Black

Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Spotlights played through the night air outside of TCL Chinese Theater for the premiere of Hunter's epic, Nine Hard Lives, which the promo posters warned would be shocking - and that this time, it was personal. Every variety of kook and Hollywood nutcase was out in force, thronging the sidewalks on either side of the barricades that had been set up to keep the undesirables at bay, vying for attention in the way that only the certifiably insane could.

A man dressed as Stan Laurel of Laurel and Hardy, inexplicably painted head to toe in silver paint, stood next to his counterpart, an all-gold Pirate of the Caribbean who looked like he'd polished off a few too many cocktails before coming to work for the evening. Roller-skating Rastafarians for Jesus, a few holdout Hari Krishnas, three paunchy men in sombreros and gaucho suits with guitars and a sign proclaiming them as the Polish Mariachis (Polka Con Dios!), a juggling midget in a threadbare jester's outfit, an eighty-year-old woman screaming Biblical prophecies in between serenading passers-by with off-key show tunes...anything you wanted, and plenty you didn't, was at the spectacle, drawn to the glitter as surely as moths to a bug zapper.

Near the far barrier, the paparazzi hung in a clump, like bluebottles around a camp latrine, waiting for the big show to finish so they could get photos. They'd already disrupted the proceedings while the stars had been arriving on the red carpet, and several from FSA had made a point of yelling inflammatory questions when Hunter arrived. Hunter had barely restrained himself from lunging at the men, who taunted him with the glib assurance of children pestering zoo animals from behind the safety of shatterproof glass.

An espresso cart was set up, and the photographers were eagerly sipping the hot brew, their work hours having just begun. Many would be up until dawn, chasing down the inebriated and the unlucky who also happened to be newsworthy, and they relished a good caffeine jolt in addition to any other stimulants they could get their hands on. The film had started almost two hours before, and the air of expectation in the remaining crowd was palpable, a buzz of excitement at being in the proximity of the famous, if not the great. Young women in short skirts worked the area, their lean features already brittle in spite of their tender years, ignored by the uniformed policemen lounging together inside the barrier, safeguarding those who really mattered from those who clearly didn't.

Suddenly one of the FSA photographers by the barrier dropped his camera with a loud crash, followed immediately by his paper cup of steaming coffee, and then collapsed on the filthy concrete sidewalk and began to convulse. A nearby woman screamed as the remaining paparazzi alternated between stepping away from their colleague and drawing nearer in horrified fascination. His partner knelt next to him and began to loosen his button-up shirt collar, but pulled away when the fallen man started to foam from his mouth and nose, tiny flecks of blood coloring the froth pink.

Two policemen hopped the barrier and jogged over, hands on their holstered pistols. When they saw the commotion, the first radioed for help while the other signaled to their remaining colleagues, who rushed to join them and see what the fuss was all about.

Nine minutes later an ambulance rolled to the curb. Two paramedics leapt out and ran to examine the fallen man. One took the photog's vitals while the other removed a medical kit from the rear of the ambulance, and then stopped when his partner looked up at him from his position next to the victim and shook his head.

Ten minutes after that, the film ended. By then the area in front of the theater was chaos, with additional uniforms arriving and the crowd in a flux of slow motion pandemonium as more of the local eccentrics congregated to add their own special brand of magic to the tragedy. A legless saxophone player sat oblivious to the scene, propped against a lamppost down the block, playing a long, soulful solo as the police did their best to contain the area. A line of limousines waited at the curb like a funeral procession, yellow crime scene tape now cordoning off the espresso cart and the spot where the victim had dropped. When the theater doors swung open, the exiting audience was shocked by the unexpected display, police milling around trying to implement crowd control with marginal success.