“What story? Who told you to look into another story?” Oswald snapped.
Rallston was too tired to argue. “I think it might be something big,” he said.
Oswald crossed his arms and grimaced.
“Just hear me out,” Rallston pleaded.
Oswald was wary but he sighed, unable to resist. “This better be good.”
“I found some leads on the Warren August thing,” Rallston replied.
Oswald held his hands out to his sides in amazement. “I told you, that’s not your story!” he yelled. “What do I have to do around here?!” Everyone else in the newsroom watched the interaction from their desks, waiting for a full meltdown from the editor; each one of them secretly relieved not to be in Rallston’s shoes.
“Would you listen for a minute?!” Rallston was becoming agitated himself.
“I’ve already got two reporters on that story full-time!” said Oswald. “It’s their story! Not yours! Your story is Big Bird, understand?”
“No, damn it!” Rallston had never before raised his voice to his editor. Both of them were equally shocked, but Rallston didn’t stop. “What the hell have they found out so far? Huh? You tell me that!” he shouted.
“Oh, you’re pushing it!” said Oswald. “You’re really doing it this time! After all of the years that I’ve protected you!”
“Protected me!? That’s a laugh! We both know where I’d be if you had your way! So you go ahead and tell me what your team has found? I already know the answer. Nothing! Not a god damned thing! In the meantime I’ve been crisscrossing the country interviewing his sister, his fiancé, and yes, his parents!”
Oswald’s expression morphed to one of disbelief. His jaw hung low. “You found his parents?” he said. “His fiancée?”
“On my own time, with my sick days and my money! You’re lucky I’m even sharing this story with you at all! I should quit and sell it on my own! Ha! Maybe I should call up
Variety
? If you want to get rid of me so badly, go ahead! Fire me! I’ve got their number right here!”
Oswald moved backwards in a daze until he found the nearest chair where he plopped down to think. Suddenly the investigative wheels in his head were spinning. “Does anybody else know about this?” he asked.
“Nobody knows a thing,” Rallston answered, trying to calm himself down.
“So where is the man himself?” Oswald wanted to know.
“According to what his sister told me, I think Warren August is homeless. Every other reporter in town is looking for a suave, debonair movie star, but he’s probably hiding right under our noses. I’m willing to bet he’s on the street somewhere within twenty blocks of this office right now,” said Rallston.
Oswald was quiet. Maybe he’d been wrong about Rallston, but he had a hard time admitting it even to himself. “I’m going to get Hopkins over here to go over your notes.”
“Oh no you don’t!” said Rallston emphatically. “You’re not going to pass this story off. Not when I did all of the leg work! I’m not telling Hopkins or anybody else a single thing!”
“Ok… Look, you can work on it together,” said Oswald.
“No. This one is mine. I’m going to follow it through to the end, on my own,” Rallston said.
“You know I can’t let you do that!” said Oswald.
“If you want what I’ve got, you have no choice. I will make one deal with you, though. Once this story is finished, I’m done. That’s it. Retired. Out of here. You’ll never have to look at my face again,” Rallston said.
Oswald thought over his alternatives and then threw his arms up in the air. “Fine, but you better not screw this up!!” Oswald yelled. Everyone else in the room quietly tried to suppress their smiles. “And I want to see what you’ve got so far!” Oswald shouted. “If you don’t find the man soon, we’ll have to run with it. We can’t afford to sit on this too long. Someone else is bound to scoop us.”
“I’ll have something for you by tonight,” Rallston answered cagily. “Right now I’ve got some ground to cover.” He hopped to his feet, picked up his notebook, pen and recorder, and shuffled off toward the door. After years of wallowing in obscurity, he was officially a reporter again.
Chapter Forty-One
Smiley and Slim sat at their usual perch on the stairs in front of the homeless shelter, watching their contemporaries pass by on the sidewalk below. A wizened old man with wrinkled skin and a long white beard approached the pair.
“What’s up, Sal?” Smiley asked the man.
Sal coughed violently two or three times and spat a glob of mucus onto the cement.
“Hey, watch it there! Don’t be hittin’ my shoes!” complained Smiley.
Sal glared at Smiley and then cleared his throat one more time, as if to make a point. “Undercover cop’s been asking questions ‘bout your pal with the saxophone, what’s his name?”
“Warren?” said Smiley, surprised.
“That’s right,” said Sal. “Goin’ all ‘round town, too.”
“What kind of questions?” asked Slim.
“All kinds. Like where he lives, who he knows. Why he’s not around.”
“What’d you tell him?” Slim continued.
“Same thing everybody told him. Nothin’. I never seen the man.”
“That’s good Sal, you keep sayin’ that,” said Slim.
“Why they lookin’ for Warren?” mused Smiley. “What’s he up to now?”
“Could be that break-in at the rich bitch’s house,” said Slim.
“But she let us go,” said Smiley.
“Maybe that’s not the only place Warren broke into. He’s delusional, you know. Thinks he’s a movie star and all. Where you think he got all that money anyway? He’s up to somethin’. I think the man’s losin’ his mind, if ya ask me.”
“Damn, maybe they’re lookin’ for us, too,” said Smiley.
“That’s right. Probably are, but they got nothin’ on us. We didn’t do a damn thing,” said Slim.
“Psst…that’s the guy right there. The undercover cop I was talkin’ about,” said a hushed Sal with a twitch of his head. Smiley and Slim looked down the street to see a gray haired man in plain clothes trying to talk to some men who sat on the sidewalk with their backs to a wall. He pulled a photo out of a notebook and held it out to the men, who gazed at it momentarily, shook their heads and looked away. Obviously this cop was getting nowhere. Didn’t he know there was a code on the streets? Nobody was going to rat out a buddy. Especially a buddy like Warren.
“He’s comin’ this way,” said Smiley. “What do we say?”
“Nothing. You leave it to me,” said Slim.
Sal rasped a few more times and moved on. Sydney Rallston slowly made his way up the street, looking at each man that he passed carefully until he came to Smiley and Slim, who pretended to ignore him.
“Hello, there,” he said. “Sydney Rallston with the
Hollywood Recorder
. I wonder if I could ask you men a few questions?”
Smiley glared at him. So he said he was a reporter. Tricky, but he didn’t buy it. They were on to him and they’d teach him a thing or two.
Rallston pulled out his picture. It was Warren in a photo from the film, wearing a suit and talking to the police captain. “Can you tell me if you recognize this man?” Rallston asked.
“Oh yeah, I know that man,” said Slim, eying the photo.
“You do?” said Rallston, surprised. Nobody else had admitted as much.
“Yeah, that’s the chief of police!” said Slim.
“No, no, not him. This guy!” an exasperated Rallston pointed.
“Oh, you mean Warren,” said Slim.
“That’s right! His name is Warren!” said an astounded Rallston, a rush of adrenaline pulsing through him at the sound of the name. “What can you tell me about him?” Rallston spoke slowly, as though he were addressing a child. He’d grown to think of the homeless as mentally incompetent.
“Oh, I saw him just a few weeks ago,” said Slim.
“Me, too,” said Smiley, but Slim nudged him hard in the ribs.
“Ow, what you doin’?” Smiley protested.
“Not a damn thing, fool!” said Slim.
“Where exactly did you see Warren?” Rallston persisted.
“Down in San Diego,” said Slim.
“What were you doing in San Diego?”
“None a’ yo’ business, is what I was doin’,” said Slim. “Can’t a man go to San Diego?”
“Ok, ok. Never mind that. You’re sure it was Warren that you saw?”
“Damn straight! You think I don’t know better? You callin’ me a liar?”
“No, no. I just want to be sure, that’s all,” said Rallston. “Where exactly did you see him in San Diego?”
“Who wants to know?”
“I told you, I’m a reporter.”
“Why you asking about Warren?” said Slim, skeptically.
“I just want to find him is all.”
“Well, you’re too late,” said Slim.
“What do you mean?” said Rallston with concern in his voice. “What happened to him?”
“Last he told me, he was off to Tijuana. Said he’d had enough of America. Tired of all the bullshit. Wanted to live on tacos and tequila for a while.”
A perplexed look came over Rallston’s face. “You’re absolutely sure?” he said. “You’re not just pulling my leg?”
“No, I ain’t pullin’ your leg,” said Slim. “Why would I do that?”
“But… But how was he planning to support himself?” said Rallston.
“How the hell do I know? I’m just repeatin’ what the man done told me.”
“Tijuana,” said Rallston.
“That’s right,” said Slim.
“He’s in Tijuana,” Rallston repeated.
“That’s what I said.”
“Hmmm….” Rallston stroked his chin as he pondered the information. It would explain a lot. How else could Warren have evaded the entire entertainment press corps for so long? The story was becoming more interesting with each development. Rallston did a quick calculation. By the time he got home, packed and then headed south on the freeway, he could be in Tijuana in as little as three hours. Then he remembered Oswald. Rallston still owed his editor what he had so far. Even if it took Rallston a few hours to write that up, he could still be in Mexico by morning. “Thank you gentlemen, you’ve been a great help.” He closed his notebook and hurried off toward his car.
Smiley and Slim laughed to themselves as they watched Rallston go. “That’s one less cop lookin’ for our Warren,” said Slim.
Chapter Forty-Two
There was already a buzz in the air as workers put the finishing touches on decorations outside the Dolby Theatre. It was two days before the awards, and one group of men carefully laid out the red carpeting while another moved giant gilded Oscar statues into place on either side of the entrance. As Bridget and Charles approached the scene, she looked up at the steps upon which she’d skipped and danced with Warren six months before. “I’ll see you up there someday,” his words echoed in her mind, “As soon as they add a ‘Best Extra’ category.”
“Ha!” Bridget laughed out loud.
“What?” said Charles.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” answered Bridget. This time she wore a stylish blue gown, and Charles a borrowed black tuxedo. When he told her his agent had a good gig for them both, she never expected this. She’d never even heard of a seat-filler, but if it meant going to the Oscars she was all for it. Maybe she wasn’t a movie star yet, but she could always pretend, right? Besides, look what had happened to Warren August. A homeless man from the streets of Hollywood had actually been nominated! His image seemed to be plastered everywhere these days; his mystery transfixing the nation. She was left, like everyone else, wondering if he’d have the courage to make a surprise appearance.
“Where do seat fillers go?” Charles asked a security guard near the famous red carpet.
“Back entrance,” said the guard. “You can get there through the mall.”
“Thanks,” said Charles. He and Bridget entered the adjoining Hollywood and Highland complex and followed signs, past storefronts and down a tunnel, emerging finally behind the theater at a service entrance. They approached another lone guard who sat at a table by a large set of doors.
“Can I help you?” the guard asked.
“We’re here for the seat-filler’s orientation,” said Charles.
“Do you have some ID?” The guard picked a clipboard up off the table.
Charles pulled out his wallet and Bridget fumbled through a small purse. They handed over their driver’s licenses and the guard checked their names off his list. “Inside and to the right,” he said, passing the licenses back.
“We’re in!” said Charles excitedly as they moved through the doors. Bridget felt a rush of adrenaline as she and Charles walked through the backstage area. The place was bustling with activity as last-minute preparations were underway. Set makers and lighting technicians, dancers and choreographers all tried to share the space. When Bridget caught a glimpse across the stage she stopped in her tracks. Logic told her it was just another theater, but then again it wasn’t. In just over forty-eight hours, the royalty of Hollywood would be sharing this stage. This humble girl from Missouri was going to the Oscars. It was really true after all. Bridget smiled to herself, happy to be alive.
Chapter Forty-Three
Sydney Rallston sat behind the wheel of his car in the midst of a stagnant sea of vehicles twelve lanes across. Horns blared as drivers tried switching from one lane to another in a seemingly futile attempt to inch closer to the U.S. border. Vendors wandered among the cars hawking brightly colored blankets, ceramic surfing monkeys, carved wooden crucifixes, and stuffed replicas of Bart and Homer Simpson. Rallston stared straight ahead, trying his best to avoid eye contact. He’d spent the better part of two days wandering through the seamy underbelly of Tijuana, checking homeless shelters and following dead-end leads to filthy bars, strip clubs and beat-up hotels where no human being should allowed to set foot. He’d even checked with the police and local jails, but came up empty-handed all around. It was just a wild goose chase, based on one suspect tip from a homeless man in Hollywood. Rallston felt foolish for having followed it at all. Obviously it was a bum steer. He’d allowed himself to believe it merely because he wanted to find Warren August so badly. Now he’d wasted away his last few days before the awards themselves. With his concentration slipping, Rallston glanced to his left and found a man with a giant plaster pig tapping on his window.