Tinseltown Riff (29 page)

C.J. used the side of his hand to abuse the tinny closet this time. “Eso no lo creo. Why does this cowboy look for me yesterday? Why does he smile and say these things?”

“I've been trying to tell you,” said Ben, his voice a bit stronger.

“Hey, no me hagas esas jaladas.”

“I am not jerking you around. Can you speak English?”

“Si. Como no? Advise me, mister Hollywood sell-out writer. What isn't there, you see. What is there, you don't see. What you know about anything?”

“I know when on duty, you have to follow-up leads.”

“Ai, now he knows deployment periods. He knows ten hour shifts for four days. He knows about detaining and charging. You see, this Ben and I are the true and real mismatched cops.”

“Ask me, dammit. Swallow your pendejo pride and ask me.”

“Pendejo? You call me an idiot? You call me names?”

Perky stuck her head in and asked if there was some problem. She admonished C.J., declared in no uncertain terms that Ben needed absolute peace and quiet, smiled in that big-sisterly way of hers and scurried off.  

C.J. moved away from the closet and said, “Okay, you got leads, mi consejero, my trusted advisor? Let me hear them.”

Cutting it short for the sake of his throat, Ben told him the cowboy thinks C.J. is  dirty. Pointing to his hanging, soiled dress shirt, Ben added that the cowboy came back for his cell phone because it contains incriminating, unlisted speed-dial numbers. Doubtless including one to Laurel Canyon to a mob guy named Ray who, also doubtless, linked a certain Pepe from the gym and his crew with a double cross over the sacks.”

“Pepe from the gym?”

“Yes.”

“A double cross over the sacks?”

“Yes.”

“No,” said C.J. “I take the sacks to the lockup.”

“Tell that to the cowboy. Tell that to beak-nose Ray.”

“Eso no lo creo.”

“Will you stop saying that?” Ben popped another lozenge in his mouth and grabbed his homework. “Just check out my notes, will you? You need to do this. You have to do this.”

“Where you get these ideas? What you know I need or have to do?”

“I know your mom is a good woman and your dad plays a sweet cornet. I know you can't shy away from the big breakers no matter how far out. I know you can't walk away from this. Especially ‘cause you don't know what those sacks contain.”

It may have been the words, it may have been the croak in Ben's voice. At any rate, C.J. snatched up the pieces of paper and sifted through them. When he questioned the part about the gun, Ben showed him the newspaper and the fire marshal's statement.

“Call and ask him,” said Ben. “In the oil drum with the empty clip. Ask about the little wooden matches, the bullet holes in the barn doors. If it doesn't jibe, if the gun isn't registered or something, then forget about it. Forget the whole thing.”

“I need to run this by my supervisor.”

“So do it.”

“So first I must read these words again. So first I need some caffeine or something.”

He was gone only a few minutes. He returned complaining that he couldn't find a coffee machine anywhere. “Too many pieces,” C.J. went on. “Not for your mind, a man who lives out of one suitcase, mixed up with Leo Orlov, crazy movie deals and smoking barns. My feet are on the ground, you know?”

Continuing to talk himself into it, C.J. tapped on Ben's notes as hard as he'd rapped on the closet. “All this maldito crap would have to be documented ... verified.”

He stalled a while longer tapping on the closet door to a cumbia beat, stuck his head in the closet and retrieved the cell phone. “Hey, we got to get you some clothes, man. Somebody got to get you some clothes.”

“Goodbye.”

“Wait. This Ray, this could-be el jefe. He would want the sacks back you say? And this muchacha Molly.  She can corroborate? She is not raro, not extrano, not a daydreamer like you?”

“Leave her out of it.”

 “Why? Because you are crazy for her and can not see straight?”

“I said, leave her be.”

C.J. shook his head, added the newspaper to the collection and said, “I want you to swear esto es verdad.”

For what it was worth, Ben raised his hand to the ceiling and swore it was all true.

“Remember, this is talvez. Maybe. The biggest
maybe
even you can imagine.”

 With that exit line, C.J. cut through the fluttering partition.  

Left alone with only the static of wheeling gurneys and muffled voices in the corridor, Ben knew by telling C.J. to forget about Molly, C.J. might very well do just the opposite--flush Molly out, ask her to corroborate, even detain her. Giving Ben at least half a chance to see her again.   

 
 

Chapter Twenty-eight

 

 

It was the third visit that morning to the holding cell that set C.J. in motion. This time the cowboy was up and about--bracing his back and rubbing his chest and ribs while, at the same time, giving C.J. a hard, cold look.

“About time,” said the cowboy. “Okay, let's get it on.”

“Oh?” said C.J., peering through the bars, talking over the usual mockery and swearing from the other four inmates. “You ready to talk?”

As if they were fellow conspirators, the cowboy shuffled forward till they were inches apart. “Cut the crap, Pepe. You had no business bein' there last night. Except to beat me to the goods.”

“Oh?” C.J., repeated, taking his lead from the cowboy, staying just as cool. “And you had legitimate business there?”

“Ask Ray Shine. Ask the producer's woman.”

“What producer?”

“I said cut the crap. Your cop buddies are itchin' for a statement. And that's what they're gonna get. Unless.”

“Unless what?”

The cowboy coughed a few times into the back of his hand and said, “Unless you come through, honcho. Otherwise you and your little Hispanic creeps are all goin' down.”

C.J. felt the muscles tighten around the back of his neck but kept on with the charade. “And that is what you think?”

“That's what I know.”

“And you feel nothing? Not for what you did to them?”

The cowboy smirked, broke into a hacking laugh, dug his hands into his Levi jacket and came up empty. “I thought we were talkin' business.”

“Ah, si. And what, my friend, do you offer?”

“Hook you up with the Outfit. Get you a share of the finder's fee. Plus you avoid a hassle for what you pulled last night. And you get to keep your cover.”

“And this is it?”

“Look, I'm gonna walk. My way, you get some coin and don't have to watch your back. Options. I'm givin' you options.”

Pretending to think it over, C.J. finally said, “I don't know. This is very difficult. Very difficult proposition.”

“Easy. You assaulted me. I'm not gonna press charges. Any way you look at it, you're better off.”

“And the barn, the smoke, the fire. What happened to this Ben and this girl?”

“Who knows? Who gives a goddamn?”

“I see. I will have to think about it.”

“You will not think about it, wet back. You will spring me.  I've rested up and I want out of this cage.”

It was hard to resist reaching through the bars and grabbing this sadistic gringo by the neck. But C.J. burned some of the anger off by turning on his heels and taking the adjacent flight of stairs in half the time.

 

His supervisor was a standard-issue hard-nose. He had once been a Marine recruitment poster boy and was featured leading a crack drill team in the opening credits of a major motion picture. As expected, he'd kept the short haircut and trim body. In this same way, his speech was clipped, his suit neatly pressed, shoes shined, tie bright but not flashy. He insisted on being called Mac in deference to his glory days as a signal-caller at USC. And, again as might be expected, his main concern was image. Keeping a low profile, insisting the Hollywood Division hold the line so that nothing worrisome spooked the tourists.  That recent ABC special on violence and the LAPD was about another world miles to the east. And his division's clean bill of health had better stay that way. Due to continuing Federal oversight, every move Mac's officers made was monitored.

“Well?” said Mac, sitting upright in his ice blue, air-conditioned office, all ten  fingertips touching indicating rapt attention. “Did you play it the way I said? No Spanish, no emotion?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“This time he spoke to me.”

“You see? What did I tell you?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. My understanding, Rodriguez, is that you people are brought up to be polite. It's only the loose cannons, the uneducated macho types that go off half-cocked.”

C.J. shrugged. It was the fastest way to get past Mac's ignorance.  

Palms down in his regulation-Corps pose, Mac went on. “Right. Now let me give you a heads-up. See if you can get something on this guy, you follow? In case somebody from the media gets wind of a muscular Latino beating up some civilian last night. That way we can spin it and run this character out of town. Or, if you get on to something, we can set up a file with eventual certificates of merit all around. But that would mean we'd have to increase the caseloads.”

Fingertips touching again, Mac carried on. It took C.J. a good fifteen minutes to get a word in edgewise. To finally relay his exchange with the cowboy and the leads C.J. obtained from the smoke inhalation victim who wished to remain anonymous.  

Before agreeing or disagreeing, Mac went into another song and dance. “All told, best play, Rodriguez, is keep the status quo. Five-and-dime burglaries and identity thefts you don't hear about. It's just entertainment, celebrity sightings —nothing sticking out or lingering. It's all hype, like that picture in the paper today.”

For some reason Mac didn't get the connection between the newspaper photo and the smoke inhalation victim, which was just as well. C.J. just kept nodding, waiting him out. What he got was not what he wanted but better than nothing. He had half a shift to look into things. But he was not to holster his Smith and Wesson service weapon onto his ankle, blow his cover, or so much as ruffle a hair on this Ray from Vegas' head. Think of it as a fishing expedition, nothing more.                                                                                                                                

“But always keep in mind,” Mac added, tapping his index finger on the stainless steel desk, “you are still on loan. I can always ship you back.”

C.J. wanted to say that would be fine. He wanted to say he only accepted this posting because Chula couldn't take the gang wars and constant danger. The compromise was, he would not give up on his boys and would make sure they didn't shave their heads and die in a shootout before they were sixteen. He wanted to say all this, but kept it to himself.

“Also keep in mind,” Mac said, coming to a close, “truth is, I'd hate to lose you. You're a great type. You keep fit and are one beautiful surfer.”

Brushing off the compliments, C.J. said, “So what you are saying is, I have five hours to get somewhere but you are not counting on it. If the cowboy walks and makes no waves, that is fine with you. If he walks and does make waves, it is my ass.”

“Something like that.” Mac leaned back in his adjustable leather chair, hands clasped behind his neck. “Except, if it does turn out there was a weapon in the oil drum. If so, and other things turn up and we sit on our heels, then it's my ass. So be thorough while you're making no waves.”

Mac rose from his chair and ushered C.J. out of his office. “Say, I hear you drilled the guy with a combo of jabs and a wicked right cross. What about a demo some time? Set up a ring, a decent opponent and afterwards, drinks all around.”

C.J. let that one pass.

As an afterthought, Mac said, “Now you sure you got this all straight?”

“I must play it smart.”

“Attaboy, Rodriguez. You got it.”  

C.J. hightailed it out of the station, donned his midnight-blue shirt-jacket with the mesh pockets, got what he needed out of his glove department and went to work. For the first time in a long time, he started his shift on the loose. His easygoing Korean partner would have go it alone: snapping pictures of the former Grauman's Chinese and the handprints of the stars of yesterday; posing as a long lost tourist begging to have his money belt stolen and relieved of his passport. Poor Chan Ho Choo would miss fooling around with his flashy Mexican sidekick; the one with the wild hair who was even better at seeming lost and unable to speak a word of English.

Trying his luck as he tooled down Sunset into the stop-and-go, C.J. undid the flap on his top pocket, pulled out the cowboy's cell phone and hit the second speed dial. The early afternoon sun glinted through the brownish haze as he pulled his visor lower and waited through the beeps for somebody to pick up.

“Yeah?” the nasal voice droned over the howl of alternative rock in the background. “That you? What's the frickin' story here?”

“I got what you want,” C.J. said over the noise. “I am coming by.”

“Who is this? What happened to--?”

“You say no, I will turn around.”

Hearing nothing, C.J. hung up and took a right heading up Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Thinking it was true; this cowboy, this cabron culero who ran over his boys and sent Ben to the E.R. could walk. Why? Because he, C.J. Rodriguez, did take his sweet time answering Ben's call for help. Because it was late and he and Chula were about to make love. Also, Ben could be imagining like always. And even if what he was saying—this cowboy had done things and driven away—Ben should file a complaint. It was only after he remembered he made Ben swear never to mention anything to do with a movie studio. So to call him, Ben must have been desesperado.