Free John Belushi Is Dead by Kathy Charles Page B

sound of the dial tone still echoing in my ear. I looked again at the photograph of Leslie Van Houten. When she was first convicted, she was just another gangly hippie teenager with scraggy brown hair, a glint of mischief in her eye. Now she was an old lady, her face gaunt, gray hair pulled back in a tight, old-fashioned bun. She had put a pillowcase over dress-shop owner Rosemary LaBianca’s head, tied it with electrical cord, and held her down while another Family member stabbed her in the stomach with a knife.
    I wondered if she thought it was all worth it now. Fate or no fate, I wondered if in agreeing to meet with Hank I was getting myself into something I was going to regret.

9
    T HE NEXT DAY I took a cab to Echo Park. It was going to cost a fortune, but I couldn’t bring myself to take the bus. There was something unsavory about riding public transportation in Los Angeles. All I could think of was the song by Billy Idol about the killer traveling on the bus, reading books about murder and thinking about his next victim. It was the Night Stalker’s favorite song. He’d play it on his Walkman as he skulked through people’s yards, looking for an unlocked window or open pet door. Anyway, I didn’t really have to worry about money. Lynette made enough as an assistant DA to give me a healthy allowance that kept me quiet and out of her hair.
    The driver turned on the radio and the Ramones were playing. I couldn’t believe that three of the band members were dead already. It sucked.
    â€œCan you turn it up?” I asked. The cabbie turned a knob, and the Ramones and their special brand of frenetic punk rock blasted throughout every corner of the cab.
    â€œPretty rockin’, huh?” the cabbie yelled over the music.
    â€œHell yeah.”
    â€œMost girls your age, they like the pop music, you know? Britney Spears. Christina Aguilera. They don’t like the good stuff. They think Maroon Five is rock and roll. I got more if you like.”
    The cabbie put in a CD of hard rock hits—AC/DC, Nine Inch Nails, Metallica. We drove down the freeway, the music battling against the sounds of traffic. Fifteen minutes later we pulled up outside the drab apartment building in Echo Park. The same mail catalogs were still on the lawn, dry and brittle like fossils. As I paid the driver and handed him his tip, he looked at me with concern.
    â€œYou okay?” he asked, looking up at the apartment building. “You need me to wait?”
    I considered it for a moment. “No, I’m fine. Thanks for the tunes.”
    The cabbie shook his head and drove off, which didn’t make me feel any better about this little expedition. I looked up at Hank’s apartment. Unlike the day before, the curtains were wide open, which made me feel a little better about being there. At least if I screamed it would be carried on the wind.
    â€œYOU!”
    I jumped. Hank was hanging out the window, waving.
    â€œHello,” I called, waving back.
    â€œCome up! Come up!” he said, motioning with his arms. “For Christ’s sake, don’t just stand there!”
    â€œUh, okay.”
    I walked up the stairs. The front door was already open when I got to the top; Hank was standing there in a pair of white shorts and a blue Hawaiian shirt. He looked better than the first day I met him. His hair was wet, like he’d just jumped out of the shower,and he smelled of aftershave. He waved me in. “Hurry. Come one, get inside. Quickly.”
    â€œI’m Hilda,” I said as I stepped inside, knowing it was a dumb thing to say as soon as it slipped out of my mouth, but I couldn’t help it. I was nervous.
    â€œI know who you are,” he barked. “What the hell you think I’ve been standing up here waving my arms for? Get inside, quick!”
    Hank threw the door closed behind me, but not before giving one last look outside as if he suspected I’d been followed. The