Read Online Hollywood Ending by Kathy Charles - Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Hello?’ I said. A voice filled with gravel snapped back.
    â€˜HUH?’
    I waited. ‘Uh…hello?’
    â€˜Is this Hilda?’
    â€˜Yes it is. Who’s this?’
    â€˜This is Hank.’
    My mind was blank. ‘I’m sorry, who?’
    â€˜HANK!’ the voice boomed back. ‘From Echo Park.’
    â€˜Echo Park?’
    â€˜You came to my place, you and your friend with the camera. You took photos of my bathroom.’
    â€˜How did you get this number?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.
    â€˜I called that wise-ass friend of yours. He left his card with me. I called and he gave me your number.’
    â€˜I’m sure he did.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You will be.’
    â€˜Listen, I’m flattered, but you’re not really my type, get what I’m saying?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜â€™Cause it’s not for him! It’s for you!’
    â€˜You know what? This is very nice of you