we are? We’re Ignored. We’ll always be Ignored. That’s the fact, jack, and you’d better get used to it.”
Around us, the crowd cheered wildly as Shamu jumped through a series of fiery hoops.
“Celebrity,” Philipe said with disgust. “That’s the very concept we’re fighting against. That’s the very core of our complaint. Why should some people be more recognized than others? Why can’t everyone be noticed equally? The ironic thing is that killing a celebrity
“If we’re caught,” Pete said quietly.
“What?”
“We’ll only have a forum if we’re caught. That’s the only way the media will pay any attention to us. Otherwise, we’ll be just as unknown as ever. The police probably get stacks of letters claiming to take credit for something like this. Even if we sent a letter or made a phone call, it would just get lost in the shuffle.”
It was obvious Philipe had not really considered that aspect, and it threw him for a second, but he recovered almost immediately. “Then Mary’s right. We should kidnap a celebrity. That way we could let the cops hear his voice, know he’s alive.
“We could videotape him, too,” I suggested. “Send the video to the cops.”
Philipe turned to look at me, and a slow smile spread across his features. “Good idea.” He grinned at me and I found myself grinning back, and the old magic was there. Suddenly we were a team again.
The Shamu show ended, and after a sustained cheer, people started leaving, getting up, gathering their purses and souvenir bags, streaming down the bleacher steps, maneuvering around us. We stayed where we were.
“So where are we going to go?” Junior asked. “Hollywood? Beverly Hills?”
Philipe shook his head. “Those are for tourists. Celebrities only show up there when there’s a premiere or something, and that would be way too crowded and security would be way too tight. I’m thinking Palm Springs. They live there. They’ll be more accessible, more off their guard.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
Steve nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
Philipe looked around the group. “Are we all agreed?”
There was a chorus of “yesses” and “yeahs”, much nodding of heads.
“Tomorrow then,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll pack our stuff and head out to Palm Springs.” He grinned. “We’re going to catch us a movie star.”
Twelve
Palm Springs.
It was exactly the way I’d imagined it would be.
Maybe a little hotter.
If Rodeo Drive had seemed shabbier than it was supposed to, Palm Springs more than lived up to its hype. The sun was bright, the sky free from smog or clouds, and everything seemed cleaner, clearer, sharper than it did in Los Angeles or Orange County. The streets here were wide, the buildings low and sleek and new, the people good- looking and well-heeled. The only concessions to the season were geometric Christmas tree shapes hung high on the streetlamp posts and occasionally frosted windows on some of the smaller stores. If it was not for those subdued reminders, I probably would have thought it was summer.
We were down to four cars now, and we cruised up and down the main streets — Gene Autry Trail, Palm Canyon Drive — in a single line, looking for a place to set up camp. We finally decided on a bland-looking Motel Six near the freeway, far off the main drag, and we found rooms, dumped our boxes and suitcases, and headed back into town for supplies.
We picked up food and rope and a video camera.
“So where are we going to find our celebrity?” I asked back at the motel. “What are we going to do? Are we going to just look for houses with gates and guardhouses and break in and peek through windows until we spot someone famous?”
“Not a bad idea.” Philipe laughed. “But I thought we’d start by staking out the local nightspots. We might be able to spot someone at a dance club or a restaurant. Then we can follow them home and nab them.”
“What’ll we do then?” Tommy asked. “Bring them back here to the hotel?”
“Maybe,” Philipe said. He thought for a minute. “Or maybe we can find someplace else to live.” He turned to Tim. “This afternoon, I want you and Paul to see if you can find a model home or someplace that’s for rent or… somewhere where we cart stay.”
“What’ll you do?”
“The rest of us’ll split up, walk around, hit boutiques and restaurants, keep our ears and eyes open, see if we can’t figure out where the action’ll be tonight. We may be able to cut down on trial and error just by doing a little local research.”
We ate lunch at a Del Taco, then headed off in our different directions. In our car were Philipe, myself, John, and Bill, and we parked near a series of interconnected shops done up in a Southwestern motif. Next door was a library, and Philipe told me to go there, look through local newspapers and magazines, see if any public events involving celebrities were going on this week.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Golf matches, store openings… I don’t know. Anything. Just look for famous names.”
The other three were going to split up and casually go through the shops. We were to meet back at the car in an hour.
In the library, I went directly to the periodical reading section and grabbed all of the copies of the three local newspapers for the past week. I carried my cache to a study carol against the back wall of the library and started quickly scanning headlines, reading ads, looking at pictures.
On the third page of the fourth paper, I saw a photo that made me stop.
It was a photo of a man. Joe Horth, according to the caption. The mayor of Desert Palms.
And he was Ignored.
I don’t know how I knew it, but I did. There was something in the cast of the features, some familiarity of expression, some essential lack of charisma, that I instantly recognized, that translated even through the blurry black dot pointillism of the newsprint. I continued to stare at the picture. I had never seen a photograph of someone who was Ignored before, and I hadn’t realized that it would appear so obvious.
I quickly read the accompanying article. I knew I should continue to dig through the newspapers for celebrity news, but this was too important to put off, and I tore out the page, folded it in half, and carrying it in my hand, hurried out of the library.
I ran past the fronts of the adjacent shops, looking through the windows until I saw Philipe. He was in a faux antique store, pretending to examine Victorian greeting cards while obviously listening in on the conversation of two trendily dressed young women.
I burst into the shop. A bell rang above the door, but only Philipe turned to look at me.
“I’ve found something,” I said.
“What?” He put away the card in his hand, placing it back on the rack.
“I have a line on a new one.”
“A new what?”
“A new terrorist. Someone Ignored.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. He glanced behind me, over my shoulder. “Where is he?… She?”
“He. Joe Horth. The mayor of Desert Palms.” I held up the newspaper. “Here.”
“Desert Palms?”
