Hollywood Ending (27 page)

‘Okay.'

Jake slunk back to his convertible. Lynette came and put her arm around me, and together we watched him drive away. I put my head on her shoulder.

‘Who was that?' she asked, stroking my hair.

‘That was Jake.'

‘Cute.'

I laughed, wiped my nose with my sleeve.

‘Well, you gotta admit, he's a hell of a lot better looking than Benji.'

‘That's mean,' I said, but couldn't help grinning.

‘You want some ice-cream?'

I sniffled. ‘Okay.'

We walked back inside.

‘You know what? That thing you did with your badge? That was actually pretty cool.'

‘Next time I'll pull a gun,' she said. ‘But only if you want me to.'

THIRTY-NINE

The party sounded tasteless even by Benji's standards. The invitation was a flash animation showing a bloated and passed-out John Belushi with a large hypodermic needle in his arm. ‘Come and party with the ghost of Belushi,' it read. ‘B.Y.O. beer. Speedballs optional.'

Benji had rented Bungalow 3 at the Chateau Marmont on the Sunset Strip. Bungalow 3 was the room where John Belushi OD'd after a five-day drug binge, shattering the dreams of an entire generation overnight. Now Benji and his creepy friends would be trashing the place where he died, eating from his fridge and doing God knows what else. The invitation billed it as a memorial event, but I knew there was nothing sacred about this little soiree. I was also pretty sure that the Chateau wouldn't have rented Bungalow 3 to Benji had they known what he was using it for.

Everyone knew that the Chateau had a policy never to discuss what had happened in Bungalow 3. Belushi's death was a piece of Hollywood history the hotel would rather forget. I was convinced that, if they caught wind that Benji's party had anything to do with what had happened in that room, we would all be thrown out, no questions asked. Still, it was a chance I was willing to take. The hotel was notoriously difficult to access unless you were an A-list star. I didn't know how Benji had pulled it off, but if there was a chance I could see inside Bungalow 3, I was going to take it.

I also wanted to see Benji. I was desperate for something familiar. Maybe the break had done us good, and when we saw each other we could pick up where we left off, everything as it once was. I also felt lonely. I figured being around people my own age was probably just what I needed.

As a cab took me down the Sunset Strip I thought about how much everything had changed. Once Benji and I had explored this town together. One night we had loitered outside the Viper Room, too young to actually get in, trying to imagine what it was like the night River Phoenix died on the pavement outside. Benji had come armed with a mallet and chisel, determined to hammer out the part of the pavement where River collapsed, and take a piece home for his collection. The moment Benji crouched down, tools at the ready, a cop car slowed to a crawl beside us. I told them Benji was mentally ill and thought there was buried treasure beneath the streets of Los Angeles. I promised to help him home and make sure he took his medication.

Another night we tried to sneak into On the Rox, the private room above The Roxy nightclub where Belushi spent his final hours before leaving for the Chateau. There was no bribing the doorman, who was well versed in prohibiting entry to the many wannabes and hangers-on who plagued the Sunset Strip. Benji tried to convince him we were the kids of a major studio head, a claim we thought the doorman couldn't really dispute. But when he produced a list and asked for our names and Benji blurted out the first studio head that came into his mind, the doorman calmly informed us that our dad had barred us from the club. So we lurked outside on the pavement, staring up at the blacked-out windows of the Roxy Nightclub, picturing that fateful night in 1982, when Belushi had his last shot for the evening and unknowingly bid the world adieu.

It was hard to get away with anything in Los Angeles.

Once this town had been
ours
. Now, like so many other things in my life, I had lost Benji too. As the cab pulled up to the Chateau Marmont, that huge, towering castle on the hill, I hoped I might find something in my relationship with Benji to salvage. I paid the driver and, before I could reach over, someone had opened the door for me. The bellboy tipped his cap and a crowd of photographers surged forward, acting on instinct. Then I emerged and they faded away just as quickly.

‘Are you a guest?' the bellboy asked. ‘Do you have any bags?'

‘I'm here for a party,' I said, sure I would be turned away on the spot. I was wearing a black slip-dress and a pair of Lynette's high heels, two sizes too big. ‘It's in Bungalow 3.'

‘Of course,' the bellboy said. ‘Follow me.'

Bungalow 3 had a private entranceway around the back. As I followed the bellboy up the laneway I could already hear music. A single street lamp illuminated the entrance to the Bungalow, a gate familiar to me from so many photographs on the internet. I had seen footage of Belushi being carried through this gate in a body bag. I waited for the shivers of excitement that usually came whenever I stood at a site like this, but felt nothing, only the wind on my bare shoulders. The bellboy tipped his cap again. I gave him a few dollars and he scampered off into the night. I pushed the gate open and went inside.

The Bungalows at the Chateau Marmont are more like little homes than hotel suites. I walked the long path to the front door, the music so loud I could barely hear my footsteps on the concrete. I knocked, and a moment later the door swung open as if someone had been waiting behind it. Benji stood there in a black suit and sunglasses, a black fedora on his head, a Budweiser in his hand. We looked at each other for a moment, saying nothing, then a broad smile broke out across his face.

‘Hilda!' he yelled too loudly.

He was drunk.

‘Where you been?'

‘Nice suit,' I said.

‘I'm a Blues Brother! Isn't this great?'

He stepped forward, awkward, and threw his arm around my shoulder. Inside people lounged on couches and stood in doorways. Some were dressed like Benji, others were wearing togas, a homage to
Animal House
. John Lee Hooker, Belushi's favourite blues artist, was playing on the stereo, and old episodes of
Saturday Night Live
were on the television. I watched the screen. Belushi was prancing around in a giant bumblebee costume. The story goes that he hated that costume, and whenever the producers asked him to wear it he could barely hide his disgust, even when on air. You could see the boredom in his eyes. With his hands on his fuzzy yellow and black belly, antennae flying above his head, he looked like a man who had given up hope.

‘Who the hell are all these people?' I asked Benji.

‘They're just people, you know? I met most of them online.'

Yeah, just people more than willing to take advantage of his hospitality. ‘How did you get this place?'

‘Oh, you see Bruce over there?' He pointed to an enormous, brooding figure in the corner of the kitchen, clutching a bottle of bourbon close to his chest. ‘He works for some big producer. I met him at a séance. He got the room for us.'

‘A séance?'

‘You should have been there, Hilda. You would have loved it. We talked to Sinatra!'

‘Why the hell would Sinatra want to talk to you guys?'

‘Because we made a sacrifice to him.'

‘A sacrifice? Not more goldfish Benji, please.'

Benji made the sign of the cross over his heart and smirked. ‘No more goldfish. That I can promise you. Can I get you a drink or something?'

‘Anything.'

He ran to the kitchen and threw open the refrigerator door. Séances? I didn't want to ask any more about the sacrifices part. It looked like Benji had sacrificed more than he was aware of to these new friends of his. I looked around the room. A woman wearing fishnet tights and a leotard scowled at me from the kitchen bench, her cigarette dropping ash on the floor. A guy in the living room pulled his toga up, and I caught a glimpse of pink, wobbling flesh before everyone started applauding. It was obvious things had gone from bad to worse for Benji. He came back with a beer and handed it to me.

‘Who the hell is that?' I said, pointing towards the guy in the toga who was now waving his junk in everyone's faces. The girls screamed.

‘That's Sammy. He's the coolest.' Benji laughed and clapped his hands. ‘Way to go Sammy!'

I felt the room closing in on me. I put the unopened beer on the counter.

‘Are you okay? Benji asked. ‘You don't look good. Are you sick?'

‘No, I'm just tired. Can I sit down somewhere?'

‘Let's go over here.'

Benji led me to an empty couch. ‘I'm just gonna get another beer,' he said. ‘Don't go anywhere. Just stay right there.'

‘Fine. Go.'

Benji went back into the kitchen and started talking to the woman in the leotard. A girl wearing a sarong came and sat down beside me. Her hair was long and blonde and her hands were decked out in amber rings. ‘Cool party, huh?' she said.

I put my hand to my head. ‘Sorta. I guess. Sorry, I've actually got a headache.'

‘So you feel it too?'

‘Feel what?'

She lifted her arms in the air as if she was going to float off. ‘The energy in the air, the vibe of the place. Can't you just feel him here? He's here with us.'

‘Who? Belushi?'

‘He totally wants us to party with him. That's what he was all about—energy, life, living it to the fullest. Rockin' out.'

I stared at her. ‘I don't think I caught your name.'

‘It's Amelia. Like the Joni Mitchell song.'

‘Right, okay. Amelia? I'm sorry to disagree with you, but Belushi wasn't about life and energy and all that positive crap you're talking about. Belushi was an
addict
. Just another sad, pathetic actor wandering the streets of Hollywood looking for all the attention he could get. There was nothing positive about what happened to Belushi. He died thousands of miles from his home, thousands of miles from his wife, in a hotel room with a hooker. Tell me what's so positive about that.'

‘I don't understand. Don't you like Belushi?'

‘God! Are you even listening to me? Belushi was a genius, a supremely talented being who fucked up his life with drugs and alcohol. He may have been funny, he may have made us laugh, but in the end he was just sad and pathetic. He was just another piece of roadkill on the Hollywood highway.'

‘But he was pretty funny wasn't he?' she said, looking confused. ‘He was a funny guy, right?'

‘Yes, Amelia. He was
hilarious
.'

‘I like
The Blues Brothers
. That was a funny movie.'

‘Yes,
The Blues Brothers
was
hilarious
. By the way, that Joni Mitchell song, “Amelia”? It was about Amelia Earhart.'

‘Cool. Who's Amelia Earhart?'

‘Exactly,' I said, and stood. ‘If you'll excuse me for a moment.'

I walked across the room and down the hallway, looking for a bathroom. I passed the first bedroom on the right, not the one Belushi died in but a smaller one that was being used as the party's cloakroom. There were jackets on the bed and on the ground, and a fresh pool of vomit lay perilously close to a trench coat. I turned away, saw the closed door at the end of the hallway, the door to Belushi's bedroom and, instead of going towards it, I quickly turned right into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it.

I turned on the tap, threw water over my face, and my eye make-up started to run. ‘Shit!' I mumbled, grabbing a tissue from next to the sink and trying ineffectively to dab away the black lines that were now running down my face. What was wrong with me? I was at a party at the Chateau Marmont, Hollywood's most legendary hotel, in Bungalow 3 no less. Led Zeppelin rode their motorbikes through the foyer. James Dean climbed through a window to audition for
Rebel Without a Cause
. Jim Morrison nearly killed himself dangling from a drain pipe. Why couldn't I just enjoy myself?

I turned off the tap and rubbed the black from my face. I took a deep breath and stepped outside. The party was in full swing. People were standing in the hallway, talking quietly, drinking, kissing. I turned towards Belushi's bedroom. The door was still closed, but behind it I could hear the sound of laughter. I turned the handle and pushed the door; it creaked open.

On the bed were three guys wearing suits, ties undone, black sunglasses on. One of them rolled over on the bed in quick, jerky movements while the other guys laughed.

‘Look at me! I'm Belushi!' he said as he writhed on the bed sheets. He kicked and shook and made heaving noises. ‘Help me! I'm dying! Don't leave me here! Don't leave me here to die!'

They all started laughing. One of them noticed me standing in the door, held out a compact mirror and offered me a rolled up note.

‘Want some coke?' he asked. I could see the powder sitting on the end of his nose.

‘No thanks, I'm on the wagon,' I said, and he shrugged before doing a line while his friends watched.

I closed the door again, suddenly feeling really sick, as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I didn't belong there, I needed to get out, get away. Death was all around me. I stumbled down the hallway and tried to make my way through the partygoers who were dancing to ‘Louie Louie' in the living room, just like in
Animal House
. I made my way to the front door, managed to pull it open, and Benji came rushing over.

‘Hey, what's going on?' he said, slamming the door closed and standing in front of it. ‘Where are you going?'

‘I'm sorry, Benji. I'm leaving.'

I tried to push past him but he grabbed my arm and twisted it. ‘Hey!' I screamed. ‘Get your hands off me!'

‘Okay, I'm sorry,' he said quietly, letting go. ‘Don't get so crazy. Can't you just stay?'