Free Hollywood Ending by Kathy Charles

he was saying wasn’t creeping under my skin and taking root in my veins. I didn’t like the sound of ‘consequences’, the way his eyes glazed over when he said it, like a murderer reminiscing about his last really satisfying kill. I wondered whether I could smash the tea cup right there on the table if I needed to, pick up a sliver of ceramic and drive it into his throat just as he lunged for me, or whether I should just throw the whole cup at his head, praying to God I hit a temple or some other magic spot that would make him black out. A hundred different scenarios raced through my mind from movies and TV shows: Dan Aykroyd getting a TV smashed over his head in Grosse Pointe Blank , the scene from Single White Female where a guy gets dispensed of with a high heel to the forehead. I stood.
    â€˜I gotta go. My brother’s gonna be outside. I told him to pick me up. He’ll be looking for me.’
    Hank laughed. ‘You ain’t got no brother pickin’ you up. What the hell is wrong with you? You think I’m gonna attack you?’
    â€˜I don’t know. When you sit there talking like Hannibal Lecter about “consequences” you can really start to freak a girl out.’
    â€˜What the hell do ya think I’m gonna do? My prick’s been useless for years. I’m lucky to get any piss out of it let alone make it stand to attention long enough to get my rocks off. So sit down will ya? You’re makin’ me nervous. I don’t get many people around here you know.’
    I stayed standing. ‘Listen, I know we did kind of a shitty thing. It was not a cool thing to do. But if you think you’re going to hold me hostage because I feel bad about it, and make me do some kind of forced community service by coming here to visit you to make up for it, you’re mistaken.’
    â€˜I ain’t holdin’ no one hostage. You came here of your own volition. And it’s because I have somethin’ for you. I wasn’t lyin’ about that. Just wait.’
    â€˜You know what? It’s cool. I don’t want anything.’
    â€˜No. Wait.’
    I watched him slink into the kitchen and take something off the bench. When he came back I saw it was an old brown paper bag, crinkled and stained. He handed it to me.
    â€˜What’s this?’ I asked.
    â€˜Open it.’
    â€˜It’s not some dude’s severed ear is it?’
    Hank cocked an eyebrow then scratched his ass. ‘You’re a weird kid, anyone ever tell you that?’
    â€˜Only every day.’
    I opened the bag an inch, went to look inside, then closed it again. I handed it back to Hank.
    â€˜You open it,’ I said. ‘I don’t feel like getting my finger ripped off by some bizarre booby trap.’
    â€˜Oh for Christ’s sake,’ he said, snatching the bag away. ‘Give it here.’
    He turned the bag upside down and tipped the contents out. In the middle of his liver-spotted hand sat a piece of blue ceramic tile. It was a perfect square, the edges sharp and exact except for one corner that was chipped, the whiteness exposed beneath. I carefully picked it out of his hand.
    â€˜What is it?’ I asked, turning it over in my fingers.
    â€˜A pool tile.’
    â€˜So why do I want this?’
    â€˜It’s from Jayne Mansfield’s swimming pool.’
    My heart skipped. I held the tile up to the light.
    â€˜Are you serious?’ I almost squealed. Hank smiled. It was too good to be true. Jayne Mansfield was a Playboy bunny and actress, a cheaper, gaudier version of Marilyn Monroe. She died when the car she was travelling in hit the back of a truck in poor light, decapitating her and killing the two men beside her while her children sat in the backseat. Her heart-shaped pool was a Hollywood icon, torn down by some unfeeling developer who didn’t much care for history. A couple of looters had managed to retrieve a few tiles from the