“I got your back,” said Nate.
“The game’s afoot, dude!” Flotsam announced.
“Rock on, bro!” Jetsam concurred.
This was the camera’s favorite time, called “magic hour” in the movie business. The summer sun was plunging into the ocean off Malibu, and onshore winds chased tumbling clouds to the east, inflamed by streaks of color from dying solar fire. The sky over Hollywood Boulevard was transformed into a blazing palette where any fool could gaze up breathless and dream of painting a new self-portrait, and maybe this time get it right. After a moment, Nate found himself stepping out with just a touch of foot-beat swagger, slipping through the crowds, giving the stink eye to Batman and Darth Vader, striding over marble and brass stars along the Walk of Fame. The surfer cops strolling behind him gave each other a knuckle bump, and Flotsam whispered, “Dude, I think Nate just caught a blast of mucho mojo!”
Nate glanced into the Kodak Centre as they were passing, and he halted, turning his face to the darkening west, letting that sea breeze cooled by the Pacific sigh in his ears and blow through his hair, bringing with it a breath of great possibility, perhaps even redemption.
“About that Wednesday night bowling?” he said. “I’m good to go. And I’ll see about renting us a midget.”
Upon hearing this news the surfer cops beamed. “Midgets rule, dude!” said Flotsam.
“We’re gravy, bro!” said Jetsam.
Then Flotsam’s grin melted like a Slurpee on the sidewalk when Hollywood Nate said, “But will somebody please tell me, why no clowns?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOSEPH WAMBAUGH, a former LAPD detective sergeant, is the bestselling author of eighteen prior works of fiction and nonfiction. In 2004, he was named Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America. He lives in Southern California.
