Sweet Ophelia

Warren August is down and out in Hollywood, flat broke and living on the streets. When he stumbles onto a movie set in search of food, it sets in motion a chain of events that could finally turn his life around. Now he might just have a chance to win back his beloved Ophelia. Sweet, sweet Ophelia, who broke his heart three years before. But can he hold it together long enough to redeem himself? And will she ever take him back?

Chapter One

             The air on the boulevard was choked with exhaust from a never-ending stream of city buses, garbage trucks and taxi cabs.  The sidewalk was covered with the grime left behind by cigarette butts, spilled soft drinks and discarded chewing gum.  A cacophony of foreign languages drifted past Warren August’s ears as he weaved his way through clutches of tourists in front of the famous Grauman’s Chinese Theater.  Visitors beamed broad smiles as they posed for photos with their hands in cement imprints of the stars.  Warren hardly noticed. 

            As he continued up the street, nearly everybody noticed Warren even if they pretended not to.  He was a sizeable man, tall and strong, wearing a stained and dirty trench coat.  On his feet he wore a well-travelled pair of boots with a bare toe showing through a split on the inside left.  An old fedora covered his dirty blonde hair.  A scraggly beard hid what once was described as a handsome face. Now he was just another homeless person, struggling to survive on the streets of Hollywood.  In his hands he carried a saxophone, slightly dented and worn.

            Warren walked past vendors selling sunglasses, postcards and double-decker bus tours.  He passed down-on-their luck actors dressed up as Batman, Spiderman and Darth Vadar.  Warren had seen it all before.  He moved to an alcove at the front of the Kodak Theater where he stopped, took off his fedora and placed it at his feet.  From deep in one pocket he pulled out a dollar bill and a few coins and dropped them into the hat as seed money before he stepped back and strapped on the sax.  His fingers rubbed the keys lightly.  This instrument was Warren’s life.  It provided him with an income and kept him company.  It never judged him and never let him down.  Warren’s saxophone took the edge off the harshness of his life.  He brought the mouthpiece to his lips and began to blow a deep and soulful tune, closing his eyes and losing himself in his music.  Passersby hurried along, trying to avoid any contact with the panhandler.  But those who allowed themselves to listen were moved.  This was no ordinary street musician.  A few stopped and gathered around, surprised by the effect of these haunting notes.

            Further down the boulevard, two police officers saw the small crowd beginning to gather.  Raul Garcia, a 15-year veteran of the force with wide hips and a developing paunch, and James Washington, a bright-eyed rookie new to the beat, walked up the sidewalk and stopped opposite Warren, waiting respectfully until he finished his song.

            “That was nice.  Really nice.  Now move along.  No loitering here, you should know that,” said Garcia.  “We’ve told you before.”

            Warren opened his eyes and cringed at the sight of the officers.  Men in uniform made him nervous.  “I’m just playing some music,” he said.

            “Go play somewhere else.  You’re attracting a crowd,” said Garcia.

            Warren sighed.  He was wise enough to know when he was beaten.  He bent low and picked up his hat.  He put the money back in his pocket, unclipped his saxophone strap and moved on down the street, mumbling to himself.

            “Hey Buddy!” Washington called after him.  Warren turned back without a word and watched as Washington opened his wallet, pulled out a dollar and held it out in his hand.  “You play real good.  Just not around here, ok?”

            Warren glanced at the dollar in the officer’s hand.  If this was a feeble attempt at an apology, Warren would have none of it.  But then he saw the eager, kind-hearted look in the man’s eyes.  It wasn’t the first time he’d seen that look.  Warren knew that he sometimes had this effect on people.  Some called it charisma.  Whatever it was, he’d always seemed to have it.  At times it was useful.  He knew, for instance, that he never would have won over his beloved Ophelia without it.  But charisma or no, she was long gone now.  Warren tilted his head sideways and narrowed his eyes.  “You haven’t worked the streets for long, have you?” he asked.

            “No.  No, sir, I haven’t,” Washington admitted.

            Warren wanted to offer him some advice; to do something else.  Anything.  To save the innocence still left in his soul.  But Warren knew it was too late to save the man.  He’d made his choices in life, just as Warren had.  Everyone had their own choices to make.  In the end Warren took the dollar, though he hated himself for it.  He crumpled it in his fist and then slid it in his pocket before he moved on. 

After a few blocks Warren turned left up a side street and passed an aging black man with tints of grey in his frazzled hair.  The man wore dirty jeans and an oversized grey sweater with holes in the elbows.  An odor of unwashed funk hung about him.  His left eye was clouded over with a cataract.  The man squinted as he looked up with his good eye and recognized Warren.  “How ya doin’ Mr. August?” asked the man with some enthusiasm.

            “Hungry,” Warren answered flatly.

            “I hear ya, I hear ya,” the man replied with a rhythmic cadence.

            Warren paused for a moment.  They were a family, those who lived on the streets, and Warren had a particularly warm spot in his heart for Smiley.  No matter what came his way, nothing seemed to get him down.  Warren wondered how Smiley managed it.  Some people were just wired differently, that was all.  Warren himself was a happy-go-lucky person for the most part, but now and then his upbeat demeanor masked a harder truth underneath; that he was haunted at times by the demons of depression.  When he thought of Ophelia for instance, or the promise his life once seemed to hold.  He fought off his doubts through willpower, the camaraderie of his friends on the street, and his music.  Smiley, on the other hand, was another sort entirely.  Smiley’s joy at life was completely organic.  There was no artifice to it.  He was a man who lived wholly in the moment.  Sure he complained about things, all of the time in fact, but never without a touch of some ironic glee.  Just the complaining itself gave the man a sense of satisfaction.  Warren knew there was a lesson here; to be content with whatever one had in life, no matter how little.  He would do his best to heed it.  “You take it easy,” he said with a nod to Smiley and then continued up the street. 

            When Warren came to a dumpster that was a regular stop on his daily rounds, he flipped open the lid and peered inside.  Flies buzzed through the air and the smell of garbage was nearly unbearable, but in the bottom Warren spotted a potential prize.  He set down his sax and scrambled over the edge of the dumpster, landing with a thud atop a pile of plastic bags and assorted rubbish.  When he stood up, he steadied himself with one hand on the rim and then leaned over and fished out a cardboard pizza box.  Inside was one small crust.  He picked it up and took a bite, but then spat it out and threw the box back down.  Too stale.  He looked around briefly, but seeing no other opportunities, he heaved himself up and over the edge once again.  He stood on the sidewalk and brushed himself off.  To Warren, a good day was finding an uneaten slice of pizza in the garbage, and so far today was not a good day. 

Warren picked up his sax and walked on slowly, lethargic from the late-morning heat and a lack of proper food.  He pulled his money out of his pocket and counted it.  Two dollars and seventy-three cents.  Enough for a muffin and a cup of coffee.  He headed for a convenience store three blocks away.  At the next intersection he passed a short, stocky man with dark glasses, silver hair and a bushy gray moustache that made him look like a walrus.  The man wore battered leather work boots, green army surplus pants and a dirty gray sweatshirt.  He held a cup in one hand and a white cane in the other.  A small sign that rested against his knees read, “Blind Man, Please Help.”

“Warren, how are ya?” the man said.

“How’s it going, Duke?” Warren asked.

Duke lifted up his glasses and peered at Warren with tired eyes.  “It’s been better, you know,” he said.

“Yeah, I hear you,” said Warren.  “Can’t even find no joy in the dumpster.”

“Can’t say I’m finding much myself today either.”  He looked into his cup and rattled around the change.  “Slim pickins.”

“Shouldn’t you be on a busier street?” Warren asked curiously.

Duke just shrugged as though he couldn’t be bothered.

“I’ll see you around,” said Warren.

“Right on,” said Duke.

As he moved down the block, Warren’s only goal was a fresh blueberry muffin, and when he inhaled deeply he could almost smell it.

Chapter Two

Nearly 100 people sat on white plastic folding chairs under a large white awning, some clustered in small groups chatting, others gathered around tables, playing cards.  A few more kept themselves apart from the rest, trying in vain to maintain some sense of solitude.  Half of the men wore loose-fitting suits of wool or tweed, or long brown overcoats with fedoras on their heads.  Others wore dark blue police uniforms with peaked caps.  The women dressed in either solemn brown cotton dresses or racy negligees.  To an innocent bystander it might have looked like some strange costume party except that nobody seemed to be having much fun.  Instead they were trying to stave off the boredom that came from sitting for hours on end with nothing much to do. 

Off to one side, Bridget Peterson struggled to read a paperback book without being distracted.  She was of the plain-dressed women, and her short brown hair hung over hazel eyes.  In one hand she held a black beanie that she rubbed comfortingly between two fingers.  Beside her in a frayed tweed suit sat Justin; pasty, overweight and friendless, he’d shadowed her all morning.  In the palm of his open hand rested a collection of multi-colored pills that he pushed back and forth with an index finger.  “This is my happy pill, and this is my sleepy pill, this is my relaxing pill…” he mumbled.

“Mmm, hmmm,” Bridget tried to ignore him.

“My mom and dad don’t think I can make it here,” he said.  “They told me I should just give up and come home, but they don’t understand.  They don’t understand that this is something I have to do.  If I went home it would kill me.  They don’t understand,” he shuddered nervously.  “It’d kill me…” his voice trailed off.

Nearby sat Marjorie, a grey-haired grandmother and self-described movie nut who spent her time playing solitaire one game after another. “How long you been out here?” she asked Justin pointedly without looking up from her cards.

“A month,” he answered.  “I have an apartment and everything.  My own apartment.”

“You take those pills every day?” said Marjorie with a voice worn raw by years of cigarette smoke.  She looked up at the boy with concern in her eyes.

“Every day, I have to take these pills.  Every day,” he said.

Marjorie shook her head and looked back to her cards.  “Over-medication.  Seems like that’s the answer to all of society’s ills these days.  It’s a shame.”

“I’m going to make it,” Justin sputtered.  “I’ll show them.  They’ll see!”

Bridget was struck by a pang of guilt, knowing that she couldn’t do anything to save him.  She knew he had no chance of making it in this town.  Practically none of these people did.  They were fooling themselves; setting themselves up to be eviscerated by the Hollywood machine.  What she began to wonder was whether she was fooling herself as well.

“How long have you been here?” Justin asked Bridget, encouraged when she actually looked at him.

“Four months,” she answered.

“Really?” he was enthused.  In his eyes that made her practically an old-timer.  “Where did you come from?”

“St. Louis,” she answered. 

“I’m from Illinois,” he said, gazing at her with eager desperation. 

Bridget knew how he felt.  She knew that this might be the only conversation he had all day.  She knew what it was like to feel invisible on the set and then go home to a cold, lonely apartment in a city where nobody knows your name.  Somewhere back home his parents must be sick with worry, and rightly so.  He needed the help and support only family could provide.  But then maybe his parents were as mixed up as he was.  Either way, this boy needed something.  She just couldn’t be asked to provide it.  Why should she have to feel so guilty?  Was she the patron saint of lost causes?  She was known as such back in Missouri.  Her friends teased her, the way she was always had a soft spot for the less fortunate.  Always taking in the strays and befriending the friendless.  That same instinct confronted her with Justin, but this one would have to take care of himself.  She had her own problems to deal with. 

Bridget breathed a sigh as she looked to Marjorie, still seeking stardom after how many decades?  Or was she simply content with this role on the periphery?  Happy to be a small, token part of it all?  Bridget glanced around at the other eager hopefuls.  How had it come to this?  Were these really her people?  Was she just another one of the hordes who flocked to Hollywood with nothing but a dream?  She knew she could act.  She’d acted all of her life, but in the months that she’d been in Los Angeles her career had managed to go absolutely nowhere.  She understood that it took a lot more than talent.  It took drive and determination, and most of all luck.  Lately she seemed to be in short supply of all three.  With each passing day she grew more and more morose, and a desperate feeling of homesickness began taking hold.  She wondered how much longer she could hang on.  When she’d left St. Louis she could hardly wait to get out but now she found herself longing for the comfort and familiarity of home.  At least there she had the support of her friends and her family.  Going back as a failure would be hard for her to swallow too, though she considered it more each day.

A young man in cargo shorts and a white T-shirt, with a carefully trimmed goatee, walked up to the crowd of extras holding a clipboard.  “Let’s go everybody!  Time to work!” he yelled.  “We need everyone for this shot!”

“Here we go!” said Justin excitedly.  “I hope I get a good spot.  I hope they see me back home.  Then they’ll know.  Then they’ll know I made it.  They’ll know they were wrong!”

Bridget stood up and tucked her book into the pocket of her large brown overcoat.  She pulled the black beanie over her head and followed the others through two giant black doors and into the soundstage.  Back when she’d first arrived in LA, walking on set like this made her heart race.  It was exciting.  Now it was just another day, scraping by on minimum wage.
 

Chapter Three

 As he moved down the sidewalk on his way to the convenience store, Warren passed a chain-link fence running the entire length of the block.  On the other side of this fence was a series of large, windowless buildings side by side.  He’d seen them many times before, but this time, right in the middle of it all, two men in white catering outfits unloaded tray upon tray of food onto three long tables.  Warren put down his saxophone and clung to the fence with both hands to stare in awe.  There was barbecued chicken, fettuccini, cold cuts and cheese.  There was bread, salad and two kinds of soup.  There was chocolate cake and apple pie.  And nobody was eating any of it.  Warren’s mouth watered.  His stomach churned.  He had to have that food.

A uniformed security guard ambled over arrogantly to face him from the other side of the fence.  “Private property,” said the guard.  “Move along.”

“Can’t a man stand on the sidewalk?” Warren replied with spite in his voice.

“Not with your fingers through the fence.”

Warren glared at the guard before he let go.  He picked up his sax and headed back in the direction he had come.  When he got to the intersection he turned right and followed a cement wall down an alley.  Who were they to be so rude?  Since when was it a crime to stand on a public sidewalk? 

Warren searched the alley for a safe place to stash his saxophone.  At the base of an old apartment building he found a small square door, two-feet high.  He swung it open to reveal a dark crawlspace with cables, pipes and wires running the length of the building.  It would be safe here for a while.  He looked both ways up and down the alley to make sure nobody was looking before he tucked his sax inside and closed the door.

On the other side of the alley, the cement wall separated these apartment blocks from the complex of buildings he’d seen through the fence.  It was the only thing between Warren and all of that glorious food.  At eight-feet high, the wall was roughly two feet taller than he was.  Warren found an empty plastic trash bin and turned it upside down beside the wall.  When he climbed up, the bin strained to support his weight, but from this perch he peered over the top of the wall.  On the other side was the back of one of the long tall buildings he had seen before.  From this angle there was nobody in sight.

Warren made certain that he wasn’t being watched before he climbed onto the wall and then dropped over the other side, landing first on his feet but then falling to the ground with a thud.  “Ow!  Damn!” he exclaimed and then hopped up to dust himself off, examining his body parts for anything sprained or broken.  He seemed to be in one piece.  He picked his fedora up off the ground and put it back on his head before he looked around to see if he had been spotted.  He still saw nobody.  His heart sang at the excitement of it all.  He’d show that guard!  Like a spy on a secret mission, Warren ducked around the nearest building, where he found a small crowd of workers on the other side.  They hurried back and forth, carrying sand bags, lights, cables and cameras.  They were all too busy to give Warren a second look.  He moved along amongst them until he spotted the food table and then stopped in an effort to blend in and survey the scene.  He ducked behind a white van and watched as two caterers unloaded ice chests full of drinks. 

When the caterers were finished they hopped in the van and started the engine.  Warren froze in a panic, not sure where to go or what to do, but when the van pulled away he found himself standing alone faced with all of that food.  He hurried to the table to survey his spoils, hardly knowing where to begin.  He chuckled out loud before lifting a piece of chocolate cake to his lips.  The dark frosting melted on his tongue.  Next he grabbed a chicken leg and quickly gnawed it to the bone.  He stuck a second leg in his pocket and then grabbed at a bunch of grapes and shoved them in his mouth, sending juice streaming down his chin as he laughed in delight.  He was reaching for a beautiful slice of apple pie when he heard a furious shout from somewhere behind him.

“Hey, get the hell away from there!!!”

Warren turned around to see the angry, red-faced security guard rushing his way.  Warren ducked under the table to avoid the guard and came up on the other side, still searching for something good to eat.  He grabbed a few round pieces of melon and popped them in his mouth before the guard scurried around the table, arms flailing.  Warren quickly ducked under and then hopped back up, face to face across the table from the guard.  When the guard moved one way, Warren moved the other.

“You’ve had your fun.  The game’s over!” said the panting guard.  “Give it up and come with me!”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Warren replied.  “Not with you, that’s for sure.”

The guard bolted clockwise and chased Warren around the table in a circle before they both stopped again.  This time the guard took a walkie-talkie off of his belt and held it to his mouth.

“I need backup on stage fifteen.  I’ve got an intruder at catering,” he said breathlessly, apparently not used to this much exercise.

“Roger that, be right there!” came the excited reply.

“You’re just making this harder on yourself,” said the guard.

Warren looked over the table and picked up his piece of pie.  “I don’t mind,” he said before taking a bite.  He had nothing to lose.  What could they do but throw him out?  At least he’d have eaten something first, he thought, gleefully shoving more pie in his mouth.  Two more guards appeared, hoofing across the lot behind him.  This time Warren simply stood and waited.  All three guards converged on him at once.  There was no escaping and he knew it.  The two new guards grabbed him, each by one arm.  They pulled him off of his feet and began to drag him away, the heels of his worn-out boots sliding along the ground.

From behind a giant black sliding door, Warren saw a man appear with a megaphone in one hand.  He wore jeans and tight black cotton shirt, with glasses on an angular face.  His short dark hair was flecked with hints of gray.  After watching the commotion for a moment, his expression turned from confusion to annoyance.  He held up his megaphone and spoke into it with an air of authority.

“What the hell is going on over there?” he demanded.

“We caught this man raiding the food table, Mr. Kaplan, sir,” yelled the first guard.

“Is this true?” Stewart Kaplan snapped as he approached Warren.

“I’m afraid so,” replied Warren with a wry smile as the guards lifted him back to his feet.

“You know extras don’t eat until noon!  What are you doing out here?!” continued Kaplan.

“But sir!” said the guard.

“Quiet!  I asked this man a question!” said Kaplan.  “I won’t put up with this kind of behavior on my set!  You’re damned lucky I don’t fire you right here.  Get back in there and take your place!”

            “My place?” answered Warren quizzically.

            “But, Mr. Kaplan,” protested the guard.  “I don’t think…

            “Come on, party’s over!  We’ve got work to do!” Kaplan interrupted the guard again before hurrying back in the direction from which he had come.

            The first guard struck a manly pose and adjusted his pants while he considered his next move.  He realized he was beaten.  There was nothing left for them to do but retreat. Warren managed a quirky half smile.

            “Well?” Kaplan said to him, turning back around.

            “Right,” said Warren, “Back inside.  Take my place.”  He followed Kaplan through the giant doors.  Inside, the cavernous building was a hive of activity.  People in loose jeans and T-shirts, some with backward baseball caps, hustled around trailing long cables and carrying sandbags and metal stands.  Giant lights, movie cameras and equipment were set up everywhere.  Behind it all was a city scene, with storefronts, three-story apartment buildings, blue sky and white clouds.  The set was lit by what seemed like a thousand floodlights, some hanging from the ceiling and others set up on floor stands.  A group of men and women dressed in grubby attire gathered to one side; the women in plain wool dresses, the men in loose suits or worn overcoats.  All of the men wore fedoras on their heads.  Warren knew his kind of people when he saw them.  He headed for this group and moved into the middle of the pack, trying to blend in.

            “All right, places people, let’s get this thing going already!” Kaplan shouted into his bullhorn. 

            The film crew quickly moved to their places behind the cameras.  Actors hurried onto the set.  A man in cargo shorts with a goatee gave Warren a quick look up and down.  “Wardrobe!  I need a check here!” shouted Kevin, the first assistant director.

            A girl with long dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in thrift-shop chic with red corduroy pants and a tightly buttoned gray cardigan sweater appeared at Warren’s side.  Strapped over one shoulder was brown cloth bag with a big flap on top.

            “Can you make him a bit rougher?” Kevin asked her.

            “We can dirty up that coat some more,” said the girl, who opened the flap on her bag and pulled out a large black marking pen.  She pulled off the cap and started putting long, black streaks down Warren’s coat.

            “Hey!” Warren yelled, jumping back.  “That’s my coat!”

            Another, larger girl appeared by his side, this one all in black, with purple streaks in her long black hair and a dress that bunched tight around her cleavage.  In one hand was an open jar.  She stuck two fingers inside and scooped out some dark grime which she then rubbed on his face.  It was all quite peculiar, Warren thought, but he might as well go along for the ride.

            “Ok, places people!” yelled Kaplan from behind a camera.

            “Come with me,” said Kevin, leading Warren across the set.  A petite girl in a long grey coat and a black beanie stood on a sidewalk next to a steel drum garbage can.  “Stand right here.  Pretend you’re warming your hands,” Kevin said to Warren before moving off.

            Warren stood in the middle of the set, staring around at all the lights and cameras seemingly pointing directly at him.  He couldn’t help but smile as he turned to the girl standing beside him.  Her head was half-cocked to one side and a few wayward strands of auburn hair stuck out from under her stocking cap.  Underneath her own layer of phony grime she had a wholesome, pretty face.

            “Where’d you come from?” Bridget asked suspiciously. 

            “Where am I?” Warren answered with a light laugh.

            “I haven’t seen you before, have I?” she added.

            “Shhh…” Warren said, lifting a finger to his lips.     

            Bridget crinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the stale odor that followed Warren wherever he went.  She shuddered as she realized that the dirt and grime in his clothes was not the stuff of Hollywood.  Not the Hollywood of make-believe in any case. 

 “Positions please!” Kaplan shouted.  “We’ll run through a rehearsal.  Does everyone know what to do?”

            Bridget kept an eye on Warren, trying to decide whether she should move away from him somehow.  One of the film crew rushed onto the set and handed him a half-full whiskey bottle.  “Thanks!” Warren said brightly before the man hurried off without a word.   Warren uncapped the bottle and took a deep drink before spitting it out onto the floor.  “Hey, that’s not whiskey!” he said disappointedly, mostly to himself.

            “Quiet!” yelled Kaplan.  “Can I have some fire please?”

            In an instant, flames leapt up out of the trash can, singeing the hairs on Warren’s right arm as he leapt back in fright.

            “Down a little!” shouted Kaplan.  The fire receded slightly.  Bridget resigned herself to staying put.  It was too late to move now.  “Ok, quiet on the set!” the director announced.  “On my mark!  And, background!  Action!”  Suddenly the street scene came to life, with the characters moving to and fro.  Warren stared at them in awe, unsure what to do or where to go.  Bridget gave him a quick kick in the shin.

            “Ow!” he gave a low growl and glared at her with momentary contempt.

“Shhhh!!!” she shushed him sternly with a finger in front of her lips and then scowled, nodded at her hands as she warmed them by the fire.  Warren followed her lead.  A street urchin in a newsboy’s cap ran onto the set.

            “Sound the alarm, it’s the fuzz!  It’s the fuzz!” yelled the boy.

            People on the street gasped and ran for cover.  Warren looked back and forth in alarm.  What was he supposed to do?  He had no idea, so he simply stayed put.  A police captain and two other officers walked onto the set and headed directly toward him.  When they’d closed to within a few feet, the police captain stopped and looked at Warren with revulsion.  He grabbed the whisky bottle out of Warren’s hand and smashed it to the ground.

            “Somebody tell me, where’s Bill McGhee?!” the captain yelled.

            Warren held his hands out to his sides.  Who was Bill McGhee?  He moved backwards until he bumped up against a wall.  A stunning brunette appeared in a doorway wearing a skimpy burgundy negligee.  She was a vision of beauty, with flawless features, long thin legs and a bust that seemed to defy gravity.  Purple eye shadow and black mascara highlighted her large, round eyes.  Warren’s pulse raced.  He felt lightheaded.  It was a familiar sensation.  One that took him back to the heady days of his youth.  Back to the very first time he’d laid eyes on Ophelia.  This girl looked just like her.  Close enough, anyway, that his face turned pale.  His jaw hung low.  Warren took a deep breath.  Of course this was not Ophelia, he had to remind himself.  He hadn’t seen her in ages.  Not since he’d fled from New Orleans three years before, but the sight of this actress brought all of his longing right back.  He did his best to bury it again where it came from.

“Nobody’s gonna tell you where Bill is, copper.  You couldn’t drag it out of us,” said the woman.

            “Drag it out of you I will, Maggie, if that’s what I have to do,” replied the captain smugly.

            “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Police Man.  You can leave the lady alone,” came another voice from behind her.  A handsome man in his 50’s with an air of confidence walked out to boldly face the captain down.  He wore a red silk robe with red slippers on his feet.

            “Well, well.  If it isn’t the elusive Bill McGhee,” said the self-satisfied captain.

            “You should have brought more men,” said McGhee.

            “Oh, I did, Mr. McGhee.  I most certainly did.”

            Warren flinched on instinct as twenty more officers emerged from the end of the street, clubs drawn.  McGhee gazed at the police casually.  “Is that all you can muster?” he asked, waiting until the cops nearly had him surrounded before he held up one hand and snapped his fingers.  In an instant, thugs with guns appeared in every window and doorway in sight, perched on the rooftops and spilling out into the street, ready to do battle.

            The captain scowled at the heavily armed men.  He was out-manned and out-gunned.   He seemed to contemplate his next move.  How could he back down without losing face?  Would these gangsters massacre cops in broad daylight?  Warren wondered if a shootout was coming.   

“You haven’t heard the end of this, McGhee!” the captain shouted.  He turned with his head down and led his men back the way they had come.

            “And stay out!” yelled McGhee, to the cheers of his men.  “Well done, boys,” he added.  “Drinks on me!”

            At that an even greater cheer went up and everyone followed McGhee back inside.  Warren kept his eyes on the raven-haired beauty until she’d disappeared.  He wiped his brow.  His heart was beating much too fast.

            “Cut!  Fabulous!  We’ll do it exactly like that on film!” shouted Kaplan.

            An assistant ran back onto the set and handed a fresh whiskey bottle to Warren while another man quickly swept up the remains of the first one.  Warren looked at the new bottle with amazement.  If only it was the real stuff, he thought.

            “Places people, let’s go again!” yelled the director.

            “Welcome to the movie business,” said Bridget, relieved that Warren hadn’t made some sort of blunder and ruined the shot.  “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

            “I don’t think I’ll be here that long,” Warren answered. 

“You never know,” Bridget said with a shrug.