Hollywood Ending (3 page)

He pointed at the second-storey apartment at the front of the building, facing the road. The heavy brown curtains were drawn.

‘Are you sure?' I said. ‘Shouldn't you go by the death certificate?'

‘Nah. This guy said he actually lived here when it happened, and that Bernie's apartment was definitely up there.'

‘Did he tell you he knew Elvis too?'

We walked past the ground-floor apartment with its blaring Rolling Stones and I noticed someone inside sitting hunched over a computer. We made our way up the concrete steps, avoiding the rusty railing. The upstairs apartment had a big wooden door and a flywire screen that was falling off its hinges. A wicker mat said WELCOME in big black letters.

‘See?' Benji said. ‘Welcome. There's probably some real nice folks living here.'

I looked along the row of apartments. A couch with torn upholstery sat on the balcony, and an ashtray on the ground was overflowing with butts. A strange odour hung in the air, like home cooking gone horribly wrong. It smelt like somebody was boiling up a dog. I gagged.

‘Can you smell that?' I whispered. ‘That's rancid.'

Benji lifted his fingers into claws. ‘Perhaps it is the votting vemains of the late, great Bernie Bernall,' he said, giving his best Bela Lugosi impersonation.

‘Can we just get on with this, please? Let's get your shit and get out of here.'

Benji banged on the door with a heavy fist. ‘Anyone home?' he yelled.

‘Jesus, Benji,' I whispered, pulling on his arm. ‘They'll think it's the cops.'

‘You don't get what you want in this world if you don't show strength, Hilda.'

‘Why thank you, Anthony Robbins.'

He banged again. Inside the apartment nothing stirred. A dog barked in the distance. I could feel someone's eyes on my neck and turned around to catch an old woman peering at me through her curtains. I gave her a small wave and she ducked back inside.

‘No one here,' I said, throwing up my hands. ‘Let's go.'

It was then we heard the sound of a dozen locks turning inside the apartment. We waited as bolts and chains were slid and unhooked. I grabbed Benji's arm. The door opened a crack before one final chain caught it, and a bearded face gazed out, a wrinkled eye looking us up and down.

‘WHAT?' the old man thundered. ‘WHATTA YOU WANT?'

‘Good afternoon sir,' Benji said, holding out his hand and trying to slip it through the slit in the door. When the man didn't take it Benji withdrew his hand, dismayed. ‘We were wondering if we could talk to you for a moment?'

‘WHAT ABOUT? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT?'

Benji looked at me. I looked at the old man, our eyes meeting.

‘Well,' Benji said, ‘you sir live in a very unique property—'

‘I AIN'T SELLIN'! I AIN'T GONNA SELL, GODDAMNIT!'

‘No sir, you misunderstand me. Something very interesting happened in your apartment once. We were just hoping you would let us inside so we could have a look around and take some pictures.'

Benji held up his camera.

‘You gonna give me that camera?' the old man asked, a hint of a smirk on his face.

‘Ah, no, but I can give you something for your trouble.'

Benji pulled out his wallet and removed a ten dollar bill. The guy was obviously poor, and lonely. He'd be a pushover.

The old man stood for a moment, considering the proposition. I could feel the vilest heat radiating from inside and figured he didn't have an air conditioner. I would have been just as happy had he turned us away on the spot.

‘Do you know me?' he finally growled. Benji looked at me and we both shook our heads.

‘No sir, we don't.'

‘You don't know me?'

‘No. Should we? Are you famous or something?'

Another pause. ‘You wanna come in and take some photos. That's it?'

‘That's all we want to do, just take some photos of your bathroom.'

‘You ain't from the estate agents?'

‘No.'

‘The government?'

‘No. We are—private operators.'

The old man extended a spotted hand through the crack in the door. Benji handed him the bill and he snatched it.

‘Any chance of some bath tiles?' Benji asked.

I was sure the door would be slammed in our faces, but instead the man smiled and extended his hand again. Without hesitation Benji pulled out another ten dollar bill and stuck it in his scrawny fingers. The old man shut the door and we heard the sound of the last chain unlocking. The door opened. He stood in front of us in boxers and a stained white T-shirt, his ragged blond hair flecked with grey and a gnarled cigar in his hand. He stepped aside to let us enter.

‘Thank you very much, sir,' Benji said, wiping his feet, the very model of good manners. The man put his hand roughly on Benji's shoulder.

‘The name's Hank, son,' he said. ‘You call me sir again, I'll knock your teeth through your goddamn head.'

‘Okay dude, it's all cool,' Benji said, holding up his hands. He looked back at me and grinned. I waited outside, frozen to the WELCOME mat. The man named Hank looked at me as Benji made his way around the apartment, picking up items and snapping pictures of light fittings and doorknobs.

‘You coming in?' he barked.

I scurried inside, racing over to be close to Benji. The apartment was a mess. An old black-and-white television was propped in the corner, a coat-hanger for an antenna. There were empty bottles of wine on the floor. Next to a small desk by the window were stacks of newspapers. The ashtrays were full, and in some the embers were still smouldering. From the living room you could see the kitchen, the dishes piled high, the cupboards open and bare. Hank scratched his head and stuck the cigar between his teeth. He watched with curiosity as Benji took photographs, touched the surface of the walls and looked at the view from the window.

‘Are you reporters?' Hank asked me.

‘Not reporters exactly,' Benji butted in. ‘More like enthusiasts. Is the bathroom through here?' Benji gestured to a closed door.

Hank nodded and smiled, amused. ‘You wanna photograph my shitter too?'

‘Would that cost me extra?'

The smile disappeared from Hank's face and was replaced with an icy stare. ‘Are you some kind of wise-ass?'

‘He's just playing around,' I said. ‘The truth is, a famous movie star once lived in this apartment.'

‘No shit?'

‘His name was Bernie Bernall,' Benji interjected once again. ‘He was one of the biggest stars of the silent era. Valentino had nothing on him.'

‘I ain't never heard of him.'

‘Maybe he was before your time.'

‘So he lived here?' Hank looked around his apartment, disbelieving.

‘Sure did. And he died here too. In there.'

Benji opened the bathroom door and went in. I stood waiting in the living room, while Hank went into the bathroom and looked over his shoulder. This was taking too long. I wanted to be out of that dirty apartment and back in the sunshine. Hank came back and stood beside me. I looked at the floor.

‘Gee, that guy's music is pretty loud,' I said, motioning to the apartment below.

‘The walls here are paper-thin,' he grunted, stomping his foot. ‘Shut the hell up!' he yelled, and abruptly the music switched off. ‘Damn kid, always plays his music too loud. So, you're not in school?'

I shook my head. ‘No. Well, yeah, we go to school, but it's summer vacation.'

‘So why ain't you at the beach, or the pool?'

‘That's not really our kind of scene.'

‘Oh,' he grunted. ‘And this is?'

I shrugged and offered him a small smile. We stood for a moment in awkward silence.

‘So what's with your friend?' he asked. ‘Is he in the military or something?'

‘No, he just dresses like he is.'

‘What for?'

At this I laughed. ‘I think he just likes it. Maybe it makes him feel more masculine.'

‘Well he looks goddamn ridiculous if you ask me.'

‘Hilda, come look at this!' Benji called out. I walked into the bathroom, grateful to be away from Hank and his questions. Benji was staring at the sink. ‘It's the original one,' he whispered. ‘It hasn't been replaced.'

I leant forward. It was definitely the original. There were even dark splatter stains along the rim. I looked at the floor. There were spots there too.

‘Whatcha lookin' at?' Hank asked, peering around the door.

‘Oh, nothing,' I said. ‘Benji, you got what you need?'

‘Just a second,' he answered, and snapped a few more shots. Hank wandered back out to the kitchen, clearly bored. I followed and watched him fill a kettle and place it on the stove.

‘You like tea?' he asked.

‘Tea? Uh, sure.'

He took three mugs from the cupboard and placed a teabag in each. When Benji walked out of the bathroom and saw the cups he recoiled.

‘Oh, no thanks, man. We gotta get going.'

Hank held a small spoon in midair, ready to scoop sugar from a jar.

‘You sure? Ain't no trouble. You ain't from the government or the newspapers, I ain't got no beef with you.'

‘Maybe we could stay for one cup?' I said.

‘No, we can't,' said Benji quickly. ‘We have that thing we have to get to, remember?'

‘Oh, of course,' I said, although I felt a pinch of guilt for skipping out on Hank so fast. He was obviously lonely and staying would have been the nice thing to do. But nice wasn't in Benji's repertoire.

‘So, Hank,' Benji said, holding out a business card. ‘If you ever decide to get a new bathroom sink or sell the one you got, give me a call. I'll take it off your hands, and for a reasonable price.'

‘Now why the hell would I get a new bathroom sink?'

‘Any number of reasons. Just, if it happens, give me a call.'

Hank took the card. I watched him study it, as if he could extract some greater meaning from what was printed on it, an answer to why we were there.

‘All right,' he said, and slid the card into his boxers. ‘All right.'

Benji walked out the front door and I followed. Hank caught my hand as we left, leant in close and spoke quietly into my ear.

‘That movie star,' he said. ‘How did he die?'

I hesitated. ‘He killed himself.'

Hank let go of my hand, nodded, and went back inside. He slammed the door and I heard the locks turn once again. Benji was already down the stairs, photographing the front of the apartment block. I ran down to be with him, in the sunlight where it was warm and you could see the blue of the sky.

‘Damn,' Benji laughed, as we drove back towards Hollywood. ‘And I thought Bukowski was dead.'

‘You didn't have to be an asshole,' I said. ‘You didn't have to make fun of him.'

‘The guy was a freak Hilda. “Do you know me? Do you know who I am?” He was like something out of a James Ellroy novel.'

‘
He
was a freak? You told the guy someone died in his apartment!'

‘And that's probably the most exciting thing that's ever happened to him. Did you see all those empty wine bottles? By the rate he's putting it away, he'll have forgotten we were even there by tomorrow.'

I picked up Benji's camera and started scanning through the pictures. The bathroom in Hank's apartment was small and cramped, tomb-like. In one photo I could see Benji's reflection in the mirror, imposing and out of place in his army gear. In another photo Benji's detached, floating arm pointed out an original light fixture while Hank lingered at the edge of frame. In the next photo, taken just seconds later, Hank had raised an arm to cover his face. I turned the camera off and put it in the glove compartment in the spot where the pepper spray had been.

‘Such an angry way to die,' I said, trying to shake Hank from my mind. ‘You know, stabbing yourself with a pair of scissors. It's not like pills, or even shooting yourself. It's like Bernie was still trying to say to the world hey, I'm different, I'm special, even as he was dying.'

‘All suicide is angry,' Benji said in a dismissive tone. ‘Suicide by its very nature is a hostile act, an affront to the natural order. It's an offence against God.'

I looked out the window at the tourists walking down Hollywood Boulevard, disposable cameras in hand, taking photos of the metallic stars on the sidewalk and the footprints in the cement.

‘I read an interesting theory the other day,' Benji continued. ‘Some religions believe that when we die we are reincarnated, and some souls just aren't ready to come back. They haven't dealt with all the things in their past life and they aren't at peace, and when they come back into the world they can't handle it. People who are crazy or killers are souls that weren't ready to come back, and just can't adjust to the world again. It's the same with suicides.'

‘So suicides are lost souls?' I asked. Benji didn't look at me.

‘I don't know. That's just what I read.'

THREE

Benji lived in a large house a few blocks from mine; it was all glass and steel surfaces and reminded me of Cameron's house in
Ferris
Bueller's Day Off
, where everything was cold and beautiful and he wasn't allowed to touch anything. Benji's dad was some kind of banker who worked long hours and was never home. His mom's job was to make sure the house always looked perfect. Benji's dad wouldn't let them hire a cleaner and Benji ordered his mom around the house like a servant, but she didn't seem to mind. I guess it made her feel useful.

We lay on Benji's bed listening to Nirvana, hands in our pockets, heads barely touching. Next to us was a tray of freshly baked cookies Mrs Connor had just served us, the chocolate soft and warm. Benji's cat Freddie was curled at our feet. The CD was a bootleg of Kurt Cobain laying down tracks in the studio, strumming an acoustic guitar and trying to work out what chords to use. We preferred to listen to bootleg recordings. They were raw and real, the distilled essence of the musician before the mixing desk came in and smoothed everything over. In the half-light of Benji's lamp it was easy to imagine Kurt sitting in the corner of the room, head down, chipped fingernails picking at the strings of an old Martin guitar; but if you turned to look at him he would disappear, dissolving into the air, and all that would be left were the last picked notes, floating into the night.