Past the sky-wall I came to the New York street set, where the party was. A red carpet with a theatrical rope on either side guided me to the festivities. Facades of brownstone row houses made the scene come alive, while a four-story brick building with concrete crests under the windows looked real until I got close enough to look in those windows at the barrenness within.
Two of the New York streets, which intersected in a V, were filled with 95 round, white-clothed tables, each with 10 chairs around it. Waiters bustled from table to table, setting the necessary utensils and dishes. A centerpiece of cut flowers adorned each table. Esther and her crew had thought of everything, even the weather, which was unusually warm for an evening in Los Angeles.
A small army of volunteers sat at other, rectangular tables, without tablecloths, eating box lunches to fuel them for handling the onslaught of guests, who would soon start arriving. I picked up one of the cardboard boxes of food and a bottle of apple juice and spotted Jeri, the plump, eternally pleasant volunteer coordinator who worked for Esther.
"Everything all set?" I asked her, raising my voice above the chatter of the volunteers.
"Knock on wood," she said, tapping her head with her knuckles. "Esther's around here somewhere-as usual, doing 50 things at once."
"I'll catch up with her later," I said. I knew she would be busy all night and didn't expect to get any of her time. Jeri turned to talk to somebody else and I contemplated sitting at one of the long volunteer tables to eat my hamburger and apple, but I didn't know many of the volunteers and I was too restless to sit.
I leaned against a low stone wall that bordered the open area near the red carpet and took a generous bite of bun, beef, tomato and pickle.
"Hello, Karl," a voice said and I looked up to see Pat Wong, the client who wanted to be an airport shuttle driver, also carrying a box lunch.
"Hi Pat," I said, shaking his hand. "Are you working tonight?"
"I wanted to give something back in return for all the help I've received from Emerge. My interview went well and I'm got a second one scheduled for next week. If I don't blow that…"
"Good news. By the way, you're looking very dapper. Nice suit."
"I got it from the clothes closet at Emerge."
It was a close fit. And he had gotten a haircut. It's amazing what hope and a little help will do for a person. We ate and chatted for a few minutes. I thought of something. "I don't like to bring up the past, but didn't you tell me you were living in San Francisco when you were arrested for dealing?"
Pat nodded. "I'm not going back. I've got to stay away from there. I don't want to get sucked back in…"
"May I tell you a story about what happened to a friend of mine? And maybe you can tell me how plausible the police version of what happened is." I told him about Ned, how he had been found dead off Grant Avenue, shot several times, with cocaine in his car.
Pat heard me out, and then said, "It doesn't ring true. You're telling me a white devil-excuse me, Karl-who doesn't even live in San Francisco is dealing in Chinatown? Did he have any Chinese friends?"
"I have no idea."
He shook his head. "That's as fishy as the seafood markets on Grant. Let me make a phone call. Is there a pay phone…?"
"I don't have a credit card," I said, knowing that Pat had little money.
"That's okay. I can call my uncle collect."
I wondered where there would be a pay phone on a movie lot. At that moment Esther walked up and gave me a quick hug. She was wearing a smart pantsuit, designed for maximum mobility. She looked radiant. She was in her element.
"How's it going?" I asked.
"It's going," she said. "There's no stopping it now."
I introduced Pat to her as a success story. She was always looking for success stories for the newsletter she published. They shook hands and he asked her if she knew where a pay phone was.
"Use this," she said, handing me her cell phone.
"How will I get it back to you?" I asked as she zoomed away.
"I'll find you," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the growing crowd.
Pat punched in a number and carried on a rapid conversation that I couldn't understand. After a minute he disconnected and said, "My uncle knows about this man, Mr. Mackay. The story was in the paper. My uncle says he thinks the cocaine was planted."
"Does he have any idea who murdered Ned?" I asked.
Pat shook his head slowly. "He wouldn't make a guess."
I thanked him. It was time for me to get to work. I went to the table where raffle tickets-excuse me, opportunity drawing tickets; we weren't supposed to use the word raffle, and the $20 asked for a ticket was a donation to Emerge-were being sold. I took a book of tickets and walked over to where the car itself was on display, a Porsche Boxter convertible, sleek and white.
Since it was for a good cause I felt only a little like a hypocrite, selling tickets for something I personally wouldn't want to own. Not that the car wouldn't be fun to drive, but I couldn't see paying income tax on the value of the car, or the insurance for that matter, to say nothing of the license fee, which was based on its value. And when I had tried to sit in it I had barely fit into the driver's seat. Completely impractical-perfect for rich Yuppies.
The atmosphere was contagious for spending money. Not far away, rows of donated art objects, dresses worn by actresses, tickets for sports events and the “Rosie O'Donnell Show,” and even mini-vacations were being sold in a silent auction; write down your name and a bid-pay later.
The beautiful people of Los Angeles strolled by, the men in sport coats, the women mostly in black, with varying degrees of decolletage. I mentally compared them to Arrow in her black dress; they all came up lacking.
I played the part of a circus barker, calling to the strollers and drawing them in. My line was, "Wouldn't you like to own this car?" Many smiled and stopped to look at it. Some bought tickets. A pretty young lady hurried up waving a hundred-dollar bill and purchased five tickets. Cool. Women had never thrown money at me before.
The dinner started and the guests sat down at the 95 tables. I wandered over to where I could see the stage set up at the V where the two "dining" streets came together. Morgan Freeman, of the movie, Driving Miss Daisy, was the emcee, and he welcomed everybody in his rich, melodious voice. Sherry Lansing, who had been head of Paramount for eight years-since 1992-spoke. Some super-volunteers were being honored. One was a close friend of Rosanna Arquette and Rosanna gave a ringing tribute in her honor. Esther, with the help of her board members, was connected with everybody in the entertainment industry.
Later, when Rosanna was leaving she walked close by me with an entourage of young women. She was petite-smaller than she appeared on the big screen. Seeing celebrities in person confirmed for me that they really existed and weren't just media creations. But was this proof? Even Mickey Mouse seemed real at Disneyland.
I found Esther and returned her cell phone. She had a brief chance to relax since the program was going so well. I stayed with her and her team while they discussed the cleanup, which was already starting even though most people hadn't left yet. In the background, a live auction was being conducted, with items such as the use of convention facilities going for five figures.
A successful evening. I stayed and worked until everything was done. Because we were busy, I didn't talk much to Esther-didn’t have to look her in the eye. When the work was complete I went to her to say goodnight. It was late.
"You throw a good party," I said.
"Thanks. And thanks for all your help."
"You must be exhausted."
She nodded. The adrenaline had worn off. She didn't invite me to go home with her and I didn't ask. Maybe I should say something… Somehow the evening wasn't complete. I told myself that there was no reason for me to feel those stabs of guilt about Arrow. I was on the verge of hanging around, looking awkward.