Free Hollywood Ending by Kathy Charles Page A

demolition site but mainly they were the stuff of legend. And now I had one, right in my hand, and it was blue and beautiful and filled with mystery. ‘Is this for me?’ I squeaked.
    â€˜Sure is. You can have it. I ain’t got no use for it.’
    I turned the tile over. It was so special, unique, perfect. ‘How did you get it?’
    â€˜I helped build Jayne Mansfield’s pool in the fifties. She was a real sweet girl. Terrible what happened to her. When we were done building it she gave each of us a tile from the pool. And that pool, shaped like a loveheart, what a sight. Such a shame.’
    â€˜Did you know her dog was decapitated in the car accident too?’ I asked. ‘A little Chihuahua sitting in the front seat on her lap.’
    Hank made a face. ‘Christ girl, how old are you?’
    â€˜Seventeen.’
    â€˜Seventeen and talkin’ like that. What is it with all this death crap? Do your parents know you’re into all this shit?’
    â€˜Sure,’ I lied. ‘They don’t care what I do.’
    â€˜Well, I don’t see no reason why a young, pretty lass like you gotta be fillin’ your head with all this morbid stuff.’
    â€˜It’s just a hobby.’
    â€˜Strange hobby. Sure ain’t stamp collecting.’
    â€˜I guess not.’
    â€˜Aw shit,’ he growled, and looked at the floor. ‘I feel like I got this all ass-backwards. How about we start again? I’m Hank. Hank Anderson.’
    â€˜Hilda Swann,’ I said, and held out my hand to shake his. ‘You really don’t know how much this means to me.’
    There was no way he could know. I had something in common with Jayne Mansfield. To own an item that once belonged to her just brought us closer together, made our fates even more entwined. Hank reached forward and took my fingers, shook my hand with a soft but firm grip, and it was then that I noticed the black smear on his arm that had once been a tattoo. It looked as though it had been scrubbed until it was nothing but an indistinguishable blob on the inside of his wrist.
    â€˜You know what Hilda Swann? You look like a young Louise Brooks. At least you would without that pink shit in your hair.’
    â€˜I’ll try and take that as a compliment.’
    I let go of his hand, acted like I hadn’t seen the mark on his arm. I noticed some old VHS tapes with no covers on top of the television set. ‘You like movies?’ I asked, picking one up.
    Hank groaned as he sat down in a worn armchair, splayed his legs and scratched at the rim of his boxers. ‘Sure, I like movies. If they’re good.’
    I read the tape labels. Gilda . Gone With the Wind . Gentlemen Prefer Blondes .
    â€˜Classics, huh?’
    Hank heaved himself up. ‘The trouble with Hollywood these days is the women have no grace. No style. All those sluts down on Sunset with their cooches hanging out. Goddamn tramps.’
    â€˜What about Julia Roberts? Reese Witherspoon?’
    â€˜Bah—it’s not the same. Back in my day, actresses were elegant. Refined . They were more than women; they were apparitions on the screen. We feared them, adored them.’
    â€˜So you haven’t seen Lindsay Lohan in Herbie the Love Bug ?’
    Hank frowned. ‘Today, everyone finds it so easy to laugh at things. Everything is a big joke.’
    â€˜Oh no, Lindsay Lohan is no joke. She’s a terrifying reality.’
    He tilted his head at me. ‘There is something about you that is too familiar. You make jokes, but they don’t come from a place of joy. A joke from the heart lights up an entire room. When you joke, there is no light. Your face goes dark.’
    I put the tape down on the television set and crossed my arms. ‘You wanna talk darkness? How’s it feel living in a place where a guy killed himself?’
    â€˜I’ve lived in worse.’
    I looked towards the bathroom. The door was open and