Page 7 of Casualties of War
“An out of work actor. That’s why I was here.”
“You were auditioning?”
“I was talking the producers intocasting me. At least, until you busted in.”
Her green eyes lifted from the notepad and skewered him. “Sorry.” She handed his license back. “You’ve got a green card, right, Mr. Caballero?”
“What makes you think I’m not an American?”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he said and hid his sigh.
“Phone number?”
He gave it to her. She scribbled it down, her jaw flexed. “My lieutenant will probably call you backto the station in the next few days, to follow up.” She glanced around at the destruction. “It’s possible they’ll lay charges. Even for Hollywood, this was something else.”
“And I missed it all,” Adán said.
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m joking. Jeez.”
She flipped the page on her notebook. “Go home, Mr. Caballero. It’s a long way to San Bernardino from here.”
Adán gave up and turned away. She wouldn’tlet herself be jarred out of doing her job. So much for the Caballero charm.
“Good luck, by the way,” she said, behind him.
“Excuse me?” He turned back, startled.
“The role. I hope you get it,” she said.
“I thought you didn’t care about actors?”
Something in her eyes shifted. “I don’t,” she said, “but I know what it’s like being told you can’t do something you love.” She nodded shortly, backto all-business and walked over to the next guest to be interviewed, a starlet with smudged mascara who Adán recognized. The starlet looked sulky and tired.
He knew how she felt.
* * * * *
He would have forgotten about the redhead, except that snatches of their conversation returned to bother him over the next few days. Conversation and flashes of imagery. The freckles on her nose. The slendernessof her neck. The frankly red hair.
The police station called two days later and set up a formal interview for two days after that. Forewarned by the redhead, Adán arranged for the family lawyer to go with him to smooth over any issues.
The four days between the party and the interview at the station were event-packed. By the time he arrived at the Hollywood station with Chavez, Adán had almostforgotten about the party and its aftermath.
The interview was short and non-combative. The station had done its homework and the sergeant who questioned him acknowledged Adán’s family connections and that no charges were forthcoming. They didn’t demand to see his green card or other documentation, for which Adán had been braced.
He stepped out of the interview room thirty-five minutes later,a weight lifting from him. Chavez closed the door and shook his head. “The power of fame.” He patted Adán’s shoulder. “Still think you can break into Hollywood without using your parents’ names?”
“There’s no point doing it any other way,” Adán said. “Sorry I dragged you down here.”
“Better to be there and not needed, than the reverse.” Chavez shrugged. “See you around, Adán.” He turned and walkedin the opposite direction, his heavy briefcase hanging from his hand.
Adán headed for the front doors of the station. The redhead was there. He hardly recognized her, for she was wearing jeans and a tee shirt and sneakers. Her hair was loose and spilling down her back in a long, straight river of red. She flipped more of it back over her shoulder as she spoke to the sergeant at the front desk.
Adán went up to her. “Officer…Graves?” he added, remembering the name tag he’d spotted at the party.
