CIELO HANGOVER

It was late August in the summer of 69 and as Mike Angelo waited to be granted access to enter the private residence of Jack Reynolds, a major box office movie star, he tried to remember how many of the actor's films he had actually watched but he'd drawn a blank.

"You're on your own right?" Reynolds voice crackled through the security driveway speaker.

"Yeah. It's just me."

"Okay."

Reynolds buzzed Mike Angelo through the gates as he drove up the steep driveway to the star's luxury house ensconced in the grassy hills of Benedict Canyon.

The two men hadn't even faced each other yet and already Mike had a sense that Reynolds was on edge. It was understandable. The whole of Hollywood was on edge. The come down from the collective trip of the 60's was proving to be relentless and grim, like waking from a beautiful dream into a heavy nightmare of slaughter - those soft focus days of peace and love had practically disappeared overnight, now gone forever ever since the Tate murder a few weeks ago on Cielo Drive had sent a permanent chill down the spine of the Hollywood elite.

Leaving his car, Mike coudn't help but notice the large swimming pool outside Reynolds's house had become littered with empty bottles of booze that had fallen all the way to the bottom, creating a watery exhibition of liquor brands such as Seagram, Jack Daniels and Jose Cuevero Tequila. If he had his own pool, he thought to himself, the last thing he would do is turn it into a giant bottle bank.

"Hey man. If you don't mind I'd prefer you stay outside."

Mike looked up to see a half naked Reynolds holding a smoking stick of sage and standing in the doorway of his house with a chain lock hanging across it.

"Whatever works for you."

"What star sign are you?" Jack asked the burly looking man standing by his pool.

"I'm a Capricorn."

"Capricorn. Okay. That's good, I think. You can be stubborn bastards, though. Am I right?"

Mike smiled to himself, remembering an article he'd read that Capricorns had the highest number of psychopaths in the zodiac.

"We're just like anyone else. I gotta be honest. I don't really subscribe to all that astrology stuff."

Reynolds seemed to visibly relax with Mike Angelo's no nonsense way of talking.

"Bottom line. I need someone to watch this place at night. I've barely slept since all that madness happened just a few weeks back. Would be nice to know I can sleep without thinking some crazy mother fuckers are gonna try and murder me while I'm catching some Z's."

Mike reached for a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

"Hey man! What the fuck are you doing?!"

"I'm just reaching for a cigarette. That okay with you?"

Reynolds breathed a sign of relief.

"Jesus. I thought you were gonna pull something on me. Go ahead and smoke. I'm just a little jumpy lately, is all."

"I noticed. You really need to try and relax, Mr Reynolds. I know everyone's a bit spooked lately but you need to put it in perspective. It's unlikely anyone is going to be targeted immediately after such a sensational crime scene as they one they left. This is a once in a generation type deal if you ask me. Lightning won't be striking twice in this instance. I'd put money on it."

"You would?"

"I'll go lay a bet down later today."

Reassured by Mr Angelo's steady and calm tone of voice, Reynolds unlocked the chain across his door and went to meet him by the pool.

"That's good you think that, although you might just be talking yourself out of job."

Mike Angelo shrugged. He had plenty of other offers to consider anyway, from local business security management to private clients - perhaps just a little less glamorous than Reynolds.

"There's always work for me somewhere."

"It's just lately I've been having these nightmares where I end up stabbed hundreds of times and I end up falling into the pool here and the water turns from crystal blue to rust red. Scares the shit out of me."

"I understand. I don't mind if you want me to do the graveyard shift watching over the place. I can do most nights with the exception of Sundays which I'll get someone else to do for me. Someone I trust."

Reynolds nodded.

"Okay. That sounds good."

The actor felt comforted that Mr Angelo was taking control of the situation in such a straightforward manner.

"You want to stay in the main house? Or you could stay in the old greenhouse. It's fully furnished and even has its own bar. There's a table tennis table if you fancy a game."

"Whatever you prefer. As long as there's a shower and bathroom facility and I got a decent overview of house with its main exits and entrances."

"Come take a look."

Reynolds ushered Mike to follow him to the old style greenhouse that seemed an ornate relic from an older age of Hollywood. The golden age.

Looking around, it brought memories of Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep, one of Mike's favourite movies from the old days.

"Who knew greenhouses without anything green in them could be so useful," Mike observed, admiring the decent amount of space he could enjoy at the top of the garden overlooking the house.

"It's not too bad and you even have a clearer view of the Pacific Ocean from here than you do down in the house. Sometimes I meditate up here but I don't expect you to join me."

Mike had no idea what Reynolds was talking about.

"That's good. I'd probably end up shooting you."

Jack looked aghast.

"It was a joke."

With Mike Angelo keeping an eye on the place, Jack Reynolds went out for the evening. It was the first time he'd left his house since the Tate murder.

He felt sufficently reassured by the solid seeming security expert that he now felt he could enjoy a night of freedom after being held hostage to fear in his house for the past few weeks.

But it soon became apparent to Jack Reynolds that everyone around him in the club was also on edge. Overhearing people exchanging tips on house security and possible relocating to new pastures as a way of moving on from the blood shed at Cielo Drive, wasn't exactly of much comfort to him. Jack was feeling as if things had now irrevocably changed in Hollywood for the worst.

"I'm thinking about putting a barbed wire fence round the whole place. Maybe even get a dog," said the actress Nancy Friedman who was sitting next to Jack while the stoned musicians on the stage performed a heavy sounding noise that was vibrationally just a little too much for his delicate state of mind.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"No. But if you got any valium that would be great."

It just so happened he did, and as they both necked a couple of pills, they tried to forget the stress of the past few weeks as the increasingly violent sounding music ran rough shod over any further attempts at conversation between them.

Up at the house, Mike was having a great time. He'd noticed a record player set up in the corner of the disused greenhouse and had brought his favourite Sinatra record, "Cycles", along with him to play on it.

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I looked at clouds that way

Listening to Frank murdering Joni Mitchell's From Both Sides Now in all the best ways with jangling harpsichord, an upbeat rhythm section and happy go lucky strings, Mike couldn't help feel that his generation was having the last laugh on these crazy hippy kids of the valley.

"What a mess," he said to himself, shaking his head, pouring himself a drink from the bar and lighting up another cigarette.

And as the next track, "Little Green Apples", started up, Mike decided to go and wander out into the garden with Sinatra's mellow, middle-aged voice following him into the dark night.

And if that's not lovin' me (lovin' me)
Then all I've gotta say (gotta say)Is God didn't make little green apples
And it don't rain in Indianapolis in the summertime
There's no such thing as Dr. Seuss
No Disneyland, Mother Goose, there's no nursery rhyme

Stretching out on the sun lounger and enjoying the nocturnal atmosphere of Los Angeles at night, Mike started to reminisce about his ex-wife who'd run off with some hippy nutjob the previous summer after she and her friends had stumbled upon a music festival in Costa Mesa on the way back from a day out shopping. For all he knew she might even have joined a cult.

Somehow, he knew she'd regret leaving him in the end.

But all he could do now was just keep going on his own.

Relaxed and reflective, Mike fell asleep by the blue, illuminated pool.

It was just before 3 in the morning and Jack Reynolds returned home alone, his date too cautious to take a chance on being anywhere but her own place.

Incredulous to find Mike Angelo asleep on his sun lounger, so obviously neglecting his professional duties, Jack felt genuinely betrayed. To make matters worse the sound of the unhip Sinatra crooning through the night air added further insult to injury.

Sneaking up toward his security guard to surprise him, Jack held his breath just before he planned to shake Mike Angelo from his slumber with his outstretched hand.

Back in the Korean war Mike had often spent many nights half sleeping whilst always prepared for stealth attacks from the enemy.

BANG!!!

Jack Reynolds flew a few feet back from the sheer force of the trio of bullets Mike blew through him. He died instantly in the pool, which turned from blue to red just as the actor had ominously dreamed.

"Ah fuck it!"

As first nights on the job go, this was was probably the worst in Mike's career. He'd called the police to report the incident as he painfully remembered his confident guarantee about lightning not striking twice.

"I should have kept my mouth shut."

Even the Sinatra record playing on repeat offered no comfort to him now, not least because the weakest track on side one was playing at this, the worst possible moment.

I close my eyes and just see pretty colors,
They're dancing just for me, pretty colors (pretty colors)
Locked in my mind they'll always be,
You'll never give your love to me,
So I'll just close my eyes and just see pretty colors (pretty colors).

Sometimes, he thought, a decade can't end soon enough.

The 60's were done.