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Smear campaign Tacky Times in TinseltownBy Rick Horowitz
The rain was pouring from the slate-gray sky like a kitchen faucet with its handle snapped off by a jealous husband or a lousy plumber. Along Hollywood Boulevard, car tires were spraying water the way a moonshiner spits tobacco juice, only cleaner. I could see it all through my rain-streaked window in my dimly lit office, up the narrow flight of stairs, first door to the right. The same window that shouted my existence to the world in simple black letters eight inches tall: "Stan Shovel. Private Eye." It had been a quiet day. In this racket, you learn to live with that. I was just getting ready to pack it in when I heard a soft knock on the door, and suddenly there she was, standing there like wet laundry swinging on the clothesline. "Sister," I said, "you look like wet laundry swinging on the clothesline." "You don't look so bad yourself," she said, and she slowly unbuttoned her overcoat. She was a dame who knew how to work a crowd. She certainly had my attention. The creamy fabric slid off her shoulders to the floor, and as she reached up to untie her kerchief, I gave her the once-over. I liked what I saw. This doll was some kind of mouse. "Call me Minnie," she said. "Anything you want, babe," and I pointed her to the empty chair. "Cheddar?" She waved me off. She wanted to get right down to business. "I've come about...about a friend," she began. "I think he's in trouble." I poured myself a stiff one and leaned back in my seat. "I'm all ears," I told her. "That's my line," she said. Right then I knew the dame was special. It seems her "friend" was a very big deal in Hollywood. He'd been the hot young thing the movies were looking for, and everybody loved him. Or so he thought. Then the rumors started. "They're saying he's gay," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "They're even saying he's --" Now she was highly animated. "They're saying he's anti-comedic!" I offered her a tissue and considered the situation. There's nothing wrong with being a happy little rodent, I told her. In fact, kids love to -- "Not happy gay," she said. "Gay gay." This was a mouse of a different color. For all its wild reputation, the Hollywood I knew was still a family place. A rumor like that could sink a career faster than an agent ducking a dinner bill. Now it was starting to come back to me, all the stories about the mice and their wild crowd. Dogs and dwarfs, and wasn't there always a duck strutting around the pool with his pants off? "They're just pals," she insisted. "And that 'anti-comedic' stuff? He just says what they tell him to say -- it's not like he has any control over anything. Now people are trying to make him out to be a monster!" I told her I'd look into it, and that's exactly what I did. Twenty-four hours later, I was as tired as yesterday's Hit Parade as I dialed Minnie's number and felt the words come tumbling out of me. "There may be a pig involved," I began, without even identifying myself, "and also a duck -- not your friend's duck, a different duck -- and also some smart-aleck bunny. Do you know anyone named 'Doc'? And how about 'Oscar'? Somebody's desperate to keep your friend away from 'Oscar.' What I need to do now is -- " She interrupted me, smooth as silk, hard as diamonds. "Thank you very much, Mr. Shovel, but your services are no longer required. I'm afraid we've engaged another detective." My tongue felt like the Sahara Desert. "Another detective?" "I believe you're familiar with Dan Crowbar? He's agreed to take our case." "But I -- " "Goodbye, Mr. Shovel." Outside, the rain had started falling again. I poured myself another stiff one and thought about life. About little guys trying to make it big, and big guys getting cut down to size. A tough town, Hollywood. Posted 3/19/02. You'll
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Rick Horowitz
