“Next town over. From what I gather, it’s even more exclusive than Palm Springs. It’s newer, not as well known, but it’s full of heavy hitters.”
He took the page from me. “Let me see that.” Philipe looked at the picture, read the story, and I saw excitement spread quickly across his face. “He’s going to be giving a speech at the Desert Disabled Foundation dinner tonight. Celebrities always show up for charity events like this. They get free publicity and look like they’re good-hearted humanitarians.” He folded the paper. “This guy may be able to give us an in with one of them. You’ve stumbled upon something here. This is good. This is really good.”
“Where is the dinner?”
“Some place called La Amor. Seven o’clock.” He put the paper in his pocket. “We’ll find out where it is. We’ll get some monkey suits. We’ll be there.”
The dinner was invitation only, but we crashed La Amor with no problem. There was a uniformed man stationed at the door to keep out nonmembers and non-invitees, but we easily walked past him and immediately found seats at the bar.
The restaurant was big and looked like a nightclub out of some forties film. Tables were arranged in an amphitheaterlike semicircle radiating outward from a stage on which an orchestra played jazz standards. Ceiling lights were dim, and individual art deco lamps shed illumination on the tables. Waiters wore tuxedos. Waitresses wore short skirts.
Philipe had been right. Charities did bring out the big guns. Bob Hope was there. And Charlton Heston. And Jerry Lewis. And a host of other lesser lights all conspicuously visible among the noncelebrities.
We sat together at the bar, watched the proceedings from afar, hearing only snatches of conversation — most of which had to do with the work of the foundation — as one couple and then another came up and ordered drinks.
As always, we took our cue from Philipe, and he remained strangely quiet. It seemed almost as though he was awed being in such a place, with such company.
Dinner was served, although since we didn’t have a table we didn’t get to eat. The orchestra stopped playing, took a break, and the clink of glasses and silverware, the low hum of conversation, took the place of the music.
The bartender set up drinks on trays for waiters to take to the tables, and we stole some for ourselves.
Halfway through dinner, the speeches began. The speakers were uniformly boring and almost indistinguishable from one another. First the president of the foundation spoke. Then the founder. Then a local business leader who’d raised a lot of money. Then the father of a disabled boy.
Then Mayor Joe Horth.
We all focused on the stage as the mayor stepped to the podium and began speaking. The other guests paid even less attention than they had to the other speakers. That was expected, though, and not surprising. What was surprising was what the mayor had to say.
He started off praising the Desert Disabled Foundation and its cause, stating how much he had enjoyed working with all of the people attending the dinner. Then he said that he regretted that this would be the last foundation event he would be attending as mayor. He had decided to resign.
The announcement was clearly meant to be a surprise, but it was met with indifference. No one was listening.
We were listening, though, and I could tell by the look on Philipe’s face that he had noticed the same thing I had: the mayor did not want to leave office.
Philipe turned toward me. “What do you think it is?” he asked. “A scandal?”
I shrugged.
“He’s being forced out. He doesn’t want to leave.”
I nodded. “I think so, too.”
He shook his head. “Weird.”
There was a commotion near the door. An excited buzz began in that section of the room and spread to the rest of the restaurant, and like a wave moving outward, heads turned toward the door. A phalanx of large tuxedoed men pushed the crowd back, and between the bodies I could see a familiar round head nodding to the assembled dinner guests.
Frank Sinatra.
He was in the open now, coming toward us, smiling and heartily shaking hands. Bob Hope was suddenly next to him, saying something, and Sinatra was laughing. He put a friendly arm around the comedian’s shoulder, then shouted an enthusiastic greeting to an elderly man seated at one of the upper tables. The man waved back, shouted something unintelligible in return.
“Sinatra,” Junior said, impressed. He looked excitedly toward Philipe. “Let’s nab him.”
“Wait a minute.” Philipe was still staring intently at the podium, where the mayor was being lectured by three imposing-looking men in their early to mid fifties.
“Sinatra!” Junior repeated.
“Yeah.” Philipe waved him away distractedly and stood, moving through the crowd toward the podium. Curious, I followed.
The three men gathered around the mayor were obviously very wealthy, obviously very powerful, and they were openly treating Horth as though he were a flunky, a servant. We could not hear what was being said, but the attitudes were obvious. The mayor was obsequious and subservient, the businessmen commanding and authoritative. No one save us was paying attention to them, and they knew it. This was a private scene being played out in public, and it had the feel of a commonplace occurrence. I felt sorry for Joe Horth and angry on his behalf.
Philipe moved closer, stepping almost right up to the podium. The mayor turned, saw him, saw me, and gave a small start. He instantly turned back toward the businessmen, pretending to give them his full and undivided attention.
“The bar!” Philipe shouted. “Meet us at the bar!”
The mayor gave no indication that he heard.
“We can help you! We’re Ignored, too!”
At that word, “Ignored,” Joe Horth whirled to face us. The expression on his face was unreadable. He was distraught, obviously, and agitated, but there was also hope and what looked like a wild sort of exhilaration mixed in there. He stared at us. We stared back. The three men, obviously sensing from the mayor’s behavior that something was amiss, looked into the crowd at us.
Philipe turned quickly, grabbed my shoulder, and pulled me back toward the bar. “Come on,” he said.
A moment later, we were with the others. “Sinatra’s up there at that big table,” Junior said, pointing. “Bob Hope’s with him and so’s some other famous guy but I can’t remember his name. I say we take ’em all.”
“We’re not taking anybody,” Philipe said.
“But I thought we wanted publicity.”
“We wanted publicity so we could draw attention to the plight of the Ignored, so we could help others like ourselves. Not so we could become famous. We were going to use the attention to throw a spotlight on a problem that, no pun intended, has been ignored until now. I don’t know if the rest of you picked up on this, but it’s obvious to me that our friend the mayor is being forced out of office by some high-profile money men because he’s Ignored. I guess they want someone in there who’s a little more charismatic, who can get more attention for them. What we have here is a chance to help someone who’s Ignored, to do some real good. What we have here is a chance to keep one of us in a position of power.”
I had not heard Philipe speak so idealistically for a long time, and a small thrill of excitement passed through me.
This was why I had become a terrorist.
“Joe Horth can do more good for the Ignored as mayor of Desert Palms than publicity from any kidnapped celebrity could. This is real progress. This is a real coup.”
I looked toward the podium. One of the businessmen had left. The other two were still lecturing the mayor. “Do you think he’s offed his boss yet?” I asked.
Philipe shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He watched Horth. “There’s something different
