Tinseltown Riff (7 page)

“Absolutely,” said Ben, wondering how Gillian latched on to C.J.'s nickname.

“‘Cause, like Iris my personal trainer says, how you manage to keep going with the handwriting on the wall is beyond belief.”

“Is it ever. Well then, can we call it quits for now? Okay? Are we done?”

Squashing the cigarette on the terrazzo with her gladiator sandals, Angelique said, “The pressure, it goddamn gets to you, know what I mean?  Drives you outta your skull.”

Ben held up his hands in surrender, pivoting, stepping away.

Just then Ray began to stir. Ben caught sight of a hand emerging under the beach towel, fishing around, retrieving the blue-tinted goggles and slipping them back on his wedge of a face. There was a wheeze, then a yawn as the scrawny bare arms reached up to the overcast sky, collapsed and crossed over his chest.

“Oh, screw,” said Angelique. “Ray's coming to and look at the time.” She made this last observation without benefit of a watch, disappeared through the strands of bamboo and returned with a folder under her arm and a fistful of business cards.

“Got so antsy, just had them made with a big smiley face. Can you stand it?”

Dropping half the cards, she pulled out a printout and pointed a lacquered fingernail at the bottom of the page. “I mean, it all figures. The latest test marketing report: ‘No mileage left on the tease and predator thing ... needs a complete makeover  ... new venue, new media, something more hard-edge.'  That's, of course, where you and Pepe come in. Exactly what you've been going on about. Like a miracle. Like you knew all along.”

“Well, what can I say?  Nice meeting you, it's been great.”

“Plus,” said Angelique, trying to hold him in place, “right after the Monterey bust--talk about fate or what's in the stars and stuff--Ray's got this thing going. Before it tanked in Portland, I mean. But Ray says he's on it. But then Ray gets here early, way before she gets here to put her own little spin on it. I mean, it's all too frickin' much. Am I right or am I right?”

“Before who gets here? Somebody besides Iris?”

“Never mind. That's not your lookout. And forget I let on about Ray. Oh, I am so whacked, I can't tell you.”

Angelique bent down, picked up a couple of her business cards, shoved them in Ben's shirt pocket, rushed past him, studied Ray's fagged-out form, rushed back, grabbed Ben by the elbow and began escorting him out.

“You'll have to finagle with Leo,” she jabbered on, like she was on amphetamines.  

“Leo? The mad Russian? The blowhard from Odessa?”

“Watch it. And don't let Iris hear you say that. Besides being her sex partner, he's the producer, dummy.”

“The producer? You're kidding.”

“Look, whatever it is, he's gonna produce it. You want this gig, you better be on time.”

“For what?”

“A meeting at the Polo Lounge. I just set it up for six.”

“Six? You mean in just a couple of hours?”

“That's it. So move it.”  She flicked her tousled hair back in the direction of the pool. “Damn damn damn, he's getting up.”

“Hold it,” said Ben. “Leo, Ray, somebody else about to arrive—how far does this thing go?”

“Never you mind. What did I tell you? Stick to what you do, that's all.”

By this time they were next to the old Prelude which was still doing its damnedest to grip the asphalt.

“And don't blow it,” said Angelique, darting away.

She stopped at the gate and announced to no one in particular, “She's late and Ray's early. Oh, gimme a break, will ya?” Wringing her hands, Angelique took a couple of glances down the drive, whirled around and disappeared behind the gate.   

In turn, Ben slipped behind the wheel and gunned the motor to make sure it didn't stall. He shifted into neutral, wary of freeing the hand brake. He calculated if he could ease down the drive and avoid smacking against the walls, he'd be home free.                                                                                                                                            

All set, he released the hand brake. Looking back, with his right arm snug against the top of the passenger seat, his left hand gripping the steering wheel, he began to roll down the slope; all the while jamming and releasing the break pedal, turning the wheel, straining his eyes trying to make out some landmark other than the blur of curving pink. Then his foot started slipping off the pedal, the car picked up speed as his steering became erratic, the tires squealed, the weight of the Prelude fighting him off till the gantlet ended with a blast of a horn, a full-throated screech of the brakes, a jerk forward and a thud.

The Prelude stalled as he jerked up the hand break and spun out from behind the wheel. The first thing that greeted his eyes was the caved-in front bumper and toothy grill of an old green Chevy pickup.          

 
 
 
 

Chapter Six

 

 

The truck door squeaked open. A willowy figure slowly emerged and stood on the running board. Backlit by the hazy sunlight, in Ben's eyes she seemed caught in a time warp, like a sweet maiden from an old pastoral movie. She wore bib overalls, a checkered blouse rolled up at the sleeves and tennis shoes. But that didn't diminish Ben's first impression. Her hair was a warm honey-blonde, loose and wind blown; her features on the delicate side, her lips soft and full. If it weren't for the high cheekbones, sunburn and absence of any hard muscle tone, some might say, in a pinch she could also pass for Angelique's kid sister. Except that her eyes were wider, searching and pale blue. And when she finally spoke, regardless of her feisty tone, his first impression remained fixed in his mind.

“I don't believe it,” said the maiden, jumping off the running board. She eyed the dented front bumper and grill, all the while rubbing the back of her neck.

“Me neither,” said Ben, hurrying over to her. “Are you hurt? Maybe you should see a doctor? Maybe we should call somebody?”

“Report the accident, you mean?”

“No no. It's not good, I know. But not that bad. Not that bad at all. What I meant was ...”

“No insurance, right?”

“Look, what I'm saying is, the important thing is to maybe get you seen. Unless, of course--”

“Unless, of course, I'm just a little shaken up. Then it's no big deal. And since you have no insurance, that's no big deal either. As long as you can buy me off.”

“I didn't say that.”

“And what were you doing backing down anyways? You outta your mind?”

When he told her about the silver Jag blocking the turnaround, she immediately stopped rubbing her neck, scampered past him partway up the drive, and rushed back. “Vegas plates?”

“That's the one.”

“Don't tell me. Just don't tell me.”

“All right, I won't.  Now about your condition ...”

“Uh-huh. Let's see some I.D.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don't think you're gonna get away with this?”

“No no. Of course not.”

“Then who are you and what are you doing here?”

He fished in his shirt pocket and handed her one of Angelique's smiley cards.

“Ah,” she said, eyeing the card more intently than her dented bumper and grill. “Still cute, still all pink curlicues.”

Ben plucked out a second card, glanced at it, put it back and said, “Well now,  how about that? The old movie studio that's out of business.”

“Out of business?” said the maiden, absentmindedly tapping the hood of the pickup.

“Unoccupied but I see that's about to change.”

The address under the smiley face and
Starshine
logo was the Avalon Studios on Van Ness, tucked away a few blocks south of Melrose and the teeming world of Paramount. Word had it that it was vacant since yet another takeover after the previous two ventures had tanked. Hence, fueling Angelique's anxiety to latch on quick for whatever the project-to-be. Hence the impending meeting with Leo. A meeting that would never take place if Ben didn't come to terms with the maiden right here and now.

Breaking the silence, Ben said, “Listen, if you're really okay, we'd better disengage before Iris comes barreling up and we'll have another fender-bender.”

Ben responded to her raised eyebrow by announcing that Iris was Angelique's personal trainer and, in a manner of speaking, his cousin.

“I don't know, man. I mean, this is all too much.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Tell me about this movie studio?” said the maiden, her blue eyes as wide as ever.

“Doubtless the subject of a meeting I have to attend right now. Which will mean money for any damages, a doctor's appointment if necessary and all manner of sundry things.”

“Broke, huh? I knew it. And from the way you're jerking me around, this probably isn't even your car.”

Not giving Ben any chance to continue his do-si-do, she insisted that he write his name and home phone on the back of the card. Without thinking, he scribbled away and added Iris' number.  

“Hey, if you're lying to me ...”

“Not me, ask anybody. I kid you not, which, in this town, is unheard of and a huge failing.”

She scooted partway up the drive again, spotted something and rushed back down. “I'll be in touch, gotta think this through. But if you're diddling with me, I'll find you, I swear. Later, okay?”

Ben asked again if she was sure she was all right. He also asked where she was staying just in case. She gave him a funny look, hopped back behind the wheel and worked the choke till the motor coughed, sputtered and caught hold. Shortly, all that remained was a fleeting shot of a weathered tarp, flapping behind the cab window and tied down over the truck bed partially covering the rear plates.

All the while, he thought he heard an odd sound coming from under the tarp. But he quickly put it out of his mind. He also dismissed the fact that at first she was headed up the drive and now she was gone. He told himself all this discombobulating would have to go on the back burner.  No one's mind, no matter how facile, could possibly take it all in.

Trying his damnedest to make the best of it, he drove off repeating an old mantra:

“This time. By God this time I am truly on the verge.”

 
 

Chapter Seven

 

 

Hours later he repeated the mantra. After all, here he was ensconced at a choice patio table at the Polo Lounge. Shafts of a vermilion sunset were glinting through the over-arching Brazilian pepper tree, the hot winds had dissipated, the temperature was around a comfortable seventy degrees and Leo was about to enter and foot the bill. In short, no matter how maddening Leo could be, it was not inconceivable that Ben did indeed have a foot in the door.   

It was now ten after six. Ben's waiter, who resembled a proto mannequin, came by again sporting a white double-breasted jacket with gold buttons, ducked under a branch and deftly missed the jutting wires that held the pepper tree in place. Without missing a beat, he replaced Ben's frozen margarita with a second. The drink was Ben's attempt to slow down his thinking and keep plying his mind with a positive spin.

However, try as he may, one notion kept slipping in.  No one can back down a serpentine driveway, smack into a phantom old Chevy pickup and just slough it off as another pointer. If nothing else, it certainly called for a second drink.

Sipping a bit faster, wondering what was keeping Leo, he checked out the scattering of wrought-iron chairs, sea-green pillows and bamboo umbrella stands. Gazing here and there, he noted a few recognizable high profile players and watched them chatting away, tossing out industry tidbits in and around the pink stucco alcoves.

Killing more time, he zeroed in closer by and began to eavesdrop. It seems the four women at the table directly behind him were beside themselves. They had been shopping all over Rodeo Drive the past few days and had even swung by Beverly Drive for the diamond sale at Fourteen Carats. Presently, they were at a total loss. The woman with the clipped British accent suggested they re-engage the croupier from that Vegas gaming table while their husbands scouted locations in “some ungodly patch of Baja.” Unfortunately, no one was keen on the idea. The Brit kept exclaiming, “What to do, ladies? What to do?”

Ben chuckled at this mindless diversion as the second margarita began to kick in. So many out of work, so many on the brink, and now these ladies suffering the slings and arrows of impending boredom.

But back to his own situation.  Perhaps he actually could tap Leo for an advance, resolve the little fender-bender in some amicable way and, in turn, find a secluded haven inside the Avalon Studios and the land of the second chance. Then rationalize the omens and put them irrevocably aside.

Halfway through this margarita daydream, Leo burst into view. Barreling through the glass entry, he jostled past the gold-buttoned mannequin who teetered in his wake. After making a grand plea for forgiveness to no one in particular, Leo smoothed the remaining gray hairs along his temples. In the fading sunlight, Leo's bald dome seemed shinier than usual, as if bronzed and glazed for a festive occasion.

Shambling like the proverbial Russia bear, he spotted Ben right off, stepped down onto the patio and made a beeline. After giving Ben a ferocious hug, he reached back and yanked up a wrought iron chair with no regard for the lady Brit who was using it as an arm rest. By some miracle, she kept her balance and gave Leo a flinty look.

“Is beautiful, Ben,” said Leo, ignoring Ms. Brit, drawing his chair closer. “You, me, Iris and Gillian. Is like family. All brought about by me, I am telling you with no bull.”