Business wasn't good, or Gus wouldn't have struck a visibly down-and-out fellow in the middle of the road: the man was standing by his broken-down car, anxiously waiting for the shivering, steaming old fellow to cool down.

"Hey, buddy," Gus said, though not expecting much, "Want to visit a movie star's home?"

The red-eyed fellow turned his head and glanced haughtily at Gus:

"I'm in the movie." "I was in there myself," he said.

"An actor?"

"Screenwriter."

Pat Hoppy looked back at his car. It was popping like a street cart selling roasted peanuts. He's telling the truth. At least he was telling the truth. In the past, Pat's name did often pop up on the movie screen for a few seconds as a screenwriter, but in the last five years, those opportunities have become less frequent.

Gus Wansk is ready to pack up his stall for lunch. He put the data and the map into a small suitcase and carried it away under his arm. As the midday sun grew increasingly hot, Pat ducked under Mister's umbrella and picked up a dirt sheet he had dropped. If he hadn't only had fourteen cents on him, Pat would have called the garage for a tow truck -- and now all he could do was wait.

A few moments later, a limousine with Missouri plates pulled up beside him. In the back passenger seat, there was a small white man with a beard and a fat woman with a small dog. After a few words of discussion, the woman put her head out shyly and greeted Pat.

"Which celebrities' homes can you take us to?" 'she asked.

Out of the blue, Pat's still in a state of shock.

"I mean, can we go to Robert Taylor's [3] house? And Clark Gable's house, Shirley Temple's house..."

"If you can get in, I think so." 'said Pat.

"If --" the woman went on, "we'd pay you more if we could go to the houses of these superstars."

A flash of hope lit up Pat for an instant. That's a lot of money for a fool. Angle is important. In Hollywood, whether you're making a movie or living a life, it's all about it. When you get the Angle right, it means eating at Brown Derby [4], having sex all night with wine and girls, and getting new tires on your old car. And now, a perfect Angle was about to crash into Pat's arms.

Finally seeing an open lawn with no fences, Pat asked the driver to stop by the house, got out and ran quickly to the door. Although the situation was dire, Pat believed he could make something up to keep the client away -- say the lady had mumps. From outside he could show them the window of the room where she was convalescing.

When he rang the bell, there was no noise, but Pat could see that the door was ajar. He opened the door carefully and found himself facing an empty, classically ornate hall. He listened breathlessly to the room, but no one was around, no footsteps upstairs, no one in the kitchen was listening. Pat put his head back down, took a sip of his drink, turned and sped off to the waiting limousine.

"Mademoiselle is filming," he said quickly, "but we can have a quiet look in their living room."

The Robinsons excitedly got out of the car with Boogie and followed Pat into the house. It was "Shirley Temple's living room," and Hollywood stars' homes were pretty much the same. Pat spotted a doll in the corner and pointed it out to them. Madame picked it up, admired it respectfully, and gave it to Boogie, who only sniffed it indifferently.

"May I see my wife?" 'she asked.

"Oh, she's gone out -- there's nobody home now." Pat made a big mistake in his haste.

"No one... Oh, Boogie must want to see her little sister's bedroom."

Before Pat could speak, Madame ran upstairs with the little dog. Sir Followed, leaving Pat to watch nervously in the hall below, ready to flee if there was a noise at the door or upstairs.

He drank the whole bottle, then politely hid the empty bottle under a sofa cushion. The time his clients spent upstairs was too long and dangerous, and Pat had to go upstairs to find them. On the stairs, he heard his wife saying to her husband:

"Why is there only one room for a child? I remember Shirley had two brothers."

By the winding stairs there was a window facing the road, and Pat caught a glimpse of a spacious car parked by the side of the road. From the car stepped a heavy hitter -- not the kind of movie star her Ladyship was chasing, but one who had the power of Hollywood -- an old gentleman, the famous producer, for whom Pat had been press secretary twenty years before.

Pat was in a panic. He instantly concocted a complex reason for his presence. But it's no use. Mister will never forgive him. Now that his $250-a-week gig at the film company was gone, his career, which had been on hold for a long time, was about to be drawn to a more complete end. Pat ran recklessly - down the stairs, through the kitchen, out the back door, and as for the Robinsons, let it be.

As they walked quickly down the next street, Pat began to feel a little sorry for them. He could imagine his husband pulling out his business card and saying that he was the president of Robert Deere Foods; He can also imagine the husband's surprise, called the police, and searched the Robinsons.

Perhaps that would be the end of it -- unless the furious Robinsons immediately told the police where they had met Pat.

Pat suddenly sprang to his feet in the road, and the gin he had just drunk made great drops of sweat trickle down from his forehead. His car is still parked next to Gus Wansk's parasol! At the same time, he remembered another clue that the police could find him - and only hoped that Ronald Colman would not remember Pat's full name.