The Wolf of Los Angeles

Chapter 32: Gossip and Scandals are Too Tame

In a corner unit of a Santa Monica apartment building, Hawk, disguised with a wig and a glued-on mustache, pulled open the curtains.

The fourth-floor apartment had windows facing south and east, with nine-meter-high streetlamp poles below. The height made climbing up nearly impossible while still allowing Hawk a quick escape through the windows if necessary.

At the table, Hawk spread out a set of photographs in a circular pattern, placing Robert Downey Jr. at the center. Around him were pictures of Downey’s wife, Deborah, his agent, and two frequent companions.

With a pen, Hawk marked Deborah and the two companions.

Inspired by Edward’s comments, Hawk saw Deborah as a potential emotional trigger. To dig deeper, he needed more information about Downey and the people closest to him.

The companions, often more intimate than a wife in Hollywood, were key. In both Hawk’s photos and online reports, these two—a fat man and a bald one—appeared frequently at Downey’s side.

Unable to find much about them online, Hawk left his apartment and took the old subway to Inglewood, where he located a private detective agency specializing in tracking and photographing cheating spouses.

Adopting an East Coast accent, Hawk handed over the photos of the two companions along with $1,000 cash as an advance. He left a new phone number for updates.

By noon, Hawk had returned home, looking like his usual self. On the way, he picked up a copy of National Enquirer.

The Eddie Murphy scoop was today’s headline, complete with Hawk’s self-coined title: “Solicitation Scandal.”

Shortly after, Edward burst through the door, his excitement unmistakable. “Boss, you were right! Developing news sources is my chance too!”

Hawk humored him. “Met someone you like?”

Edward pulled up a chair, sitting across from Hawk. “Over on Highland Street, I met this divorced woman, around 30. She’s raising two kids on her own—it’s exhausting!”

With an air of exaggerated compassion, he declared, “I’ve decided to help her out. She’s been through enough.”

“One person raising two kids is tough,” Hawk agreed.

“Boss, when will the freelance reporter credentials be ready?” Edward’s intentions became clear. “I’ve already taken the first step to success. While handing out cards, I got her number. But I talked too fast and told her I was a reporter...”

Hawk smirked knowingly. “It’ll take a few days.”

Edward was eager. “Can’t you call and speed it up? Having the credentials would make me seem more credible when I ask her out.”

“It depends on your performance,” Hawk said, shifting the focus.

“What do you need me to do?” Edward asked eagerly.

“Start by cleaning the first floor,” Hawk replied.

Edward, full of enthusiasm, grabbed cleaning supplies.

A knock at the door interrupted them. Hawk opened it to find Frank, the RV-dwelling old man, holding a few cans of beer and a paper bag.

“Promised you a drink, didn’t I?” Frank said.

Hawk stepped aside. “Come in.”

Edward, hearing the commotion, peeked out and exclaimed, “Free beer for lunch!”

Frank, ever the curmudgeon, scoffed. “Want some fried chicken to go with it?”

Edward, unfazed by insults after years in Compton, shot back, “If you’re paying, I’ll eat it.”

Frank put the beer down and pulled fried chicken from the bag.

“I’ve got sausages, canned beef, and sandwiches too,” Hawk offered, grabbing food from the fridge.

Frank glared at Edward. “All you brought was your appetite?”

Edward bristled. “Hey, old man, don’t think I don’t know you. You’re the guy picking cans up and down this street! Tomorrow, I’ll fill some cans with crap and toss them in every trash bin around. Let’s see how you pick them up then!”

Frank retorted, “Fine, I’ll just go pick cotton instead.” Turning to Hawk, he added, “Got any watermelon? I could go for some watermelon.”

Hawk intervened, bringing food to the table. “Both of you, shut up. Or I’ll kick you out. Frank can go pick cotton, and Edward can start collecting cans.”

Finally, the two fell silent and sat at the table, though Frank tossed Edward a beer despite their spat.

Edward, undeterred, tore into the fried chicken.

Frank inspected Hawk’s camera and camcorder. “The Oscars are tonight. You’re not heading out to chase a story?”

“The ceremony starts at 5 p.m. Those stars and bigwigs are on their best behavior right now, prepping for the event,” Hawk explained, sipping his beer. “The mainstream media will cover everything the public wants to see. There’s no beating the big outlets at that game.”

He pointed to the window. “Once night falls and the ceremony’s over, when they’re drunk and partying, that’s when freelancers like us get to work.”

Frank nodded in agreement. “Exactly. Those high-and-mighty types get so full of themselves after a few drinks, they think they’re gods.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Hawk probed.

Frank drained his beer and cracked open another. “The celebrities, directors, and producers who act all polished in public? Behind closed doors, they’re all scumbags. They’re just like Washington politicians—shiny on the outside, rotten underneath.”

Hawk, having only known Hollywood gossip through online chatter in his previous life, now realized even the juiciest scandals online were tame compared to the reality.

Eric Eason had been right: if you wanted to get ahead, you had to bow and use your mouth.

If you were lucky, the person you bowed to was a woman.

If not, you might end up worse off than George, dealing with men—or even worse, some twisted combination.

Edward, tossing aside a chicken bone, snorted. “What would a can-picking bum know about any of that?”

Frank muttered, “Because I used to be one of them. Did a lot of terrible things.”

“Yeah, right,” Edward scoffed loudly. “And I’ll say my ancestors never picked cotton!”

Hawk was curious. “So what happened?”

“Got too full of myself, thought I was invincible,” Frank said vaguely. “Messed up a few projects. And I wasn’t about to let my ex-wives spend my money on other men…”

Edward, clearly invested, added venomously, “Those guys live in the houses you paid for, eat food bought with your child support, and push your kids around for fun.”

He twisted the knife further. “Bet they even hang your wedding photos over the bed while they screw!”

The words hit their mark. Frank glared at Edward, unable to argue because the accusations were painfully close to the truth.

Hawk, worried Frank might keel over on the spot, kicked Edward under the table and shoved another beer toward the old man. “Drink up, drink up.”

Edward dialed it back. “You’re not serious, are you? That stuff really happened?”

Frank couldn’t finish his beer. He stood abruptly. “I’m heading back to rest. We’ll drink again another time.”

Hawk saw him out, while Edward muttered to himself, “Was this guy really somebody? And ex-wives? Plural? I need to get close to him and dig up dirt on those ex-wives.”

As night fell, the Oscars began.

Hawk drove Edward into Hollywood but avoided the Kodak Theater. The area was swarming with reporters—so crowded you could trip over them.

After driving around for a while, Hawk only managed to capture a few worthless photos.

At around 10 p.m., the business cards they’d distributed finally paid off.

Near Highland Street, just south of Santa Monica Boulevard, Hawk’s phone rang.

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