Tinseltown Riff (22 page)

“With Ben?” said Deke. “The writer guy?”

“Who else?”

“And Leo is ... ?”

“Never mind. The point is, Ben has to be leaned on, pinned down before the whole thing tanks. You read me?”

“Yup,” Deke said, as she hopped off the Chin-up/dip.                                                

She moved over to the Pec Fly. “By the way, this one isolates the pectoralis major. But judging from the stiff way you handle yourself, you'll need more flexion and less muscle work. Keep that in mind once we get through this rough patch. But enough. Are we through?”

“Just about.” Pulling out the notepad from the attaché case, jotting down a few more pointers, Deke said, “Now about this Pepe fella.”

“Ah, you know him?” said Iris, going over to the Preacher Curl. “Interesting. Seems he may be the problem instead of the solution. Calls Ben up in the middle of the night. Oh, yeah, I heard, I caught it. Got my finger on everything. I have to, as you can plainly see. You getting the picture now?”

“Uh-huh,” said Deke, making a checkmark.

“Good,” said Iris, spraying in two directions and alternately wiping down the dual Hip Abductors. “Off the record, I am pushing this for Leo.”

Deke circled Leo's name having no idea who he was or how he fit in.

“Still and all,” Iris went on, “since Ben needs this so bad and, underneath, may have the goods plus the means—but enough said.  Isn't it time you got on your horse?”

“The means? Something going on the side, is that it?”

Iris attacked the Lat Pull-down with a double spray. “What am I, talking too fast for you?”                                                                                                                                    

 “No, you're doing just fine. And what about the girl?”

“What girl?”

“A ringer, a look-alike.”

“Oh, you mean the sketches. The ones Gillian just grabbed.”

“So this Ben character was with her.”

“Using her, you mean. Or maybe she's using him or both. Who knows? Isn't this complicated enough for you? So, like I said, pin him down.”

With her tone getting more and more testy, she added, “Pin him down so Leo can have his shot.”

“Leo wants his shot,” Deke said, making a final note.

“Out, out of here,” said Iris, rising from the padded rollers of the Leg Curl and the Leg Extension. “What is it with you? Too uptight to move?”

Before he had a chance to duck, she whacked him across the back. Not hard, but hard enough.

Deke covered up this next spasm by moving away and looking around. He settled his gaze on the tall brunette and the little blonde who had just ended their contest on the cross trainers. He grimaced and watched as they caught their breath and mopped each other's faces with big white towels. When he turned back around, he found Iris glaring at him.

“One last thing,” Deke said, still waiting for the spasms to subside. “This Pepe, what does he look like?”

“Did you see Mr. Muscles at the counter?  If Pepe is who I think he is, add long, jet-black hair, the face of Zorro and a crazy look in the eyes.”

Deke gave Iris a final nod and walked over to the water fountain just as the tall Brunette and little blonde sashayed by and headed up the stairs for the lockers arm in arm. He snuck a pain pill in his mouth, filled the paper cup and guzzled the ice cold water down.  

 

Back in the car
--
the Walther tucked in the belt slide just behind his right hip--he held his cell phone close to his mouth and let Ray have it.

“Give it to me, Ray, before I move in.”

“Hey, what did I tell you? We gotta make it short. You never know what bugging devices they got now.”

“I don't care if it's one word. What is it? What's worth all this pain?”

“Look—”

“Tell me or get yourself another flunky.”

“I'll tell you and that something I'll tell you is this. You will tell
me
and I will tell you nothing.”

“Okay then.”

“Wait. What do you know?”

“I know you're so strapped, you can only lease one building, a bungalow and a joker at the gate. Which tells me there's no way you can front Angelique's operation without collateral. Without those missing resources, you can't launder squat.”

“Are you talking to me? Are you talking to Ray like this? I am calling Walt. I am nailing his ass and telling him--”

“You do that. He'll remind you, what with the accountant scamming you over the lame books plus this latest screw-up, the Outfit's already got you by the short hairs.  So, assuming some combo of Ben, the girl and Pepe haven't already divvied things up and I can cut it off  ...  But hell, waste some more time. Please yourself.”

Ray was so unhinged at this point, all he could say was, “Jeez, hold it, hey ...”

Deke gave him two minutes to call back and give him the kicker. In the meantime, surprised at himself for coming on strong like that, he shrugged it off, ditched the pansy top and put the dress shirt back on. At least it was broken in and something a man could wear. He probably should've also put the suit jacket back on to keep up appearances but what for? Once he spooked the lone clown manning the gate, how much of an appearance would he have to keep up?  So he yanked his Levi jacket out of his overnight bag.

Then, just for the hell of it, he riffled through his notes. The riffling reminded him of time limits, high stakes, all the chips and the two hole cards down. If he was reading things right, it looked like Ray wasn't that far off. Of course, Deke wouldn't know Pepe's hole cards and Pepe wouldn't know his. But if it came to that, Deke would need an edge.

He eyed the Walther and patted the belt slide by his hip. He tried to recall the last time he fired a hand gun. Did he wing the guy or just shake him up? He couldn't remember. At any rate, he'd need the insurance no matter what Pepe was packing.  Especially if he brought along some of his Chicano hoods out for revenge.

Or, in any case, if this Ben and the girl gave him a hard time.  

 

Chapter Twenty-two

 

 

Ben's last-resort ploy didn't exactly pay off. Instead of going along with him, Molly shuffled into the bungalow in a daze.

From his vantage point in the kitchenette doorway, Ben watched her meander over to the desk where Iris had plunked down the tote bag full of health food paraphernalia as heavy as curb stones. She peeked in, yawned, shook her head and just stood there.

Not about to say or do anything to spook her, it dawned on him if he could keep her awake, she might give him a clue about her predicament. That clue, in turn, could take his storyboard to the clincher. And that was why he snatched an Earl Grey tea bag and dangled it as a lure, indicating something hot laced with caffeine might just do the trick.

She looked up, nodded and shuffled toward him.  

As she approached, he poured generously from the pot he'd been brewing into an oversized ceramic mug, added a spoon full of honey and spun out of the kitchenette. She accepted the offer without a word and floated back to the rattan couch. With her legs crossed and tucked beneath her, she took slow measured sips.

In the span of these few moments, Ben noticed she moved like a dancer, not like a farm girl at all. More like one of the nymphs at a recent U.C.L.A. dance concert, lost in a futuristic time warp.

Unobtrusively as possible, he ambled down and sidled over next to his drawing board opposite her. Perhaps they could engage in a little small talk, the way average people did who weren't coming undone. Then, once he'd put her at her ease, she'd open up and, before you knew it, he'd be off and running again.

Careful as can be, he plucked up the discarded panels. If he could cut from the shadowy form of a ramrodding cowboy, to Molly hiding out and rummaging around the cop-and-Halloween set, plus the pigeon cage on the roof, and then cut back to the cowboy—one of those classic
meanwhile-back-at-the-ranch
edits--maybe Gillian would buy it. And Ben would have time to pick up the rest of the pieces. As long as he could shoehorn what was up with Molly stashing those sacks in the livery stable. Come up with something along those lines. Otherwise it was still a bunch of thumbnail sketches leading nowhere.

After a few more beats of suspended silence, Ben said, “Nice ribbon.”

“Mmm,” Molly murmured, looking childlike with the new addition of a pink hair band.

“Was that what you were looking for? Back there in the haunted attic?”

“Never you mind.”

“Just wondering.”

“Well stop wondering.”

“Well if it's not the ribbon, maybe I could help you find whatever it is. Later.”

“Drop it, okay, buddy?”

“Ben. I told you my name is Ben.”

“Okay, Ben,” said Molly, back to her old standoffish tone but too weary to put any energy behind it. “In case it isn't obvious by now, I have hardly slept. The stuff I lost was over the counter, No-Doz, nothing to get worked up over, and this tea isn't doing a bit of good.”

“I see, I get it,” Ben said, keeping as offhand as possible. “What with no legitimate place to sleep ... hauling pigeons up on the roof.  Plus chugging up and down the canyons with an old clunker of a truck. Make anybody exhausted. But I do have the answer if you'll bear with me.”

“Look, I'm only sitting here to get my second wind. Then finish what I was doing  ... I guess.” Here was that look again, peering out at nowhere, sorting through some hazy options.  

“Unfinished business, right?”                                                                                                        

“Mmm.”

“With those sacks.”

She responded with a nod, then a shake of the head.

He keyed on her eyes again, consistently her most expressive feature. They fluttered, opened wide, drooped and opened again. Obviously at a point where she'd love to give in, curl up and drift off.  

Shaking herself out of it, she uncrossed her legs. Humming some obscure country western tune, she rubbed her chin on her chest and swung her head back and around and let it drop. After a few more of these, she stood, stretched, eased around the back of the couch and did a straggly figure-eight around the desiccated palms in the far corner.

Returning to the back of the couch, she said, “Okay okay. The real reason I came in here. About the movie.”

“Sorry?”

“Don't give me that. Angelique has to show some time. You handed me the card, remember?  No sign of her this morning ... and her dumb phone is unlisted. But here you are with your easel and your writing gig or whatever. So it figures.”

Checking her watch, she shook her hands and arms like some kind of wake-up call. “I'm saying, I can not believe people have been by for no reason. It's getting late but you're still here. So you must be expecting someone. When, for heaven sake? When?”  

“Okay,” said Ben, realizing the gentle offhand approach was out. “Assuming Gillian is still giving me the benefit of the doubt—”

“Who?”

“The one shepherding the project. If she is, there's still a little time. A very little time.”

“I knew it, I knew it. Then I can talk to this Gillian who'll get back to Angelique and work something out.”

Somewhat satisfied, but then squinting at him, she said, “Hey, why aren't you doing your thing? What's with the tea and the small talk? I thought you were on deadline.”

“I
am
on deadline. I am groping—the tea and the small talk were part of a quiet yet desperate grope. In a word, I am stuck.”

“Oh, get off it. What do you need?” Scuffing over to him, bending over the shopping basket, she gazed bleary-eyed at the Dr. Seuss book sticking straight up like a tab. “What's this?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, come on, let's have it.”

“A birthday reminder, if you must know. All part and parcel of the ticking clock.”

“You're kidding,” said Molly, pointing to the candy cane swirls under the title
Oh, The Places You'll Go
. “I mean, how old are you anyways? And what are you trying to pull?”

“Nothing,” said Ben. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Talk to me,” Molly said, leafing through the pages. “Tell me please, I'm begging you, this is not some kinda kiddie thing.”

On his feet, about to lose it, Ben spelled it out for her. “You see those rainbow paths of yellow, green, purple, blue and orange? You see where they lead, you see the kid all the way up on top? That's where I'm supposed to be. That's where I've
been
supposed to be. Look on page twelve:
You'll join the high fliers who soar to high heights
. Well, sister, time is running out. The last-chance birthday is upon me, you're not coming through, and I am this far from oblivion.”

“This far from what?”

“Oblivion, erasure, eradication after letting Aunt June and just about anybody and everybody on this planet down.”

In the state she was in, it took Molly a few moments to even try to take this in. “I'm sorry, my brain is so fuzzy I don't get what you're saying.”

Leafing through the pages again, talking more to herself than Ben, she said, “Wait a minute. What's this? The one with the big circle around it? ‘You're too smart to go down any not-so-good street ...  in that case you'll head straight out of town.'”

“Ah,” said Ben, “there you have it. The enigma, the great dilemma. Maybe the road less traveled is for later, much much later, after you've made it. Then you can light out, sit around the ol' campfire and say, ‘Here I am. Finally, at long last. This is my story, this is my song.'”