Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he had lately developed this thing about people who didn’t get the recognition they deserved.

“I got maps of the Walk of Fame,” said a street corner punk with crusty hair.

“I’m only looking for one star,” Remo said.

“You’ll never find it without a map,” the punk insisted. “Just five bucks.”

Remo considered it, then handed over a five. He was back a minute later.

“Hey, this map’s no good,” he told the punk. “It doesn’t show the star for Alan Hale Jr.”

“Sure does.”

“Show me.”

The punk rolled his eyes and snatched Remo’s five-dollar map of Hollywood, flinging it open and stabbing one finger at the pages.

“Right there.”

Remo looked at the spot the punk pointed at. “Can’t be.”

“Can be.”

“It’s almost a side street. I don’t believe it.”

The punk sneered and thrust back the map. “I grew up in Hollywood, dude. I know every inch of the Walk of Fame. That’s where they put Alan Hale Jr.”

Remo scowled deeply. The punk couldn’t decide if the man was about to start crying or whip out an AK-47 and begin a spree.

“Hey, you know how they decide who gets a star?” the punk asked. “It’s all politics. True talent’s got nothing to do with it. I guess Alan Hale Jr.’s people didn’t work it good enough to get him a better spot.”

Remo shook his head. “Maybe he wasn’t a good actor, but he’s still way better than most of the schmoes on this map.”

The punk shrugged. “You ain’t gettin’ no argument from me. Look at all them people up the street. They been camped there for days, keeping a—what they call it?—a vigil. You know whose star that is?”

“Who?” Remo asked.

“That kiddy-diddler. Miguel Jackon.”

Remo’s eyes grew dark. “Are you telling me they give a primo star spot to that wacko and then they go and put Alan Hale Jr. next to a stinking alley? It’s a crime. Somebody ought to do something about it.”

The punk shrugged and looked away from the nerdy tourist. Something about the nerd’s eyes made the punk uneasy. “Be my guest.”

“I will.”

The punk was surprised when his customer turned and marched up the street toward the crowd of Miguel Jackon supporters. Just what did that guy think he was going to do?

Remo wandered into the crowd, which had closed off the street around a mound of flowers, stuffed animals and handmade signs proclaiming undying love to Miguel Jackon: Miguel Is Innocent! and Free Miguel!

“What’s going on?” he asked a woman with long braided hair and a face full of black mascara streaks.

“We’re showing our support for Miguel,” she said.

“Miguel who?”

“Miguel Jackon,” she explained impatiently.

Remo did his best impression of an ignoramus. “What movies was he in?”

“He’s not an actor—he’s a singer, you jerk! How can you not know about Miguel Jackon?”

“Yeah, what are you, a retard?” demanded a dowdy, short man in a suit and tie that he’d been wearing for days.

“Hey, sorry, just a sightseer. But I thought only actors got stars on the Walk of Fame. How come they gave one to some old singer?”

The crowd grew uglier by the second. “He’s not old!” insisted a pair of Latino women in matching Miguel Jackon satin jackets.

“He’s the biggest star of them all!” the rumpled-suit man proclaimed. “Remember the Jackon Five, the band he was in with his brothers in the seventies? Remember Thrillride? He sold thirty million copies of that album.”

Remo scratched his chin and looked at the grimy sky thoughtfully. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“He must be a retard!” insisted one of the Latino women.

“Wait.” Remo snapped his fingers. “The child molester! So this is sort of a memorial for all the kids he abused, huh?”

“Lies!” the short man spat.

“Those children lied to get Miguel’s money!”

“Really?” Remo said. “I thought they had DNA evidence.”

“More lies! They stole his semen and used it to frame him!” the mascara woman said.

“Truly?” Remo asked.

“He could never do that to a child,” the mascara woman wailed.

“But what about the pictures? And the videos?”

“There were no pictures and no video,” the Latino woman declared.

Remo grinned playfully. “You kidders. They’re showing the video on the news right now.” He pointed out the display of televisions behind the barred window of a nearby electronics shop.

“Oh, God, it’s true,” wailed someone.

“No, they’re more lies! He couldn’t have done it.”

The supporters crowded down the street to the electronics shop and Remo slipped through them, stepped over the mound of flowers and teddy bears, and rummaged around for the sidewalk star of Miguel Jackon.

Seconds later, a great wrong had been righted.

They ran the video a hundred times that morning—a trash bin being lifted off the surface of an alley to reveal the Hollywood Walk of Fame Star of Miguel Jackon. Somehow it had been moved into a third-rate spot, where a big garbage bin was shared by a fetish shop and a Chinese food restaurant.

The camera slow-moed a cardboard container of discarded Chinese food plopping out of the trash bin and splattering right on the Jackon star. Sun-ripened pork lo mein covered Jackon’s engraved name, and splattered far enough to deface the stars of the adjoining Gabors.

The sunny hostess chimed in, “Shortly after this exclusive footage was taken by Good Day U.S.A., Miguel Jackon supporters discovered the star switch and caused a near riot.”

The next clip showed an Asian in a filthy apron smiling toothlessly at the jeering crowd from behind a wall of police protection. “Law enforcement has refused to allow the removal of the disposal bin behind Happy Noodle No. 3,” the voice-over said.

“Local ordinance says the garbage goes right where it is,” a Hollywood police officer said in a sound bite. “Mr. Lung has the right to keep his garbage right there. We intend to protect that right at all costs.”

The next clip showed rumpled-suit man proclaiming indignantly, “The Hollywood police are unfairly prejudiced against child molesters!”

“Meanwhile, you’ll never believe whose star got moved into Miguel Jackon’s old spot!” the blond announcer said, beaming. “His little buddy couldn’t be more pleased!”