“Do you think he’ll actually be here?” Bridget whispered to Charles.
“Huh?” he said, distracted.
“Warren. Do you think he’ll show up?”
“I don’t know, I doubt it.”
Bridget heard the first award being announced and saw the organizer touch her headset.
“Got it. Row G, seat nine,” the organizer said into her mouthpiece before turning around to face Charles. “On my mark, orchestra left, row G, seat nine,” she said, placing one hand on his back. “And go!” she commanded.
“Wish me luck!” he said to Bridget before he ducked through the doorway.
“Good luck!” she responded, knowing it was her turn next.
Charles hurried into the theater and made his way to the correct row. It was a commercial break and the audience members seemed mostly relaxed, chatting quietly amongst themselves. He recognized several major stars as he made his way down the row, but focused solely on his task at hand until he finally found seat number nine and sat down.
“And we’re back in five, four, three, two…” came a producer’s voice over an intercom. When his voice faded out, the host of the show reappeared to some applause. Charles glanced at the audience members on either side of him. On his right was an older woman in a black dress, with wavy gray hair, multiple facelifts and a small fortune in jewelry. Wife of a big-shot money-man, Charles thought. On his left a broad-chested man in his twenties with spiky hair and a two-day beard. A studio schmoozer. Charles knew was in no position to criticize. He settled in to enjoy what he could of the show.
The Best Supporting Actress winner gushed with gratitude and appreciation, thanking everyone who helped her, all the way back to her high school drama teacher. Jessica Turnbull looked upon her with a critical eye. What did this girl have that she didn’t? Jessica was going to have to be nicer to the right people next time; that was all.
Off in the wings, the seat-filler organizer perked up attentively as soon as the broadcast cut to commercial. “One!” she shouted to Bridget, who stood next in line.
“What seat?” Bridget asked nervously.
“Orchestra center, row D, seat twelve.”
Bridget swallowed hard. “Row D, seat twelve,” she repeated and then made her way through the door. This was it. Bridget moved to the center section and read off the rows. When she’d found her seat, she spotted Jessica Turnbull, sitting with Roger Craddock and Stewart Kaplan two rows up. She saw Charles as well, but he was already being whisked out again as his seat’s rightful occupant returned. Somehow she hoped to spot Warren in the crowd, and as unlikely as that was, she still felt disappointed when she saw no sign of him.
Inside the press room, Rallston downed his third glass of whisky and walked out of the room. He needed some air. He went out onto a balcony overlooking the street. Down below, the remaining fans watched the ceremony projected on giant video screens looming over the empty red carpet. Rallston pulled a cigar out of his jacket pocket and held it between two fingers. He’d been saving this for a special occasion. It was a gift from a studio chairman on the birth of his son. “Only the best,” Rallston said to himself, standing on the balcony all alone. Somehow his career had all come down to this. All of the interviews and parties and premiers… Sure it was only entertainment, but at one time he’d thought what he was doing was important. Maybe that’s why the Warren August story appealed to him. This story really
was
important. It flew in the face of the typical Hollywood garbage. With his free hand, Rallston pulled out a lighter and flicked open the cover. He held the flame to the end of the cigar and took a few quick puffs until the end glowed bright orange. Sydney Rallston’s long and storied career was done.
Chapter Forty-Six
“Can you go a little faster, please?” Warren said to the taxi driver as they inched along in the slow lane on the Hollywood freeway. It felt as if everything he’d been through in life was suddenly coming to a head, if only he could get to the awards in time. His future happiness seemed to depend on it. Bridget was out there somewhere, watching, and this was his one, best chance at redemption. He wasn’t about to miss it. The thought that he might not actually win did not even cross his mind.
“What’s the matter, you in a hurry?” the cab driver asked with practiced nonchalance.
“Yes, I am, in a very big hurry.”
“Somebody having a baby or something?”
“Just drive.”
“We’re almost to the exit. You know the Oscars are on tonight, right? I ain’t gettin’ caught up in that mess.”
“That’s where I’m going!”
“Oh, no! No, no, no! I just told you. I ain’t gettin’ caught up in all that!” The cab pulled off the freeway at Hollywood Boulevard. “I’ll take you up a couple of blocks. You can walk the rest.”
“Fine,” Warren was resigned. He knew that once traffic backed up he’d make better time on foot anyway. “Just get me as close as you can.”
The driver made the left-hand turn and drove four blocks down the boulevard until they crept to a halt behind a line of other cars. “I’m afraid this is gonna do it.” He pulled to the side of the street and tapped the meter. “Forty-seven fifty.”
Warren dug in his pocket and pulled out the last of his money, counting it out. “All I have is thirty-five.”
“Oh, for chrissakes! After all that, you’re gonna stiff me, too?!”
“Thanks for the lift.” Warren left the money behind and hopped out of the cab, moving at a fast pace toward the roving searchlights. The closer he got, the faster he ran, block after block until he saw what remained of the spectators, gathered in grandstands and on the sidewalk below, watching the ceremony on huge television screens. He made his way to the front of the crowd. Two giant Oscar statues were positioned on either side of the theater entrance. How many times had he stood in the exact same spot, playing his saxophone for spare change? Now it seemed impossible to get there. A temporary barricade separated him from his destination. He considered going over the top, but he knew they’d haul him off in handcuffs if he tried. It was better to talk his way in. He was a nominee, after all. He was supposed to be here. He moved along the barricade toward an opening manned by two police officers. Surely they’d recognize him, and then they’d have to let him in. It was his only chance.
To one side of the grandstand, Smiley, Slim and Duke stood close enough to see the TV screens, yet far enough to stay out of the way. They knew they weren’t particularly welcome in any crowd, and being amongst all of these respectable members of society made them feel uneasy.
“Come on, the dude’s not here. Let’s go get some wine,” said Slim.
“All the big shots are already inside,” Duke complained. “That don’t mean we can’t watch from here. What if our boy wins? Don’t you wanna see it?”
“Ain’t gonna do
me
any good,” said Smiley.
“The man’s a friend of ours, if you don’t remember!” said Duke.
“Yeah, then how come we hain’t seen him in so long?” said Slim. “He sure don’t seem to remember us.”
“Do what you want, I’m staying here ‘till it’s over,” Duke stood his ground.
“Well, damn, if we’re gonna watch it, we might as well see it!” said Smiley, squinting with his one good eye. He worked his way closer to the nearest screen as the other spectators warily made room. Slim and Duke followed him into the gap until they were just a few rows behind the barricade.
“I still don’t see why the dude had to go and run out on us, just cause he’s some hot shot now,” Slim complained.
“Cut the man a break,” said Duke. “If I was big time I wouldn’t hang out with you rejects either.”
“Who you callin’ a reject? You the reject!” Smiley flinched when he spotted two police officers not too far away. He didn’t like police officers. They were bound to cause trouble. These two were manning a gap in the barricade, but they seemed to be preoccupied with some trouble of their own, struggling with a man in a brown sport coat. “I wouldn’t want to be that dude,” said Smiley, squinting with his one good eye.
“What dude?” said Slim.
“That dude!” Smiley pointed to what was turning into a full-fledged scuffle, as other spectators began to scream and move back. Slim and Duke watched as the police pinned the man to the barricade and more security guards rushed over, calling for backup with their radios.
“That guy looks an awful lot like Warren,” said Duke.
“That dude?” said Slim.
“Yeah!” answered Duke. “That is Warren!” The three men knew at once that it was true. They rushed closer just as they heard three sharp bursts from the siren of a police cruiser inching through the crowd.
“Damn, Warren, what you doin’ out here?!” Smiley called out when the men drew near. Warren didn’t notice, or didn’t hear. He was too busy grappling with the police, eyes wide open with the veins in his forehead bulging as adrenaline surged through his body. He hadn’t come so far to simply let these lowly cops stand in his way. He struggled free and took two hard earned steps toward the theater before he was tackled from behind, face first onto the red carpet. More guards and police quickly pounced on him until Warren was buried on the bottom of a pile.
From the balcony high above, Sidney Rallston watched the scene unfold beneath him. What was going on, he wasn’t quite sure. He saw the police car, lights flashing as it slowly advanced through the crowd. He saw the car stop, and two officers jump out to join some sort of a scrum. It seemed a momentous struggle. Rallston took another puff on his cigar. Eventually the police peeled off of the pile one by one until at last they dragged a single man in a brown sport coat to his feet. The man was in handcuffs, but it still took three large officers to control him. A fourth officer opened a door to the police car and they threw the man inside, slamming the door shut behind him. Rallston was too far away to get a clear look, but he was suddenly overcome with a hunch. What if??? He wasn’t about to wait around on the balcony to find out. He dropped his prized cigar to the floor, ground it under his toe and ran back into the theater. He continued at a great clip down a set of stairs, out the front door, and down more stairs to the sidewalk below, not slowing until he closed in on the commotion.
The crowd swelled with curious spectators and passers-by, surrounding the police car and peering through the windows at the man inside. In the midst of this group, three downtrodden men tapped on the glass. One of these, with wild hair and a walrus-like moustache, called out to the car’s inhabitant. “Warren!” the man yelled. “Warren, what’s going on?! Why you in there?”
“You gotta git your ass outta there and go git your reward!” yelled another, this man African American with grey hair and one cloudy eye. Beside him was another black man, shorter and a little stout, with a round head. Now Rallston remembered. He’d seen these men before. The source of his Tijuana tip! A momentary shot of anger surged through him, but he didn’t have time for that.
“Everybody back up! Move out of the way!” yelled one of the officers.
“Clear the area! Clear the area!” yelled another.
“Officer, I think that’s Warren August you have in there!” Rallston shouted at the nearest policeman. “You’re making a mistake!”
The officer paid Rallston no mind. Instead he pulled his nightstick and moved to the front of the car. “We need everyone to please clear the area immediately!” he shouted again, raising his nightstick in the air as a mix of middle-aged housewives and teenage movie fans peered back with wide eyes. Slowly they started making way, moving back to clear some space in front of the vehicle. “Officer! Officer!” Rallston cried out again but the policeman still gave him no response. Desperate, he pushed through to the side of the car, peering in at a despondent Warren August who was slumped in the back seat, staring straight ahead in a daze.
“Warren, look here!” the man with the walrus moustache cried out.
“You know this man?” Rallston shouted.
“Course I do! That’s my buddy Warren!” Duke yelled back. “Warren August!” At these words, a murmur filtered through the crowd. People slowly started closing back in to get a better look.
“Move back, people, for your own safety!” one of the officers pleaded.
“They’ve got Warren August in there! That’s Warren August!” a spectator shouted, igniting a spark of excitement in the crowd.
“You’ve got to let this man go!” Rallston tried reasoning again, but the officer he spoke to climbed into the front seat of the cruiser and hit the siren with three quick bursts. It had no impact on the fans as they pushed closer, fully engulfing the car.
“They can’t get away with this!” shouted Duke. “This man belongs inside!”
“What we gonna do about it?” said Slim.
“I know what I’m going to do!” said Duke. In an instant he’d hopped up onto the roof of the car. He held his hands out to his sides and moved them up and down, chanting as he went. “Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!” The officers lunged at Duke’s legs but couldn’t quite grasp him as he hopped from one side of the car to the other. Slowly the chant took hold as the whole crowd started in. “Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!” More people hopped up onto the car, which swayed and shook on its overextended shocks. Additional police arrived, rushing over from the theater as the scene descended into chaos. They wrenched Duke and the others off the roof just as television crews began to catch the pandemonium on film.
“Hey Rallston, what’s going on here?!” shouted a television reporter.
“They’ve got Warren August in the back of the patrol car!” Rallston shouted.
“Is this true?” the reporter shoved a microphone in the face of a policeman. “Why are you arresting Warren August? What has he done?” the reporter demanded.
“Disturbing the peace!” answered the officer.
“Let him go! Let him go!” the crowd picked the chant back up as Ronald Watkins, head of Academy security, arrived on the scene.