Fun and Games

They blasted past the entrance to the Hollywood Bowl. An electric marquee was mounted in a stately chunk of white stone; a jazz musician Hardie didn’t know was performing here tonight, eight p.m. Cars fought their way into the parking lot. Cars full of people who probably had no worries on their minds. After all, they were going out in the cool California afternoon on a Saturday to see somebody play jazz. How tough could life be?

But Hardie had always felt that way—separate from the good times everyone else seemed to be having. Like his own little world somehow sat parallel to the real world, but not actually in it.

“Get over to the left,” Lane said. “No, really, right now.”

“I’m trying.”

But other vehicles quickly closed the gap, forcing Hardie to retreat. Somehow he ended up being corralled into the right lane. All down Highland giant billboards advertised movies he hadn’t heard of, featuring actors and actresses who were equally unfamiliar. Some of the cars on the road looked bizarre to him, too, now that he was really looking at them. If his life were a DVD, Hardie thought he must have skipped over a couple of chapters.

“Okay, we missed Franklin, so turn right onto Hollywood. We’ll have to come around.”

“Where…?”

“Hollywood Boulevard. The next light. Right. As in turn right… right now!”

And suddenly Hardie found himself at L.A. Tourist Ground Zero. Some of his homeowners had cautioned him to avoid this area at all costs. The sidewalks were jammed with goofy tourists being preyed upon by people in costumes and photographers and drug dealers and hustlers and punks. Traffic came to standstill a few car lengths away from Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. Hardie saw that the marquee read proximity, which apparently was having its premiere tonight. Another movie he’d never heard of. Outside, along dark velvet ropes, people stood around with vacant stares. Waiting to be entertained, trying to ignore the hustlers and kids hawking CDs.

“So… Musso and Frank?”

“Back that way a block or two,” Lane said. “You were kidding about lunch, right?”

Right in front of Grauman’s, Hardie stopped, put the van in park, pressed down on the emergency brake, flipped on the four-ways. The car ahead of him inched forward a few feet. The car behind Hardie noticed, and gave a tap of his horn.

“Okay, this is good. This will work,” Hardie said.

“Right, Charlie?”

“Follow me.”

And there, right in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard, Hardie turned off the ignition, pulled out the keys, and stepped outside.

Lane stared at him as if he were an astronaut who’d announced he was going for a stroll and just opened the air lock without his helmet on.

“Charlie?”

But what else could she do except follow him? Lane opened the passenger door, unsnapped her belt, slid off the seat, and started limping toward the back of the van. Charlie had already opened up the back doors. He grabbed the suitcase. The guy in the car behind them, just two feet away, moaned what the fuck so loudly she could hear it through the glass of his windshield. He blasted them with his horn again. Hardie looked up, smiled, and gave him a tiny Queen of England wave.

Lane touched his shoulder.

“Uh, you know we can’t stop here. The cops are going to be up our asses in about two seconds.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing we won’t be here.”

“Please explain that.”

Charlie pulled the retractable handle out from the suitcase, then extended his left arm formally.

“Shall we?”

Now other car horns were screaming at them. Charlie didn’t seem to care. He looked over at a crowd gathered on the sidewalk—hustlers, moms, dads, punks, homeless guys, toddlers, costumed superheroes, models —and shouted:

“Hey, Hollywood types! Free drugs! Help yourself, right inside the van.”

Hardie launched the van keys up in the air toward Grauman’s. People jumped out of the way and cursed as the keys made their descent back to earth. Then Hardie linked arms with Lane and pulled his rolling suitcase down the coral-and-charcoal paving block of the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

21

I found out something I never knew.

I found out my world was not the real world.

—Robert F. Kennedy

“A MANHATTAN on the rocks,” Hardie said, adding, “lots of ice.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tuxedoed waiter moved away from the table and headed toward the oak bar.

Musso & Frank was a Hollywood legend. Even Hardie was familiar with the place. Countless directors, actors, screenwriters had sat in these same chairs, knocking back tumblers of booze and sawing into chops and making big Hollywood deals. Hardie knew this because one night—bored out of his mind and with no new movies to watch—he had watched a DVD extra that gave a quickie history of the place. As Hardie understood it, Musso & Frank was where you came to create dreams, and others could just gawk.

Which was the whole idea.

From the moment they stepped inside, everybody was staring at them.

Granted, Hardie would have stared at them, too. Their clothes were dirty and torn and blood-encrusted. Hardie was pretty sure he had blood caked all around his head and neck. The gore that had seeped through his gray T-shirt had left it stiff and dark. He was also dragging along his stupid luggage, headless Spider-Man and all, which was probably a faux pas unto itself.

But he was here with World Famous Actress Lane Madden, and that made all the difference.

The maitre’d, an older gray-haired man in a natty suit, blanched at first but then recognized her face. If Lane Madden wanted a table, then she would receive a table, no matter her physical appearance. He didn’t flinch. Maybe he was used to actors showing up in their makeup, looking like they crawled away from a plane crash site.

But everyone else…

It was clear no one had ever seen anything like this. Not even this midafternoon crowd of lingering lunch-hour boozers and people hoping to get Saturday night started early.

Oh, the stares.

Hardie looked at her. “Aren’t you going to order something?”

“I feel like I need to throw up. Like I’m having bed spins but I haven’t been drinking. I should really call my manager.”

“Have some bread. Or a drink.”

“I don’t want any food. And I’m not allowed to have any alcohol. What are we doing here?”

“You’re in public, being seen. If everything you’ve told me is true, then this is the last place They’d want you. Consider this a big ol’ thumb in their eyes.”

“But Musso’s? Why here?”

“Why not? This is a Hollywood power joint, right?”

“Uh…”

Hardie was about to tell her about the DVD extra, when someone stood up from the bar and approached their table. Instinctively, Hardie reached for a butter knife, tensed himself. The guy, wearing a designer T-shirt and jeans, held up a phone and snapped a photo, then walked away without a word. So, that’s how they do you here in L.A. Quick and dirty. Hardie put the knife back on the table and called after the guy.

“You’re welcome, buddy.”