[Chapter 32: Gossip Scandals Too Conservative]
In Santa Monica, in an apartment building on the corner, Hawke, wearing a wig and fake mustache, pulled back the curtains.
The apartment was on the fourth floor, with windows facing south and east, just above streetlights over nine feet tall. Such a height was almost impossible to climb for most people, but Hawke could escape through the window any time he wanted.
Hawke took out an envelope, spreading the photos he brought across the table in a circle, with Robert Downey Jr. at the center. Surrounding Downey were his current wife, Deborah, his agent, and two friends.
Hawke grabbed a pen and marked the pictures of Deborah and the two friends. Deborah would become an emotional trigger because of the thoughts Edward had that night.
More importantly, Hawke needed to gather more information about Downey. The people surrounding him were crucial. In Hollywood, friends could be more intimate than a spouse, and the two friends he circled were the ones who appeared most frequently alongside Downey in the photos and online reports. One was a somewhat fat guy, and the other a bald man.
Hawke couldn't find much information about the two online. He tidied up the apartment, then headed downstairs to take the old subway to Inglewood, where he found a private detective agency specializing in tracking and filming unfaithful spouses.
After chatting briefly in an East Coast accent, Hawke handed over the photos of both guys, giving $1,000 cash as a retainer, and left a new phone number for contact.
Friends wouldn't follow Downey around 24/7, so Hawke wanted to know what those two were doing during other times.
...
Before noon, Hawke returned home, restored his original appearance, and picked up a copy of the National Enquirer. Eddie Murphy's news made the front page, labeled as the "Prostitution Scandal."
Before long, Edward came back, bursting with excitement. "Boss, you need to hear me out! You were totally right! Developing sources can be my opportunity too."
Hawke acknowledged his enthusiasm, asking, "Did you find someone you like?"
Edward dragged over a chair and sat across from Hawke. "There's a divorced woman around 30 on Highland Street, raising two kids alone. She's exhausted!"
He was filled with sympathy. "I've decided to really help her. I can't let her suffer."
Hawke said, "Raising two kids alone is indeed tough."
"When will I get that freelancer press pass you mentioned last time?" Edward was clearly eager. "I took the first step by getting her contact info while handing out my business cards, but I was too quick to mention I'm a journalist..."
Hawke understood and replied, "You'll have to wait a few days."
Edward was impatient. "Can't you call and speed things up? Having a press pass when I ask her out would be much more reliable."
Hawke accurately gauged the situation, replying, "It depends on how you perform."
Edward inquired, "Is there anything you need me to do?"
Hawke instructed, "Clean up the first floor."
Edward, buzzing with enthusiasm, immediately went to grab some tools.
Just then, someone knocked on the door, and Hawke opened it.
Frank, the old man from the RV, lifted a few cans of beer and a paper bag in his hands. "I said I'd buy you a drink, can't go back on that now."
Hawke moved aside. "Come on in."
Edward, hearing the noise, rushed out, exclaiming, "Free beer for lunch!"
Frank, at this point in his life, was speaking without restraint. "You want me to throw in some fried chicken with that?"
Edward, who had scraped his way up from the rough side of Compton, had a thick skin and replied, "If you're paying, I'll eat."
Frank set down the beer and indeed pulled out fried chicken from the paper bag.
"I've got sausages, canned beef, and sandwiches too," Hawke said as he fetched items from the fridge.
Frank turned to Edward. "You just brought a mouth, huh?"
Edward shot back, "Hey, old man, don't think I don't know you. Aren't you the can picker from this block? Tomorrow, I'm gonna gather some empty cans and fill them with crap, tossing them in all the trash bins here, just to see how you like it!"
Frank fired back, "Whatever, worst case I'll just pick cotton." He called out to Hawke, "Buddy, got any watermelons? I'm craving them."
Hawke set down the food. "Both of you shut up, or I'll kick you out. Old man, you can go pick cotton while Edward goes back to picking cans."
Finally, they quieted down and sat at the table.
Though Frank wouldn't let up on his jabs, he still handed a can of beer to Edward.
Edward bit into the fried chicken without hesitation.
Frank examined the cameras, then curiously asked, "Aren't you going out to cover the Oscars tonight?"
"The Oscars don't start until five this afternoon, and those stars are all playing nice while preparing for the ceremony," Hawke replied, taking a sip from his beer. "What the audience wants to see will be shown by the mainstream media. We can't compete with those backed by big outlets."
He pointed to the window. "After dark, when the ceremony wraps up and those celebrities get drunk and wild, that's when it's the free reporter's time."
Frank nodded. "Exactly. Those inflated egos think they are gods once they've had a few too many."
Hawke asked, "You know a lot about this?"
Frank downed the rest of the beer in his can, opened another, and seemed to reminisce. "Celebrities, directors, and producers who seem charming in front of the public and media are total jerks behind the scenes. They're just scaled-down versions of Washington politicians. Beneath that shiny surface lies utter filth."
Hawke had previously only learned about that circle through internet gossip. Now, through limited interactions, he realized the online scandals were far too conservative. What actually happened far exceeded the boldest rumors out there.
Eric Emerson had said it right: to ride on someone's coattails, you had to kneel and open your mouth.
For the lucky ones, the coattails were women.
But for the unlucky, things could be more exaggerated than George; not only is he a man, he might also be a pervert.
Edward tossed aside a fried chicken bone, scoffing, "How could a can-picking bum understand any of this?"
Frank replied vaguely, "Because I was once one of them. I did a lot of messed up things."
"Ugh!" Edward raised his voice. "And I'm gonna claim my ancestors never picked cotton!"
Hawke curiously asked, "What about now?"
"Back then, I was too full of myself, thinking I was untouchable," Frank replied, speaking vaguely. "I messed up a few projects and didn't want my ex-wife keeping my cash to support other men..."
Edward resonated deeply with that: "Those guys are living in the house you provided for your ex-wife, spending your alimony money, and they even have the gall to bully your children."
The more he spoke, the more it struck deep: "When they're feeling frisky, they even take out your and your ex-wife's wedding photos to hang on the wall when they're at it. That's too damn triggering!"
These words hit home, and while Frank glared at him furiously, he couldn't muster a retort.
Because it got uncomfortably close to the truth.
Hawke worried Frank might collapse right there, sending him to see God, and kicked Edward subtly, pushing the beer in front of the old man. "Drink up, drink up."
Edward toned down a bit, "You're not just boasting, are you? That can't be real."
Frank couldn't stomach any more beer and stood up. "I'm heading back to rest for a while. We'll drink another time."
Hawke walked him to the door.
But Edward was mulling over. "Did this loser really have a glorious past? Was there an ex-wife involved? No, I need to get chummy with him and squeeze out info on his ex."
...
As night fell, the Oscars began.
Hawke drove into the Hollywood area with Edward in tow.
However, he didn't head where all the media reporters gathered near Kodak Theatre. Just picking a random spot there meant running into a bunch of journalists.
After some time cruising around, Hawke only managed to take some insignificant photos.
Close to 10 PM, the business cards he had handed out finally paid off.
Somebody called from the south side of Highland, near Santa Monica Boulevard.
*****
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