'

‘Sounds kinda sick.'

‘It's no sicker than this,' I said, looking around the restaurant at all the Beverly Hills housewives and their super-skinny daughters. ‘Half these people are walking corpses as it is. Botox has killed their skin cells.'

‘You crack me up, Hilda. You're like Mae West, or Ethel Merman. One of those larger-than-life, wise-crackin' vaudeville types.'

I didn't like the way he said my name, implying more familiarity than we had with each other. It felt too slick. ‘So I'm the funny fat chick?' I shot back.

Jake put his fork down. ‘Man, everything's an inquisition with you.'

‘You've got to be kidding me. You're the one asking a hundred questions like this is a Playboy interview.'

‘I am?' He looked down at his food and thought for a moment, and I visualised the cogs turning in his head. ‘Sorry, I get a bit over excited and don't realise I'm asking so many questions. I guess it's the writer in me.'

‘No, I'm sorry,' I apologised, slumping into the table. ‘I'm just worried about Hank.'

‘He's a strong guy. Stronger than you know. He can take care of himself.'

‘He doesn't have to. He has me.'

‘He's got me too. You and me, we're quite the good Samaritans, huh?'

Something about the way he said it made me think of the cat in the dumpster.
You're such good kids
, the woman had said. ‘I'm not trying to be a good Samaritan,' I said. ‘Hank's my friend.'

‘I didn't say he wasn't. Why are you so defensive? Man, I'd forgotten how moody teenagers can be.'

I picked up my bag and stood. Jake wiped his face with his napkin and stood as well.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Home.'

‘Oh come on, we're just having a conversation.'

‘Look, Jake, I'm really tired. Maybe we can talk some other time.'

He wiped his fingers with his napkin. ‘At least let me drive you.'

‘I'll get a cab. Thanks.'

I walked outside. He didn't come after me, and I hadn't expected him to. Out on Robertson Boulevard the sun was bright, too bright. The photographers turned in my direction to see if I was anyone, saw that I wasn't, and skulked off towards another restaurant.

TWENTY-ONE

As the cab left Beverly Hills I felt terrible. Maybe I
had
been a bad influence on Hank. Maybe he'd been happier before I came along, pushing him to go out into a world he was scared of, for what reason I still had no idea. Jake was his neighbour, had obviously known him for much longer than I had. Did I really know what was good for Hank, better than anyone else?

Benji was back from his vacation with his parents and ready to continue our expeditions, and to my surprise I was relieved. At least with Benji I knew who I was, where I stood in the pecking order of our relationship. There would be no surprises with Benji, at least, that's what I thought.

Our next excursion was to the ritzy suburb of Brentwood, and the condo on Bundy Drive where Nicole Simpson Brown and Ron Goldman were stabbed to death. Benji picked me up from outside my house and I could immediately tell he was agitated. His eyes were red, his movements jumpy. As we pulled out he hit the curb, sending one of his hub-caps flying onto my lawn.

‘You think you might wanna get that?' I asked as we sped off.

‘Later. We gotta get moving.'

‘Are you okay?'

‘I don't know, it's just being around my parents for so long, puts me on a fucking knife's edge.'

Benji was as riled as a cat that's been caught in the rain. His hands ran along the steering wheel like he was playing a musical instrument.

‘All that time in the woods with them, and no escape,' he said through a strained smile. ‘I felt so trapped I could've killed someone. But I'm back now, and we're back together, doing what we do best.'

‘Sure.'

‘That's right. Me and Hilda against the world. So what did you do while I was away? You must have been pretty bored without me, huh?'

‘Totally. I just hung out at home, you know, surfed the net.'

‘Did you go see that old guy again? Hank?'

‘Maybe once,' I lied. ‘Can't remember.'

‘Don't worry Hilda. You can have other friends. I'm okay with it.'

Benji started talking about the good parts of his vacation: jet-skiing on the lake, the day he took his new dirt bike out and went riding through the woods. I was only half-listening. I watched as the beautiful Brentwood houses went by, with their lush green lawns and high gates. I wondered if one day Jake might write a screenplay that would sell for millions of dollars, and would someday live in a house like that. Benji swerved onto Bundy Drive and the tyres screeched.

‘Chill out cowboy,' I said, holding onto the door handle. ‘You're gonna kill somebody.'

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. On the trip, Dad took me hunting for the first time. It was awesome. He gave me my own gun as an early birthday present.'

‘But you're not legal yet.'

‘Yeah, well he trusts me.'

‘You don't need a gun. That's crazy.'

‘Is it? There are so many fucking psychos out there Hilda. You can't trust anyone anymore. Especially in Los Angeles. This town breeds killers.'

‘I can't believe you went hunting. Hunting is so fucking barbaric, Benji.'

‘I sure did! Got some birds, a rabbit. One night, I snuck into the woods while Mom and Dad were asleep and bagged an owl. Do you know how hard that is to do?'

‘What the hell are you thinking? What right do you have to kill another creature?'

‘As much right as anyone else. It's Darwinism Hilda, survival of the fittest. Here—'

He reached across me to open the glove compartment and to my absolute horror a handgun tumbled into my lap. He scooped it up, cocked it like he was in an action movie.

‘Christ, Benji! Put that back!'

‘Don't worry. It's not loaded.'

‘If the cops see you they'll shoot you on sight! It's broad daylight!'

‘I don't care,' he said, and waved it out the window like Dirty Harry. ‘Look out motherfuckers!'

I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back in.

‘You're nuts Benji, you know that? That's not a toy. That's a gun. What are you trying to do? Suicide by cop?'

Benji just laughed. He put the revolver back in the glove compartment and closed it. ‘Relax Hilda. We can go shoot some shit later, so you can see how well it handles. And we won't shoot any animals seeing as how it makes you
so sad
.'

Before I could answer we had passed the house on Bundy Drive. The condo where Nicole Simpson died was an unassuming beige colour and was obscured by the garden. The new owner had renovated the front to make it less recognisable.

‘We've passed it,' I said as we screeched around the corner.