Tinseltown Riff (25 page)

“Spit it out,” the cowboy said. “What's the new product? How many drops you get to make if you go with Angelique? Or Pepe?  Or if you stick with Ray and save your skin?”

“Quit it,” said Molly twisting back and forth. “You are seeing this all wrong.”

“I am seeing it from here to Burbank,” said the cowboy, directly behind her now, barking out his guesses as Molly cupped her hands over her ears. “Malibu. Pasadena. Culver City, Universal City, every goddamn city. Westwood, Brentwood, Inglewood, every kinda wood.”

“No!”

“Hey look,” said Ben, speaking out at last. “Since there's obviously some big misunderstanding here, I say we at least give Molly the benefit of the doubt.”                                  

The cowboy strode over to Ben and swept the cans off the desk so hard they flew over the shopping basket, smashed into the coffee table and rattled onto the floor.

Shaken, Ben hunkered down and retrieved the cans. They were something to hold onto: large, smooth and cylindrical. But most of all, crawling around was a way to block out the craziness he couldn't erase or smudge over with charcoal.

As he scoured around, he eyed the cell phone still resting on the cushion above him. He thought of pressing the power button to keep the charge from running out. But he abandoned the idea out of fear of what the cowboy might do.

In the time it took Ben to retrieve the cans and put them all back, Molly had retreated into the kitchenette, gulped down some more coffee, yelled out, “Why won't you listen to me?,” slammed a couple of cabinet doors and returned.

With his feeble clean-up chore finished, Ben stood motionless, the bulging tote bag nestled against his side.  

Off on another tack, Molly explained how she'd gotten into a fight with her Granny over the station wagon as Granny got more and more suspicious. Then gassed up the old truck and bought a set of worn tires from Dell's Junks and Wrecks out on Molera Road.  Next, she'd glommed a few of Granny's homing pigeons in the hope she could foist them on Angelique and still be in the movie or whatever it was. Demonstrate how to attach vials to the pigeons' feet. Let Angelique come up with the drops, move the new risky stuff, whatever it was. Create a flyway from her roof. Or have somebody else do it. She'd done her bit as delivery girl and darned well deserved a break.

Catching the exasperated look on the cowboy's face as he rubbed his lower back, she pointed at Ben. “But when he bumped into me, and when I saw creepy Ray by the pool, I took off. Thought maybe I'd catch Angelique here alone. And since Ben owes me, handed me Angelique's card, plus this shack was unoccupied ... and the movie people were due, had to be. Hey, you saw them, you made Ben screw it all up.”

“To hell with it,” the cowboy said. “To hell with all bullshit. Just ... gimme ... the stash.”

With Molly's gaze fixated well past the front windows, Ben said, “She can't. She doesn't know.”

Out of nowhere came a hand gun, small and silvery. Then, like a drill instructor, the cowboy pulled the magazine out of the bottom of the grip. “See the red dot? You slap in the clip, flip off the safety and you're set.”

He cocked the hammer.

“What is this?” said Ben.

“Watch. With the hammer back, you get a lighter trigger pull. If the first shot don't do it, you're in automatic and the bullets fly.”

He pulled the magazine out of the bottom of the grip and waved it in front of Molly's face. “Ready?”

“Wait,” said Ben, “I'm trying to tell you something.”

Still speechless, Molly transferred all her energy to her shifting feet.

“Too late,” said the Cowboy.

“Stop,” said Ben. “What are you, out of your mind?”

The cowboy smacked the clip in place.

Before Ben had a chance to say, “I'll tell you, I'll show you,” Molly broke for the front door.

The cowboy lunged and caught the back of her hair, spun her around and sent her crashing against the coffee table. Reflexively, Ben raised the tote bag as the cowboy leaned over, grabbed her arm and twisted it. As she screamed, Ben smacked the cans across the side of the cowboy's head. Ben's curses now as hysterical as Molly's cries and the cowboy's furtive ducking until one of Ben's blows struck him in the back. The cowboy moaned and released Molly's arm as Ben struck again and again. The cowboy lurched forward, banged against the upended coffee table, shoved it aside and began clutching his lower spine. Groping wildly, Ben stripped the gun from the cowboy's fingers and jabbed the muzzle in the exact same spot.

“Out, out, out of here!” Ben yelled, jabbing him again. “Safety's off. Next I pull the hammer back, right?”

The cowboy weaved forward, threw open the front door, stepped out into the night air and straggled past the shadows of the ficus trees as Ben stayed close behind.                          

“In the car,” Ben said. “And you better make it fast before I let you have it.”

It was all a bluff, tossing out a line from an old Warner Brothers flick. Ben had no intention of pulling the trigger, even firing a warning shot. Only hoping the cowboy would think Ben had completely gone berserk and truly was in cahoots with Pepe the bandit. Praying the cowboy would crawl into the car and take off before realizing Ben had no idea what he was doing.

And somehow it actually happened. The cowboy slid behind the wheel, gunned the motor and backed up, tires squealing and screeching. More squealing and screeching as the car jockeyed around, sped up the tech alley, careened right and kept going. Perhaps seeking immediate relief for his aching back, perhaps contemplating his next move, perhaps just about anything. Ben had no thoughts about Lester and the front barricade, not even the possibility that the cowboy might run Lester over like he'd done with the Chicano kids. Ben had only thoughts for Molly.

Flipping the safety on, Ben raced back to the bungalow, latched the front door, jerked the Venetian blinds shut, clicked off the lights and knelt by Molly's side.  

Bleary-eyed, she gazed up at him and feebly began pounding on his arm. “Where did he come from? Tell me, tell me.”

“I don't know. I'm sorry. Sorry as hell.”

Fending Molly off, Ben placed the hand gun on the floor and slid it away; within grabbing distance if it came to that but with the muzzle pointed the other way.  

Clutching the front of Ben's shirt, Molly said, “I have to know. Why me? How did this happen?”

She asked a dozen more questions Ben had no answers for. Then, hanging onto him, she muttered, “Granny got to the Greyhound station and had cold feet, did you know that? Sleazo mom never made it past the airline reservation counter. But I got here. This was my time, man. This was my time!”

She let go of him, wept quietly and snuggled against his shoulder. He put his arm around her but all he could muster was, “I know, I know.”

When her sobs diminished into whimpers, he squinted into the darkness, looking for the blue light of the cowboy's cell phone.  Knowing he should call Lester, or Chula to get C.J. down here, or the station--even if the dispatcher scoffed at a nuisance call from an abandoned old Hollywood studio.

He finally spotted the faint glow of the cell by the broken leg of the coffee table. But he couldn't move, couldn't disturb Molly, leastways not now. He hoped the charge would hold out a little while longer. He hoped the cowboy wouldn't recover and come storming back.  

At any rate, here they were, in the dark beneath some cheesy movie posters, fans whirring, hand gun close by.

After a time, Molly began to sing, like an inconsolable little girl trying to lull herself to sleep:

I'm the queen of the Silver Dollar ... I rule a smoky kingdom ... a wine glass is my scepter ... and a barstool is my throne ...

The lyrics didn't make much sense. Ben said, “I know,” again. Then, “It's okay.” As the song faded, he hung on to her tight to keep himself from shaking to pieces.  

 
 
 

Chapter Twenty-five

 

 

“Okay, Ben,” said Molly, edging over toward him, “who did you just call?”

“Chula, his girlfriend. She'll get hold of him.”

“And who's he again?”

“A friend, an undercover cop.”

“Oh sure, I'll bet.”

“It's true.”

It was now after eleven. They were in the dark by the fake tombstones on the ground floor of Studio Three, well back of the entrance. The one thing they'd agreed on was the need to vacate the bungalow. Remaining there like sitting ducks was just asking for it. Especially if the cowboy didn't hightail it to the emergency room. Or collapse onto a motel bed with a bag of ice on his frazzled back.

“And who's this Pepe,” Molly went on, “and his crew we're supposed to be in cahoots with? Where does he come in?”

“He doesn't.”

“How do you know?”

“How do you know anything in this town?”                                                                                                                   

“Exactly. How do we know this Chula isn't really mixed up with--?”

“Look, what do you want? Lester didn't answer and we've got to get you out of here. Come on, Molly. What's it going to be?”

Stalling again, Molly ran her fingers across the spiky wrought iron fence that rimmed the graveyard till she located the rusty gate. And there she lingered. “But what about the sacks? What about the pigeons?”

“I told you. You take off and lay low. I sit tight till C.J. gets here. I hand the stuff over and fill him in. Tell him you didn't realize what you were doing, words like that.”

“How do I know? How do I know what you'll do?”

“Great,” said Ben, traipsing over to her. “I'll show you where I hid the sacks and we
'll lo
ad them in your truck. We'll even load the pigeons.”

“But--?”

“Exactly. What's C.J. going to think if he spots us? And what'll the cowboy do if he gets here first?”

Getting more and more frustrated with her, Ben began tossing out anything that came to him.

“Okay then, when C.J. gets here, I'll tell him nothing happened, I made it all up. In the meantime--if you can still keep your eyes open, that is--you'll have already zipped back to Laurel Canyon. Sure, great idea, take the cell phone. It's probably good for at least one more call. At this hour, it's only polite to give Ray and Angelique some advance notice. And then all three of you can come to grips with who has been double-crossing whom.”

Ben brushed by her, passed the police station interior, reached inside and found the desk sergeant's counter. He retrieved the cell phone, hand gun and the binoculars he'd snatched from the shopping basket. Slipping the strap around his neck, he stumbled around and returned to her side. She shook her head as he switched on the cell and held up the glowing monitor.

“Here,” Ben said, “see, it still works. You're all set. Take the gun too, take everything. Hurry, before you start listening to reason.”

“What is this?” said Molly.

“Nothing much, just tearing my hair out.”                                                               

“Listen, you, just ‘cause you saved my life maybe, and I let you hold me and all, doesn't mean you're calling the shots. So back off, will you? I can't hear myself think.”

Telling her he'd just about had it with this squabbling, he almost dropped the gun as he moved over to the ramp opposite the entrance and shoved the cell phone in his back pocket.

Fine,” he said, placing the gun gingerly by the metal railing. “And if the cowboy does get here first and I can't hold him off, be sure to share your thoughts.”

After another one of her blank stares at the ceiling, she shuffled over to him and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. “God, I am so beat.”

“Obviously.”

Stifling a yawn, she took a few steps up the ramp.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for the No-Doz I dropped up there. I am so wasted and so hyper. I mean, if I don't take something or find some place to crash ...”

“I don't believe this. What does it take to strike brain?”

“Thanks,” Molly said, tramping back down and away from him. “All right, anything, anything.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I give. Anything to get away from you.”

“Great,” said Ben, moving toward the entrance. “Then we play it my way.”

“Not so fast. You're saying Aunt June's place is vacant and safe.”  

“How many times, Molly? How many times?”

“And this C.J. can be counted on?”

“Yes!”

A little more stalling before Molly finally went along.

Giving her no time to backtrack, Ben grabbed the gun, pressed the metal bar and opened one of the double doors. There was no sign of any activity whatsoever.     

“Right,” Ben said, reaching in his shirt pocket. “Can you follow these directions?”

“I am not that far gone. Where are the keys again?”

“Under an adobe brick in a crayon box behind the Madagascars. The two gold ones will get you through the front; the remote under the second brick will open the garage and close it. Be careful skirting the cactus.”

“Aunt June is away till Saturday and the neighbors won't spot me?”

“Yes, yes, yes. The house is sideways and the neighbors are in hiding. You will sleep undisturbed around the clock.”

“And you?”

“Never mind. I am armed and considered dangerous.”

“What about your cousin's place?”

“After this? Are you kidding? Now will you please move those feet?”