Tinseltown Riff (19 page)

Picking himself up and brushing himself off, he realized that if she truly was skulking about, if this boneheaded move didn't spook her, nothing would.

Minutes passed. But just when he'd given up on movement for movement's sake, he heard the deep drone of an old engine, a shift of gears accompanied by a grating sound like something rolling over sandpaper. Then quiet, save for a clank and a rustling not more than a hundred yards away.

He reminded himself that Gillian could be by any minute and he'd have to wing it once again. But this time he'd have to produce. The storyboard so far was worth zilch without a juicy springboard.    

At the moment there was only the faint whoosh of traffic up on Melrose and the occasional sound of cars zipping by Lester's stand on Van Ness. Dying to know where she was and what she was up to, he circled around the dumpster beyond the back of the stable.

Here in the waning light the foliage was tinder dry. He worked through the manzanita sagebrush, thickets of chaparral shrub and craggy scrub oak and clumps of deer grass till he came upon a wall of eucalyptus. Poking around, he discovered the eucalyptus served to mask the steel mesh enclosure that rimmed the property. He slipped through a narrow break and a tangle of vinca vines till he reached a metal gate.  

He disengaged the slide bolt and stepped out into an alleyway. As near as he could make out, he'd come upon a revamped low-rise apartment complex. There were shiny window fittings, the smell of wet concrete and stucco, and crushed shards of aluminum at his feet. Contractor's vans had apparently squeezed by earlier, making their way to the rear.  He followed the crunched trail, turned the corner and there it was.   

The truck bed was empty except for the ropes that held the tattered tarp. The cab was vacant. Below the California license plate was a yellow and green bumper sticker advertising last year's artichoke festival.

He hurried back, re-bolted the gate and, avoiding all the prickly scrub, circled the other way round past the empty corral, cut over and hesitated at the barn doors. Someone had eased them open a crack.

One glance, he told himself. Peek in and hightail it back to work.  

Peering hard into the darkening recess thanks to his dumb move with the rope and shutters, he spotted the wooden ladder. This time it was propped up against the landing by the hay loft. He could barely make out her form without widening the opening but he could hear her tugging and dragging things. Possibly some sacks, it was hard to tell. Letting out a weary sigh, she seemed to have slumped down somewhere up on the loft. No longer a maiden in Ben's overblown imagination, but a willowy girl definitely up to God-knows-what.

In that same moment, the put-put of a go-cart announced that Ben's spying stint  had abruptly come to an end. For now, his only hope was to placate Gillian and get rid of her while the girl rested. And then deal with the girl and finally come to terms with this fantasy/reality riff.

 

By the time he made it back to the work room, Gillian was already eyeing the storyboard sheets. She shifted position as Ben caught his breath. Her after-hours outfit consisted of mauve lounging pajamas; the lacquer in her chestnut-brown do had given way somewhat as had the cosmetics daubing her face. She wore sandals this time, lowering her height, forcing her to raise her head a bit to maintain a condescending pose  of authority.

“All right, Benjy,” said Gillian, settling her gaze on the first sequence and tossing the others onto the couch, “I think I see where you're going with this. By the way, where were you just now? Never mind, don't tell me.”

“You were saying?”

“You've got two identical looking figures, one about to enter the other's lair plus a lurid figure in the background.”

“And the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“Never mind.” It was amazing that even when he put himself into a frame he was indistinguishable.

“Thus,” Gillian said, “we quickly establish the seamy world the player is entering. By the way, where is this? Any problem getting footage?”

It never occurred to Ben that Gillian had never driven up the serpentine drive. But  what difference did it make?

“No worries,” said Ben. “Getting that opening footage is a given.”

“Excellent. We can also intercut those crime-scene shots as a teaser. Good move on my part, as it turns out.”  

“On your part? You mean it was your idea to send me out on those alleged photo ops?”

“What did you think, it was Leo's?  Oh puh-lease. He packages, he finagles, but creatively? Don't be ridiculous.”

“Ah yes. The first test to see, if push came to shove, it would be worth scraping the bottom of the barrel with me.”  

Ignoring him, she moved behind the couch and continued to mull things over. “And we can toss in more serviceable visuals to jazz up the backdrop.”

As Gillian continued to pace, intermittently running her fingers through her hair, loosening the lacquer binding, Ben moved over to the windows and peered through the slats in the jalousies. There was no reason why the girl would come by, what with the go-cart parked outside and Gillian carrying on, but he looked out anyway.

“Okay,” said Gillian, moving on. “No dialogue, got her off and running. Of course, you've got to pencil in a few captions to satisfy the mentally challenged execs I'll be dealing with. Let's just say at this juncture—”

“I've made a start,” said Ben, still amazed she'd injected a “seamy world” into his doodling around.                                     

“Then why have you stopped? Why are you flitting about?”

“Flitting happens to be a well known creative device.”

“Don't hand me that. Stick with me, Benjamin.”

But Ben didn't want to stick with her. All he wanted was to get back to the stable. But Gillian wouldn't let up. She loosened her hair some more until a strip of it fell over her ear. She clip-clopped away and tapped her fingertips together. It finally dawned on him that Gillian was the one at the party on Malibu who kept pushing it, saying, “You'd love it, wouldn't you? All you girls would love your very own escapades. Love to get your hands on it soon as possible.” Gillian was the one clamoring for an outlet, some way to escape from the mindless hours leasing TV relics. Some quick leap to V.P. of a cutting edge entertainment.  And what could be quicker or better than a hot video game? It wasn't just Starshine that needed an instant jumpstart. It was darn near everybody.

Widening the gap in the jalousie slats, Ben said, “I read you, Gillian. I'm on it. One nasty joy ride coming up.”

“Speaking of which,” said Gillian, poking at the opening panels with a glossy fingernail, “where is Pepe's imprint? Where are the hard-core portents I asked you to serve up?”

“Only a phone call away when needed, remember?”                                                                                                                                  

“Cut the tap dance, Benjy.  When was the last time you conferred with your pal? ”

“A little while ago, if you must know.” It wasn't a total lie. He'd asked Chula to ask C.J. to look into certain matters. Plus he really was making progress. To keep the ball rolling, he had to brush Gillian off, but she wouldn't budge.                                                                                     

“So tell me, Mr. Prine,” said Gillian, as though seeing right through him, “how did you contact him?  There's no phone here and you let your cell phone service expire over a week ago. So I assume, since my check at the conference took care of your car repairs, you are flush with the coin Leo slipped you under the table. So humor me and display the el-cheapo cell you must have picked up under a cheapo pay-as-you-go plan.”

Realizing she had him there and he couldn't very tell her about the stupid accident, all he could say was, “Something came up and, given this first work day after the long weekend, plus the tasks and short notice you guys gave me, I simply ran out of time.”

“Brilliant. So how were you planning on feeding this thing? How, may I ask, are you going to stay in touch with your go-between?”

“Well, missy, there's Lester's phone. And before I can re-confer, I had to wait for your feedback. Not to mention this is the locale of the primary set pieces. And there is no way I can continue to check them out and utilize them
before
I check back in with my interlocutor. Comprende? I am thinking, thinking, and you are wasting precious time.”

After another quizzical look from Gillian, Ben added, “Give me a break, will you?  It's only seven-fifteen.”

The quizzical look lingered.

“Fine. Take me to the gate. Just know that our Pepe is not simply on call. Not with all the vice and nefarious goings-on that can't be spoken of lest we spook the tourists.”

Ben had no idea what he was talking about. All he'd gleaned about C.J.'s undercover work were inklings here and there. At the moment all he wanted was to dispatch Gillian and get back to the girl, provided, after all this chit-chat, she hadn't bolted again.

He gave Gillian a nudge but she stood her ground.

“Look, lady, you liked my opening. Hard-core options you want, hard-core options you shall have.”

“The truth, Benjamin. Why do I suddenly get the impression you've got two things going here?”

“Who knows? Who cares? I am on it. It is percolating. Truly, honestly, deeply.”

Gillian snatched the opening thumbnail sketches. “Nevertheless, I'm keeping these as collateral.”

What that meant was anybody's guess. But Ben was in no mood to go around another circle.   

She retrieved her shoulder bag, gave her do a quick once-over with a comb and scented spray and escorted him out of the bungalow. One more quizzical look as he took his seat next to her and she put-putted the pair of them up the tech alley.

Pulling in next to Lester's glass-enclosed station, Gillian glared at him. “You've been invited to the dance, buster. Don't make me sorry I extended the invitation.”

Ben had nothing more to offer.  

“I will give you till ten. If you come up empty, if this thing tanks, if I have to go back to the drawing board, you, my little friend, are dead in the water.”

Apparently it didn't occur to her that the steel-meshed barricade was wide open and Lester was nowhere in sight. She slid behind the wheel of her BMW convertible, backed out and sped off into the darkening afterglow. Heading up Van Ness. Doubtless over to her office to scour her computer files in case she might very well have to cut her losses.

 
 

Chapter Nineteen

 

 

In limbo, Ben stood there motionless. Gillian may have had her suspicions, but he was still in the game. Nonetheless, he couldn't help thinking about normal people. They would never find themselves in this loopy predicament, constantly trying to keep more and more balls in the air. He wondered what they were doing at this moment. Washing the dishes perhaps, talking about the lighthearted events of the day with the kids, feeding the dog, getting ready to settle down and watch a warmhearted family show.  

Snapping out of it, he went inside Lester's station, swept aside the empty Pepsi cans, bags of chips and peanut butter and jelly crackers that littered the counter. As long as he was here, Ben decided to accomplish something. Besides, there was no way he could race back to the stable in time and he knew diddly about operating the go-cart which he had no business touching in the first place. So he punched in an outside line and dialed Chula.

After four rings, Chula picked up. In that soft, reassuring tone of hers, she informed him that tapping the grill of the girl's pickup was an insurance matter, gracioso and a waste of C.J.'s time.

“Not a police matter?”

“Correct. But this thing with this Leo Orlov ...” Her voice trailed off.                       

“Yes? Go on.”

“They've had their eye on him. But C.J. is so upset about this vaquero maldito who ran over his kids, it was hard to follow what he was saying.”

“A cowboy? Are you serious?”

“A cowboy type ... I don't know. You know how C.J. gets. Anyway, some of the kids are okay, bruised and banged up and shouldn't have been playing hooky on the first day of school. But a few others are ... ”  

“Are what?”

“In the hospital. So, C.J. is wondering who put this vaquero on to him. Was it this Leo, the one you said from the gym?”

“Leo again.”

“Yes. Like I am telling you, I couldn't quite follow, couldn't take it all in. At the same time, they got another crank call at his station, in Vegas and San Francisco.”

“Oh no. Not the crippled accountant in the Rockies?”

“I suppose. ‘Coming from the mountains ... has a cowboy drawl'. Who can follow it?”

“Follow what?”

“Some connection too, C.J. is saying. When he calms down, maybe it'll seem different to him. But right now, I must tell you, his brain is racing.”

Since Ben had no idea what any of this was all about, all he could tell Chula was he doubted there was any connection between Leo, some cowboy and what befell C.J.' s kids in the barrio. Let alone some ranting accountant if that's what he really was. All the while Ben felt more time passing, everything getting more and more jumbled, including the abiding image of the girl stashing something by the hayloft and scurrying off into the night.