Free Try Fear by James Scott Bell Page A

“If something comes to you and you want to tell me about it, give me a call, huh?”
    “How’s Kate doing?” he said.
    “Shook up, of course.”
    “Tell her I said hi. I always liked her.”

33
    T HE NEXT DAY I drove down to Hollywood and parked in front of the Scientology building, just east of Highland. I looked across the street
     but didn’t see anybody who matched the description Barstler gave me. I put in a Duke Ellington CD and watched the passersby.
    It was like being in a pod in some space movie. I was observing another planet.
    Hollywood has changed a little since that day in 1887 when a land speculator named Dixon decided this spot would be a good
     place to build homes. It was mostly Chinese fruit growers back then, leasing the land. Life was slow and productive.
    Now it was fast and pointed in no particular direction. Years ago the city planners thought a glitzy new center at the corner
     of Hollywood and Highland would spread renewal up and down. The street is cleaner, but the stretch from the Pantages to the
     El Capitan Theatre still seems to be rife with smoke shops, tattoo parlors, clothing stores, tourist traps, eateries, and
     tagger practice. On weekends the club scene springs to life, but that’s largely hidden in the day.
    Yet Hollywood represents nothing if not hope. And huge industrial cranes in the skyline signaled major projects ahead. An
     influx of business, some that might even stay, despite the tax burden.
    The one constant is the street scene, the crazy mix of those who hang out on the brass stars of the Walk of Fame. Many of
     them runaways. They say maybe four hundred kids live on the streets of Hollywood at any given time. They scour the alleys
     at night, trading sex for a fix, or paying with what they make panhandling.
    If they’re lucky, somebody at one of the teen drop-in centers gives them just the right break, the right word, maybe the right
     kick in the pants. And they get out of the life.
    Most aren’t so lucky.
    The con has always been a big part of the Hollywood scene. And phony religionists run some of the biggest. Any nimrod can
     set himself up as providing the way, the truth, and the life, and start collecting donations.
    Just spout some high-sounding claptrap in L.A. and it’s a sure bet more than one person will start handing you the green.
    Ellington was taking the A Train and I was wondering what sort of religion I’d set up if I were a conman, when I saw a Mohawk
     across the street.

34
    T HE HAIR WAS only part of the giveaway. The acolytes around him were another. Five or six young women stood around in a traveling ad hoc
     circle, flyers in their hands. A guy in a large-brimmed hat worked a guitar behind them.
    The circus came to a stop in front of the white brick building next to the Hollywood Wax Museum. Here they set up shop.
    I got out of my car and crossed the street at Highland. Then I walked down toward the new breed of moonies.
    One of the girls handed me a flyer. It was full color, double sided. On the front was a headline:
The CIA’s Plan to Brainwash All American Citizens
. There was a drawing of man’s head in the middle of the page, with half his skull removed so you could see his brain.
    Several little men in suits were standing on the brain with mops, scrubbing. Text wrapped around the picture. I didn’t read
     it.
    “Thanks,” I said, putting the paper in my back pocket.
    “We take donations,” she said. She was maybe eighteen and had that runaway look.
    “I want to talk to the reverend,” I said.
    “Are you a cop? Because we—”
    “No, just another pilgrim.”
    “Pilgrim?”
    “You know, like Thanksgiving.”
    She didn’t know. Her face was a blank. I walked past her and came up behind the Mohawk, who was talking to another girl. She
     looked at me and Mohawk turned around.
    “Reverend Son Young Moon?” I said.
    “That’s me, brother.” He smiled.
    “Crazy name,” I said.
    “Not if you’re the second