Free We're So Famous by Jaime Clarke

the Columbarium of Radiant Dawn in the Court of Remembrance), and Scatman Crothers (he’s Lincoln Terrace Plot 4545).’
    â€˜Andy Gibb’s there, too.’
    â€˜Oh yeah?’
    â€˜You know who’s right above him?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜The dwarf who played E.T.’
    â€˜No shit. I loved that movie.’
    â€˜Well, anyway. I might call you back. When do you think the computers will be back up?’
    â€˜Who knows about these things?’
    Right as I roll to a stop on Rodeo Paque turns up the stereo and says, What can beat Marlon Brando’s trash?
    I nod, saying, It’s a score for sure.
    It smells, Daisy says from the backseat.
    Even though it’s night, someone uses the diagonal crosswalk and I watch our reflection in the windows of Pierre Cardin.
    How do they know we’re not just saying it’s Brando’s garbage, Daisy asks.
    We’ll have to dig through it for something personal, I say.
    I think there’s fish in here, Daisy says.
    Roll down the window, Paque says.
    Okay, I say, who’s next?
    Paque pulls the yellow envelope out of the glove box and sifts through the address slips I stole from Imagistic Photo Developers, a swanky film developing place where I work on the weekends until I can get my big break.
    Do you have David Hasselhoffs address, Daisy asks.
    I don’t think so, I say.
    Too bad, she says, I’ll bet he’s got all kinds of cheesy stuff to steal.
    Paque holds one of the slips under the glove box light. I can’t read this one, she says.
    What’s the address, I ask.
    1700 Coldwater Canyon.
    Forget it. That’s where Carrie Fisher lives. She’s got big gates, I say.
    How do you know, Paque asks.
    I put my blinker on and turn left. I’ve been by it, I say.
    Pick someone, Daisy says. This stuff really stinks.
    You pick, Paque says. She holds the envelope open over her shoulder and Daisy reaches in.
    Who’d you get, I ask.
    It’s a tie, she says. Tom Bosley and Peter Falk.
    I vote for Mr. Cunningham, I say.
    Where does Columbo live, Paque asks.
    I turn down the radio—the B-52’s—to hear the address.
    1004 Roxbury Drive.
    We’re close to Roxbury, Daisy says.
    Let’s go then, Paque says.
    I gotta get out of this car, Daisy says.
    I suggest a quick dinner where we can sort it out, get some more loot and meet the others up at the Hollywood sign to get scored.
    You like Mexican, I ask.
    Sounds good, Paque says.
    Any place, Daisy says.
    I pull into the parking lot of El Coyote on Beverly, a Mexican restaurant whose food is notoriously bad but I can’t resist showing it to Paque and Daisy. This is where Sharon Tate had her last meal, I tell them as we drift to a stop.
    Who’s Sharon Tate, Paque asks.
    You know, I say. Charles Manson.
    That’s sick, Paque says. This isn’t going to be a tour, is it?
    I laugh. Daisy climbs out and the Hefty bag of Brando’s trash sags on the backseat.
    Should we go through that before or after we eat, Daisy asks.
    After, Paque says, or I’ll lose my appetite.
    I notice a catering truck idling on the street as we push through the front doors of the El Coyote and Paque lets out a wow when she sees all the cameras and lights inside.
    They’re filming something, I say.
    Daisy trips on a thick black cord taped to the floor. A short man in a yellow baseball cap approaches us.
    Is the restaurant open, I ask.
    Yeah, come in, the short man says, We’re filming an MTM here and all the customers are extras. I just need you to sign this.
    The short man hands us a clipboard.
    What’s an MTM, Daisy asks.
    Made-for-TV-Movie, the short man answers.
    What’s it about, I ask.
    The short man puffs up with importance. Charlie Manson, he says.
    The three of us are seated at a brown formica-top table and someone, maybe a waitress, brings us a plate of burritos. The other tables are eating burritos too, and everyone is looking excitedly at the