Tinseltown Riff (10 page)

“Ooh,” said the girl. “Your steaks. Your meal. Righty-o. Don't go away. Be right back.”

She backed off past the built-in bookshelves lined with identical leather-bound volumes and cooed, “Have fun.”

Deke held his ground, still taking in Walt's little bombshell. In the meantime, Walt simmered down and rambled on about how Deke might be able to parlay this into some kind of career move. Maybe find work in the shipping and trucking business. Keep things moving along. Something less of a strain. Still deflecting, he told Deke that while he'd excused himself a few minutes ago to see to a little business, for old times sake, he'd also made arrangements for a chiropractor in a suite on the fourth floor. Plus a gal who did a great massage and threw in other gratuities as well.

“I'm sayin', great room service they got here,” said Walt, attempting to ease the tension. “The more I find out about this town, the more I am starting to appreciate it. At least twenty-five degrees cooler than Vegas, a lot greener, Mount Hood lookin' down at you and they got somethin' called grass and rain. All I need is a replacement for the naked bimbos shakin' it on the table tops at the Tabu, makin' the colored lights go round. And the strippers playin' water volleyball. But hell, in this economy, you can't have it all.”

As if Deke had resigned himself to Walt's terms, Walt went on about arrangements in the hotel's men's shop for Deke's new suit with all the trimmings. “You'll need it soon as you hit L.A. And I'll eat this coffee table if the trail don't lead you straight there. Oh yeah, there's nothin' like that exec look. They'll figure you for some hotshot producer and sell their mother on the off chance you're their ticket to the moon.”

Walt chuckled over that one, Deke kept glaring at him. They sat like that, neither one speaking for a while. Walt shoved more mixed nuts in his mouth, guzzled another ale and kept wiping his walrus mustache with the back of his hand.

“Oh,” said Walt, “one more thing. Been in touch with our screw-up point man. He's putting a good face on it, like it's nothin'. Even asked for you special. The suit was his idea. Goes with your style, he said. Now ain't that a kick in the head?”

“Come on,” Walt said in the icy stillness. “What the hell's it gonna be? Look, I'm easing you in and out. All you have to do is go along till you plug the hole. You'll be on a leash but still have plenty of slack.”

“And what if the hole can't be plugged?”

“I don't think I heard that.”

No sooner had Walt raised his bushy eyebrows for emphasis, when the clown-girl was back with a whirl. She wheeled in her serving cart, whisked everything off the coffee table, plunked down their order and snatched off the silver covers, revealing the steaming plates of rib-eyed steaks and side dishes.

“Whoops,” she said. “Forgot the extra ales. They are icy cold, set to go with frosty mugs this time. Be right back.”   

She exited as fast as her bandy legs could carry her. Walt set to work slicing up his meat into tiny bite-sized cubes. Deke guessed it was some kind of ulcer, what you got for being a testy bastard all these years. It was no secret that Walt had no friends or love life to speak of. Not ever.

“Here's to home cookin',” said Walt, taking a careful bite of steak and chewing it slowly.

The girl returned and set the frosty mugs and open bottles of ale on the side table.

“Whoops,” she said, “Whoops again. Did I do this wrong? Can you manage? I should've got some tablecloths, huh? And the coffee table is kinda low and—”

“It's dandy,” said Walt. “Just give us some time and space, okay, hon?”

The girl didn't like Walt's “hon” or his wayward hand patting her backside. But she registered a forced smile anyways. “You sure? It's no trouble. I could—”

“Leave us now, hon,” said Walt, beckoning to Deke to fill him a frosty mug to the brim. “We'll be fine.”

The girl looked at Deke for a cue. Deke nodded. She scooted off as Deke poured the thick ale while Walt gave the girl a horny grin.

“Here's to cuttin' our losses,” said Walt.  

Deke continued to give Walt nothing. As he saw it, his only choice was to keep playing along till he was ready to make his move. Which figured to be some time between tomorrow and the day after.

Walt wiped the foam off his mustache. Then he squinted, knitting the furrows on his mottled forehead, making the folds by his pug nose even more pronounced. “If it ain't askin' too much, I'd appreciate some kinda response. At least let on how you feel about headin' for the last roundup.”

For an answer, Deke snatched a serrated blade and tore into his steak.      

 
 

Chapter Ten

 

 

For a pittance, you could take in an old flick at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on any given Monday evening. As this crazy Labor Day drew to a close, Ben looked upon this outing as a continuing escape hatch as he drifted among the other film buffs setting up their folding beach chairs and blankets. Here he could kick back and enjoy one of his favorites projected on the wall of Rudolph Valentino's mausoleum, with the tops of spindly palms lazing over the shadowy images. It was Ben's cup of tea. An homage to movieland's past. A fitting way to comfort those nearby stars of yesteryear, gone but close by and not forgotten.

However, despite the lingering buzz from the margaritas and the promise of mindless diversion, the low-key anxiety threatened to slip in again. As he eased behind a hibiscus hedge and sat on the carpet of grass, he rationalized that besides unwinding, he was also killing time in a productive way. Re-appreciating narrative film technique till Leo and Iris went to the mat for the last time. Honing his storytelling skills for his stint at the Avalon Studios and the big day tomorrow. Besides, there really was nothing left for him to do except sit back, watch the film, wend his way to Iris' and go to bed. Give his body and overworked brain a reprieve.  

And so, at a still tipsy remove, he took in the restless opening credits of Hitchcock's
North by Northwest
punctuated by Bernard Herrmann's agitated score. However, unlike all the others—bobbing their heads in front of him, tittering and chuckling like the cynics they were—Ben began to get drawn in.    

Which made no sense. Besides being half-sloshed and out of it, he knew the film inside and out. It was just a romantic spy chase from the fifties: Cary Grant in too-too-sunny Technicolor. There was no realism, no way whatsoever of taking it to heart. And certainly not while surrounded by people knowingly nudging their companions.   

Trying another tack, pretending he was back in class at Southern Cal, he affected a nod in sync with the trio of cronies seated on a blanket to his immediate right. He recalled that Hitchcock wanted to do a chase across the faces of Mount Rushmore. Lehman, the screenwriter, wanted to do a frothy “movie/movie” featuring a cardboard Madison Avenue type. Hitchcock insisted on the chase. Giving way, Lehman added a double-agent love interest and a bogus manhunt forcing Cary Grant to hop a train to Chicago. Thereby concocting a getaway north by northwest to the top of a fake Mount Rushmore. There Grant hung by his fingers with one hand as a ghoulish baddie crunched his knuckles with the heel of a boot and, simultaneously, the double-duty heroine dangled over the precipice clutching Cary's other hand.

Still nodding away like a seasoned pro, Ben took in the sequence as an equally tipsy Grant skidded out of control down the Coast Highway. His car almost but not quite skittering off the cliff edge and plunging into the churning Pacific on a road that was supposed to be Glen Cove, Long Island.

What a hoot.

But, try as he may, his old nemesis began creeping in. The scene kept reminding him of careening down Angelique's driveway and smacking into the girl's truck
.  
And a subsequent scene, as Grant attempted to escape by sneaking aboard a train, reminded him of the time he himself attempted to leave LaLaLand for a job interview for a kiddie show out of the selfsame Chicago. As if the stifling heat of L.A.'s Union Station wasn't bad enough, along with the hyper kids climbing the walls, the footrace to the coach cars had literally done him in. The hissing steam from the idling engines choked him. The screams of parents who'd lost track of their kids, the barricade of baggage handlers' carts piled high plus the throng jostling for position only added to the melee. Out of nowhere, a heavyset guy with a shaved head rammed him against a sleeper car, stripped him of his train tickets and shoved him into the mob.   

And what was Aunt June's response?

“What is that, a joke? You looking for sympathy? Try closing a two-story multi-million dollar teak-and-concrete job on Carbon Beach. Try putting something on the line for once, instead of sneaking out of town or always doing a number on me.”

Turning away from the flickers on the mausoleum wall, even in his grogginess he knew she was right. He
was
doing a number, a Cary Grant—talking himself into it while secretly looking for a way out. Anything to let himself off the hook.

And that hook wasn't planted by Aunt June. That hook was planted the moment his mother left him with the Dr. Seuss book. The ribbon of candy-cane roads on the cover led up to a dancing boy on top of a high peak, the words “Oh, the Places You'll Go!” floating overhead. In his kiddie brain, his mother would only return once he reached the top. Every year since, the words inside the cover worked on him.
And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! 98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.
And not a day had gone by when someone didn't say, “How's it going, Ben? What're you up to? Gonna snatch that brass ring?”

As for this nutty last chance, he had to take it on. Chuck the mind games, the I-damn-well-can but How-can-I-possibly? underneath. His little kid's hang-up aside, there was no way he could let everybody down.

 

After the roll of the final credits and the cheerful, whistling applause, he was greeted by the trio of jobless cronies from the stomping ground at the Farmers Market.

“Hey, buddy boy,” said the loudest of the three, the one in the baggy pants with the perpetual grin. “What a goof. Can you imagine?”

Ben wanted to say, “You bet,” but let it go.

“So,” said the one in the Lakers T-shirt, “how's it going?”        

The quieter one of the bunch sheepishly piped in with, “Yeah, Ben. What're you up to? Gonna snatch that brass ring?”

 

Chapter Eleven
 

 

 

A few miles due east of Fairfax on Beverly Boulevard, Iris' house stood like a cinder-block sentinel. Like Iris herself, it was tan and resilient, impervious to everything. Twenty years ago, in lieu of a front yard and conventional living room, Iris had the builder erect an outsized fitness room. As an afterthought, a narrow hallway was tacked on with a tiny kitchen to the right, a den to the left, and two bedrooms at the rear. The smaller bedroom, next to a sliver of driveway, was filled with Iris' junk and a cot and presently provided Ben with temporary sleeping quarters. The larger room next to the bathroom, smack up against the constant traffic flow, served as Iris' boudoir. Thus Iris' idea of a heavenly retreat continued to sit on the noisiest corner lot in captivity.

It was here that Ben made his final pit stop at a few minutes past eleven. He doused the headlights and backed up a few yards away from the front curb in case Iris was still up and at it. Knowing Iris, if she spotted the condition of the back bumper of the borrowed Prelude, she would be off and running at the mouth.

So far so good. Iris's abode and the neighbors' houses, set back and hidden by thick foliage, were quiet and dark. No one out and about save for the hum and roar of the traffic as it simultaneously headed east and west at the crossroad.

A click of the latch key and it was only fourteen strides across the padded floor, a short shoeless trek down the narrow hallway, a shift to the right and, at last, to bed.

But, alas, no such luck. Less than two seconds after he squeezed the front door shut, Iris was on top of him.

“Whoa,” said Ben, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, it's just me.”

Iris stood her ground in her terry-cloth shorty pajamas, rubbing her chopped ash-blond hair with a towel, training her beady eyes on him as if still unsure whether he was friend or foe.

“Okay, Iris, I give. Did Leo run out on you after you'd pinned him for the umpteenth time? Or was it the other way around?”

“Knock it off. How was the retro flick in the old cemetery?  Filling your head with retro rot while I'm left holding the bag?”

“Okay, come on, come on. What is it?”

“Besides the fact that June gave me a jingle, interrupting the action, telling me to keep an eye out and make sure you were squared away by Saturday? Out of my hair, that is, and everybody else's.”

“Yes, besides that.”  

“It was the other calls, is what it was, and the stupid answering machine. So, okay, one interruption was good, namely June's news about your fake birthday this year.  Reminding me of our tough love pact and that you are outta here.”

“We've covered that. Who else called?”

“Angelique, that's who else. Pulling her hair out even after I had given her a full workout, mixed her a mango stabilizer and left her place smiling. Which, by the time I got off the phone with her, was as good for Leo and me as a cold shower. And then we got the girl. Which totally put a damper on it. Which I don't want to go into, or your qualms about healthy sex between two robust, middle-aged people. Which is putting me in the mood for a mango stabilizer myself before I too lose it and really let off some steam.”

“What girl?”

“Right,” said Iris, slapping him with the towel as if they were locker room buddies, and bounding away into the kitchen. “Don't get me started. I cranked the ring tone from alarm to tinkle and am unplugging the damn thing for the rest of the night.”