Max Wisecracks Hollywood

I, Max Royster, cannot run fifty yards or see my own feet under a beer belly. Pushing 64-years old, I struggle to rebuild, after the New York cops fired me for depression and hijacked my pension. Like everything else sliding around loose, I wind up in Hollywood, California. By chance, I see a female Black LAPD cop grapple with a homeless woman, an ex-Blaxploitation film actress who 40-years ago turned Civil Rights radical. The homeless woman dies. Sidewalk Angelenos heave rocks and bottles in protest. Los Angeles screams. Cops retreat and haul me to the station. An ambitious Deputy District Attorney and the hard-charging FBI play tug-of-war-witness [?] over my fast-aging body. Everyone wants to jail me as a material witness for trial. To stay clear, I go underground with a cryptic Hollywood beauty and learn much on the floor of her apartment. The media turns up the heat. The G-men freeze my cash. All that I have left are my wits and the cash in my bluejeans.