CIELO HANGOVER

Mike had no right to expect a Hollywood ending, but Hollywood ending he got regardless, even if it came at the cost of a human life. There's always a sacrifice to get to the end of the rainbow, his old man used to tell him.

Pragmatist that he was, Mike found he was able to fairly easily compartmentalise the grim incident in Benedict Canyon with his own genuine human intentions, which was probably the reason the jury had unanimously found him guilty of involuntary manslaughter and not first degree murder.

It was only when, in the prison cinema, they'd re-run a film with Reynolds starring in it that the sheer enormity of the incident pressed down on him and forced Mike to genuinely lament his professional negligence that night in August of 69. From the initial arrest through to the sentencing he'd been numb to the whole events of that night when he shot the actor in his own pool.

"That boy had genuine talent," his tattooed, ex-navy cell mate said to him, rubbing salt in the wound.

Having nearly done a full eighteen month stretch in California State Prison, Mike had had a lot of time to think about the past and everything he wanted to change about his future. At the forefront of his plans was making amends with Patricia, his ex-wife, who, to his great suprise, had stuck with him through the trial and prison sentence. He never asked her too many questions about her change of heart; he just knew he was grateful.

Sometimes he wondered who the young buck was she'd run off with. Maybe it was best he didn't. Nevertheless, she'd come back as he'd hoped and it was now time for them both to move on from there.

With his release date confirmed Mike was slowly reconfiguring his thinking to adjusting to life outside the bars but all he could think about was going to bed with his ex-wife and making sure he would never leave those arms of hers ever again.

And as if on cue, a Frank song came to his mind and he mulled over the lyrics as if his mind had selected it in this moment like a psychic jukebox. Christ. He was even sounding like a hippy himself these days.

"To love and be loved
That's what life's all about
Keeps the stars coming out
What makes a sad heart sing - the birds take wing"

This jail bird would soon take wing all the way back to his true love.

Had Reynolds been the price they'd had to pay for them to recover their marriage? He hoped not but suspected it played some part in them being back together though he still had no idea exactly why. Looking back on that whole summer of 69, Mike remembered the whole time as having a strange energy to it. Ever since the Tate murder there was a tangible and sticky heaviness in Los Angeles that hung in the air as pungent as the famous city smog. It was surely that paranoia which had prompted this whole chain of events though at the time he'd almost laughed at Reynolds' fear that day they first met at his house with the chain lock hanging across his front door. He wondered if maybe Manson and his gang could just have easily taken the rap for Reynolds' death as much as he. Perhaps more so.

But it wasn't Manson's fault that he'd fallen asleep in the sun lounger listening to Sinatra records, lamenting losing his ex-wife to a younger man.

No. That was on him.

Would the ghostly spectre of Reynolds hang over their chance of recovering their marriage?

He sincerely hoped not.