Tinseltown Riff (5 page)

Turning around, he again caught sight of the sinewy form that belonged to C.J. Rodriguez, drawing even closer, banking off the wave's lip, in the pocket, cutting back and slicing across. Before the cresting whitewater fell on top of him, C.J. went the guy in the wet suit one better and flung his arms out wide, the haze glinting off his straggly black hair.

It was a goofy move, greeted by wild applause from the splashing Chicano teens.  This, apparently, was his current mood. And this is what Ben would have to contend with if he had any hope of getting him to play back-up.  

Instantly, there C.J. was, on his belly like the kids, paddling in Ben's direction through the little breakers until he emerged. He flashed that toothy smile of his as his tangerine surfboard trailed by his ankle like a spent fish. The gang of Chicanos rushed forward and surrounded him, slapped his palms and dispersed, yelping the chorus to some hit Latino tune.  

“So, payaso,” said C.J., calling over as he tugged on the Velcro lash circling his foot. “You found me, huh? What for? I think I don't want to know.”

Payaso was short for clown. It also meant C.J. was definitely in a quirky mood.

“Talk to me, man. What's the story?”

Ben studied C.J.'s broad face and his set of white teeth that were a hair too large for his mouth, causing the left side of his grin to swerve upward when he was in this taunting mode. Coupled with the cocky way he was swinging his shoulders, the message was clear. Ben was in for a bit of horseplay, provided he could stick it out.

Standing directly in front of him now, raising his voice over the din of the Pier and the kids shrieking in the background, Ben offered an offhanded hint as to what he was after. C.J. raised an eyebrow and began easing his stiff muscles.

Twisting and holding it for about twenty counts, C.J. kept up his end of the conversation. He remarked about some previews flashing up on the TV screens at Ben's pseudo-cousin Iris' gym the other day while he was working out on the punching bag. As usual, C.J. noted how dumb most police shows were, the old ones and the new ones as well. And that went for the movies too. Scoffing at this particular promo, he pointed out that “no self-respecting cop would let some muchacha distraido tag along on a stakeout.”

Ben agreed, still without a clue what C.J. actually did on his Hollywood beat amidst the swarming tourists. While undercover, his bailiwick could be organized crime, homicide, all manner of theft and swindling. It could be anything and everything.

“Oye, carnal,” C.J. said, bending over, touching his toes. “Carnal” was short for dude and signaled today's horseplay would include put-downs and a little sparring. “When you going to ditch that nice schoolboy outfit? What is that shirt, what are those payaso khaki pants? Where is the tan, man?”  

“I lost it.”

“You never had it. Swim, do something before you get sin vida—muerto. Use Iris' gym; three times a week, not once in the blue moon.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Work out, not just under her sheets.”

“Look, I use the spare room, okay?”

“Sure, sure,” said C.J. straightening up, shadow boxing and then landing a soft left jab to Ben's shoulder. “Dame un tiempo.”

“Give you a break? Give
me
a damn break.” Ben held out his palms, warding off a few blows to his face as C.J. kept pulling his punches.

“Listen, you tell me she is not a real cousin, so what is the matter with you?  No lead in the pencil? Lo siento.”

Reluctantly taking the cue and teasing him back, Ben said, “Hey, just ‘cause your mom worked some cantina doesn't mean everybody's hot to trot.”

C.J. feinted with his right and grazed Ben's ribcage with a left.

“No te atrevaz a llamar mi madre una puta,” said C.J. faking a couple of left hooks and just missing with a roundhouse right.

His palms stinging trying to protect his face, Ben shuffled backwards toward the parked cars, amazed at the number of youngsters gathering round C.J., egging him on.

“Hey, cool it down.  I did not call her a hooker. I was only ...”

Another roundhouse right and a practice left and right cross as Ben continued to peddle backwards.

Flinching, Ben yelled out, “What are you, getting serious? Brilliant. This is what I get.”  

“For what?” said C.J. dancing around on the balls of his feet, dodging and weaving.

“How about helping you with your English so you wouldn't sound so damn stupid?”

“Oh, yes?” said C.J., peppering Ben's hands again with a barrage of left jabs.

“And showing you the ropes around your ...”  Ben was about to say “Hollywood beat” but cut himself short.

C.J. dropped his hands and stopped moving. “Okay. And I show you how to defend yourself and what happens?  Oye, cabron, you hold up your palms and back away. What is going to happen to you? Ai, Chihuahua!”

“I don't know. That's the whole point.”

With the Chicanos crowding out the little kids and patting C.J. on his back, C.J.  announced that he promised his banda de locos, his crazy teen gang, some beginning surfing lessons and would be right back. “Better in the water than drive-by shootings, si? Then you tell me what it is you came for.”

The teens followed C.J., still patting away. The little kids drifted off and returned to their parents and their boogie boards. One scrawny Chicano, no more than thirteen, lingered.

As Ben rubbed his ribcage, the scrawny one cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Yo, gringo, yo extranjero. You know something?”

Ben shook his head.

The kid held up his baggy bathing suit with his left hand and shot a boney fist in the air. “You just lucky he took pity on you. You go to our barrio, we got real stuff for you. We pop your eye out and take your maldito money.”

“Forget it. Estoy bromeando. We were just kidding.”

In response, the kid rattled off a barrage of freshly minted curses. Ben replied that apparently C.J.'s acts of civility as a role model weren't paying any dividends, an observation that went completely over the kid's head.                                                                                                                            

Shuffling his feet, glancing back at his friends as they began calling his name, the boy shouted, “You can not tame us. You can not hide behind your Mercedes and your flojo beach houses. We rule. Los cobras rule!”

“Great tag line, kid,” Ben shouted as he ran back to his compadres, holding up his shorts with both hands.

For a few minutes, C.J. was in the midst of the bunch, chiding the skinny kid, then simmering down and demonstrating how to paddle out to meet the waves. A few tried to emulate him but gradually lost interest, falling back on their own water sports, dunking each other with complete abandon.

At this point, the odds of getting through, let alone hop-scotching to the next phase of his mission impossible, was getting more remote by the second. And for no apparent reason, the slight pummeling and the bony kid's threats had unnerved him. Like another prompt of what was yet to come. He wished he could shut off these portents of doom, but it was just one of those days where there was nothing you could do.      

Shortly, C.J. reappeared, shaking his head, dragging his surfboard, a thick white beach towel draped over his shoulder, a red sweat band around his forehead. With his shoulder-length hair now stiffening from the salt water, he looked like an extra in some B flick about Cochise and his renegade Apaches.

Again for no reason, Ben thought about the pickup truck. He told himself he had to damn well cut this out and face the inevitable as C.J. moved to his side.   

In silence, Ben walked C.J. back through the sea of cars to his metallic blue Mustang and waited while he secured the surfboard to the roof-rack and slipped on a loud Hawaiian shirt. Despite himself, Ben scanned the area for a closer view of the dusty truck. Perhaps it had stalled and was still around. But there was no sign of it.

The pair of them still mute, Ben followed C.J. up to the boardwalk. Going against the shuffling throngs, they headed for the park, Ben continuing to trail a few steps behind.

The stroll ended as C.J. flopped on a vacant bench on the rim of the expanse of grass that fronted the paved walkway. He leaned his head back catching the shade provided by the towering date palms. Moments later, breaking the silence, he said, “I ever tell you ‘bout my father?”

Sitting next to him, Ben said, “Nope.”

“He was the one in the cantina, not my mother. One arm. A cornet player ... silver, you know? with a sweet tone fantastico.”

Another silence.                                                                                                             

“So, amigo?  And your father?”

Ben shrugged.

“Your mother? You say nothing. Like you come from outer space.”

Ben shrugged again.

“An orphan? Plus still no woman to make love with, plus—”

“Never mind. That is not my immediate problem.”

“Then what is it on your mind?”

Two overly endowed women wiggled by, clad in leather thongs designed to reveal as much skin as possible. A petite blond followed in their wake wearing a hot-pink tutu and matching halter, meandering like a lost bareback rider.

A guy strolling by with stringy hair, a cascade of silver earrings circling his left ear and a ratty backpack, shook Ben out of it. He checked his watch again and stood up. He noted the makeshift tents peeking out here and there from the far side of the rows of palms. The homeless were out there, panhandling, girding their loins and securing their shelters in case the wind gusts kept it up for another night. Clearly indicating that, given this economy and to hell with the stupid signs and portents, Ben was this close to joining them.

“Que tranza?” said C.J. looking up. “You going to talk to me? Si or no?”

As succinctly as possible, Ben mentioned Gillian's proposal, causing C.J. to spring up. “What are you saying to me? What are you asking?”

“A token gesture.”

“In English, por favor.”

“A phone number. Just in case.”

“In case you what?”

“Get in over my head ... some facts or police procedures I need to know.”

“Por que?”

“To give me some leverage. To impress the producers.  Otherwise--oh, forget it. Forget I asked.”

Before he took two steps away, C.J. was on top of him, spinning him around. “You that bad off? What they done to you?”

“Blown the whistle, called my bluff. It's now or never, that's the deal.”

Shaking his shaggy head, C.J. said, “I tell you, somewhere they do good pictures, you know? Find these people. Enough of this merde.”

Ben didn't respond. How could he? As a hack jobbed-in from time to time to do patchwork on throwaway ventures, this was make or break. But how could he explain that? Every time he'd broached the subject, C.J. had rolled his eyes and come up with the same advice. So what was the use?

Picking up on Ben's deep funk, C.J. quit trying. Reverting to his swaggering norm, he snapped his fingers, slapped his fist into his palm and did it again for good measure. Pressing a finger into Ben's chest, he said, “No fancy-lens camera at crime scenes or your distraido brain where it does not belong.”

“Okay.”

“Levantate!”

“I'll do that. I will look sharp and stay on top of my every move.”

“Exactamente. You swear?”

Ben swore, claiming he was so alert today, his head was splitting.  

Still pushing it, C.J. said, “And you go nowhere near a police station. What you get from me comes from the sky. En secreto. Get it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.”

Plucking a blank card from his shirt pocket, C.J. scribbled the number of the Farmer's Daughter Motel on Fairfax and a name: Chula.

“Night shift again?”

“Si.”

“She'll deliver a message and get back to me.”

C.J. rubbed his knuckles on Ben's forehead. “This time it comes to something or you are quits. Finito! Comprende?”

“Absolutely. You got it.”

Breaking another awkward pause, Ben said, “Well well, a chance to connect with the fabled Chula. This
is
a coup.”

“Too many words, carnal. Always too many stories, too many words.”

“I know, I know.”

C.J. moved on. Back to his banda de locos perhaps, or off on another escapade as an undercover Zorro.

Chalking up this first task, Ben headed over the crosswalk going with the flow. He deliberately made his way down to the car park, keeping his fluttering notions to a minimum, making sure he didn't get ahead of himself. Brushing by any number of parents, little kids and wavering boogie boards, he keyed on the familiar dullish red surface of the borrowed Prelude.

Pulling out just as deliberately, he tooled onto Ocean Avenue, past Colorado, swerved onto the ramp and merged with the skewing muscle cars barreling down the Santa Monica Freeway; all the while wondering where he could find a phone in time to catch Gillian at her desk at Viacom.

He pressed on and weaved in and out of the speed lanes, grateful that the clutch was no longer slipping. Finally holding steady in a center lane, he eased up on the gas and tried to take stock of his situation. But the grinding noise made by that old pickup crossed his mind again and kept clouding his thoughts. Which totally made no sense, save for the fact that this sign wasn't abstract. It was somehow, by some stretch of the imagination, synchronistic.

Focusing harder, he realized that since they had cancelled his cell phone service and there was no time to go all the way back to cousin Iris' place, his best bet was the Hollywood Costume & Memorabilia store on La Cienega.  In a pinch, the manager, a wannabe sci-fi writer, would let him use his cubby hole behind the 1950s movie stills.