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?”
“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.