Tinseltown Riff (16 page)

He'd taken a break, reached into his overnight bag and snatched out Elton Frick's smartphone to see if there were any voice-mails for the nerdy accountant. That way he could tell if anyone was on the lookout for Frick or he was, just as he'd seemed, a little guy with no friends, family, partners or anyone giving a damn. A nobody who was either lying low, out of the picture or both. Nothing Deke need concern himself with in his hunt for the missing goods.

But it had turned out that wasn't exactly the case. There'd been somebody who'd called earlier from the S.E.C. and there was another message from the D.E.A. No telling what either of them wanted. Deke did recall that Frick cautioned him about the S.E.C. But all Deke knew about the agency was they investigated accounting frauds which was Walt and the Outfit's lookout. Up till now anyways. As for the D.E.A., Deke had no idea how in hell drug enforcement figured in.

Putting that all on the backburner for now, he told himself if he could track down the goods here in Castroville, get a bead on what they were and a way to parlay them into some kind of cash flow, he'd be home free. Far from where the Feds, Walt and the Outfit and any other goddamn thing could reach him. End of story.

He walked on.

In short order somebody finally drove by, braked and picked him up. His benefactors were a neatly dressed elderly couple who were Jehovah Witnesses from Watsonville. It seemed they spent every Sunday at this time looking for some good deed to perform. Or finding a person who needed to be saved, which was all the better. As usual, Deke sat in the back seat and let them carry on.

Fifteen minutes later, they hit Castroville with the couple still unsure how to proceed. As they approached the first traffic light, they began arguing over whether or not a righteous-looking man thumbing a ride on Blackie Road was not a prime target but only in need of a lift. Especially when you consider the fact he wouldn't tell them how he happened to be on Blackie Road without any means of transportation. Especially when you consider the fact he wouldn't tell them anything.

Deke slipped out at the flapping Castroville sign that hung over Merritt Street like a signal flag for a railroad crossing. The man and wife drove off, continuing to snap at one another as if Deke's departure was beside the point. .

Getting his bearings, he took in the ubiquitous green-and-yellow signs and awnings. There was even a giant plaster artichoke looming by a sugar-cube of a restaurant. Deke went in, had a weird dish of artichoke hearts, Canadian bacon, asparagus, eggs and Hollandaise sauce which he washed down with an artichoke-colored,    lemony iced tea. In the course of his meal, focusing on his only lead, he learned from the blowsy waitress that the packing plant had closed down two weeks ago. When he asked about the company car, she sidestepped the issue and whispered that she'd be available to provide answers to any of his questions in forty-five minutes at the shift change.

Back outside, he meandered by the file of storefronts dotted with more standard green-and-yellow logos such as “Pezzinni Farms, chock full of artichokes and artichoke items.” There were a few neat little churches, a drug store and a supermarket but they were all closed.

Many of the signs and placards were in Spanish, a language he should have learned down in Florida but had baulked at the idea. He didn't trust the people. Something odd about the way they seemed to be saying one thing and spoke to each other in their own tongue as if they had something else in mind. Deke recalled that right from the start his ol' man felt the same way and hired Walt to keep a sharp eye peeled.

More meandering around by old Spanish-mission buildings sporting bright banners, some billboards advertising the annual artichoke festival back in May, come-ons from garlic promoters from Gilroy, and broccoli farmers touting their nearby outdoor marketplaces.

Getting nowhere, what with the heat, his back acting up again and the loss of more precious time, he returned to the blowsy waitress. In between jangling her silver-and-turquoise bracelets and lowering her turquoise-smeared eyelids every time she brushed by him, she let on that she'd be glad to drop him by the trailer he was looking for. When he asked, What trailer? she winked some more and said, “I thought you were interested in the company car?”

There was more jangling and winking until she finally admitted she'd known the woman forever. She also told him that Madge was much much older and there was no love lost between them. Taking him aside, she said it was less than five miles to Madge's broken-down place and her Town and Country wagon which was just as broken down. She also hinted that while she waited for him to conduct his business, it was only another mile or so to the ocean and a nice Quality Inn. Not that she was a tramp, just friendly and curious. Mostly interested in getting the lowdown on “queen Madge” and having a good time. Besides, Deke would have to admit it was more than a fair bargain.  

“You a repo man?” she asked, her voice getting more husky, her tone a bit more bitchy. “Figure to drive off with that woody of hers ‘cause she can't make the final payments?  Now she's lost her job at the plant, I mean. That I'd like to see. Hey, it's perfect. You can hop in Madge's wagon, leave her stranded and follow me for some down time. I love it.”

Deke did his customary nod, figuring the wagon must be a classic in great shape to warrant having to pay it off.  .

“And, hey,” she added, “I hear she's raising pigeons. Calls them her little doves. And some of them have already flown the coop. Lost her job, pigeons, and now about to lose her snazzy ride. It's gonna be a red letter day.”

Deke could never get over how talkers would rather make up stories than take the time to listen. Rather let some information slip than stand a little dead air. Or even wonder what the person who was barely putting up with them was really after.  

 

“You sure you don't want a sip of this?” said Madge, sitting back under a raggedy awning by the trailer door. “It's a genuine Sonoma Red Sampler.”

With a carefree glint in her eyes, she raised her glass and took a few languid sips. To Deke's mind, she may have been ten years older than the trampy waitress, but was a helluva lot better looking.

“Hey, tell you what,” she said, pursing her cupid-bow lips and patting a fancy carton by her side. “I've got half a case left and I might be willing to share.”

With her eyes beaming, she plucked up a few bottles. “Lookee here. This one's deep ruby with a spicy, dark cherry taste, fruity and silky. The Merlot's got black current and plums and a toasty, oaky smell. Then there's this one spiked with raspberries, black pepper and cinnamon. As long as you've dropped by, I mean. Just a taste. Just for fun.”

“About the station wagon,” said Deke for the tenth time.

“Oh, right,” she said, replacing the bottles. “No fun, just all business.”

Deke peered around while she poured herself another drink from the ruby-colored bottle, swished some of the wine in her cheeks and swallowed slowly. Dead ahead, he noted the irrigated fields of little bushy-green artichokes spread in all directions. Off in the distance, a parched brownish-gray outline of low-lying range cut off his view. Behind him, well out of sight down the dirt lane, the waitress was sitting tight in her yellow convertible with the top down.

It was now well after five. The shiny mint station wagon with the artichoke logo—the one the two jerk-offs from Starshine were tailing--sat a few yards off to the side in front of a dumpster and a pile of old tires. Despite locating Madge and the car, all Deke had accomplished was to gain her confidence by mentioning such things as harvesting, the use of canastas, sorting by size, conveyor belts and the like. As far as he could tell, she'd mistaken him for some corporate type connected with the defunct packing plant but possibly friendly.  

Carelessly dangling her wine glass, Madge cast her woozy gaze in his direction  and smiled. “Hey, true or false? Do I or do I not look like Marilyn if she made it to my age?”

Deke didn't know how to answer. “Marilyn?”

“Monroe. Don't tell me. How can you be in this business and not know back in the day she was crowned the first artichoke queen? ‘Course I'm not tellin' when I was crowned. But then, you know, she was known as Norma Jean. ‘Course I didn't change my name. And it was only luck I wasn't discovered too ... and got stuck here. String of bad luck with men who wouldn't do right ...  Tell me it was the bad hand I was dealt or you are dismissed.”

Drifting into a sad funk, Madge started humming to herself, mouthing the lyrics of an old Emmy Lou Harris tune:

“I'm the queen of the silver dollar

I rule a smoky kingdom

My wine glass is a scepter

And a bar stool is my throne ...”

Putting up with her a little while longer, Deke noticed her high cheekbones, tousled graying hair and her blue eyes that would've been sparkling if she wasn't so sloshed. That and a mischievous smile and the curvy way she filled out her blouse and faded jeans. All together he did have to admit she reminded him of somebody who'd been in movies a long while back. Someone who played some lonesome gal watching the trains go by.

Not knowing much of anything about Marilyn Monroe but trying to get something out of her, Deke said, “You're right.  Now that I think of it, I do see a bit of Marilyn in you. Now about that wagon of yours... ”

Madge wiggled herself upright and did a little curtsy. “And you can not believe I am in my fifties and have a granddaughter just turned twenty-two.”

The car horn down the lane and around the bend beeped twice.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”  

“Oh.” Her eyes half-closed, Madge's gaze drifted off. “Hey, you see those coops back there ... behind the shed? You know what? Those birds mate for life. They do, yes, ma'am, yes, sir. I'll take my little doves over men any day. Present company included.”

Running out of patience, not about to let her go on about the mating habits of pigeons she couldn't keep track of, Deke strode over to the dumpster and examined the tires. They were bald Fisks, double bias and full of dry rot, the kind they hadn't made since way back in the last century. In his mind's eye he pictured those same old wrecks he'd messed with back in Cut Bank:  Packards, Studebakers, Hudsons, Desotos and General Motors models they no longer made.    

Then he checked out the dumpster. Sorting through the junk food wrappers, he came across some crumpled
Los Angeles
and rock magazines and a sticky program from a Monterey pop concert. As he flipped through the soiled pages he paused at an ad for The Prado Hotel. The big print claimed it was a luxury watering hole for the entertainment industry. The small print read, “For those whose star is on the rise.” The page was circled in red with a big question mark scrawled on the side.

The car horn beeped again, only much louder.

“Hey,” said Madge, standing behind him, swaying ever so slightly. “What is this?  Oh, I get, I get it. Spotted the wagon up in Monterey, did you? Thought it was me on a toot after you guys closed us down. After telling me it's back to picking, pension or pack it in. Well I got news. I am still my own woman and taking my sweet ol' time.”

Still wobbling, she followed him around as he hunkered down and studied the tread marks on sections of the dirt lane that were still a bit damp. As far as he could tell, the vehicle veered into a couple of wooded stakes, spun its wheels and headed out.  While Madge was muttering over his shoulder about how even at the packing plant she was always known as Miss Artichoke, Deke examined the broken wooden stakes. There was a faint streak of paint on one of the posts about waist high.

Hunkering down again, he figured the size of the tires to be 215 x 75 x 15 or thereabouts. Radials. To replace the originals you'd have to pay ten times that much, wait a month and, even then, would only get a few thousand miles out of them. Which was no problem if all you wanted was to ditch the Town and Country, switch to something less obvious, hightail it to L.A., hawk your stolen wares, and then hole up at the Prado.

The horn beeped a few more times, longer and louder than ever.

“Wait a minute,” said Madge, appearing to sober up a bit.  

Disregarding her, Deke went back to the dumpster, ripped off the Prado ad and stuck it in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. As he got set to go, Madge circled around and stood in his way.

“That magazine junk is there 'cause I cleaned it out, not ‘cause I put it there. I've made my mistakes sure, but nothing like what she could be up to.”

“Go on.”

“With what?”  

“About her. Name or license plate will do fine.”

Suddenly wide-eyed, Madge said, “You go to hell. You go straight to hell.”

“Only asking.”

But Madge had turned on him and he knew he would get no more out of her. “Suit yourself,” he said. .

He left her, made his way down the dirt strip and rounded the bend onto the dusty road.  He could sense her traipsing behind him, but at this point it didn't matter. Neither did the sight of the trampy shape dead ahead, hands on her wide hips, wagging a finger.   

“Hey,” Madge hollered out behind his back, “don't tell me it's you and the sleazebucket?  What is this, payback time? Some kinda trick?”

Deke kept walking. The wine glass spun over his shoulder and shattered against a rock. It didn't matter. Nothing in these parts mattered anymore. All that was left was ditching the “sleazebucket.”

He climbed into the convertible. The waitress slid behind the wheel and beeped the horn in a rat-a-tat rhythm as her bitchy farewell and took off. She asked him how it went. He said it went fine. She asked about the repossession. He told her to quit yakking, he had to think.

He pictured himself at the Prado in Beverly Hills, stringing along the Outfit's point man and moving in and out real quick. As long as he could find the connection between what was missing, the Prado, and an old green ‘52 pickup.