Tinseltown Riff

by Shelly Frome

  “Well?” said Walt, wasting no words.

  “I’m on it.”

  “That’s what you said this morning.”

  “Right.”

  “So?”

  “Two more hours, tops.”

  Receiving no reply, Deke added, “I’m moving in, what’s your problem?”

  “My problem?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Contingencies is my problem, Deacon. And time. You hear me?”

  “Like I said, two hours.”

  Walt did another one of his low growls and switched off.

  Giving up on the train stop, opting for the cabins, Deke pocketed the cell phone, circled back down, hopped in the rental car and drove another ten miles west.

  The stretch of painted gray continued to hold up, still tacked on the waning afternoon sky. After parking on the gravel by the wayside, Deke started walking in a northwesterly direction. In no time, he found himself in the cool of the mountain range, deep inside the thick stands of aspen, pine and cedar that dwarfed everything else and blotted out the horizon.

  Though he couldn’t smell it yet, he knew the charred timberline was close by where the fires had burned out. Once he came upon the cabin, there’d be nothing to it to flush out the bookkeeper, recover the records and split.

  Relying on what was left of the light, he soon came upon a break in the terrain. About a hundred yards across from where he stood, a sheer rock face rose skyward scarred with crevices, slots and slits. It went on far to his left until it diminished into an outcropping of slabs and ledges. All he had to do was follow the ridge, keeping the sheer rock formation in sight till it veered sharply away. At that point he’d be at the gorge where the river ran still just before it churned into rapids. The log cabins would be tucked away on his side of the break. They’d all be empty, vacated by families heading back in time to get the kids squared away for school at the end of the Labor Day weekend. Meaning, all he’d have to do is step inside a vacant bunk and hold out his hand. Not much action, just a little practice, a little warm-up drill.

  As traces of the sky began to wash into charcoal and deep blue, Deke easily covered the distance, ambled by the scattering of trees that dotted the rim of the ridge and threaded his way through the low-lying brush and beargrass.

  Presently, he heard the water gurgling and took in the scene just as he imagined: his side of the gorge running a few hundred feet lower down a slope with the river humming below. The only thing that surprised him were the hemlocks snapped almost in two, blocking his path. Their tops tugging at the roots as if straining to end it all, plunge over and get swept away. What surprised him more was a rise on the far side where the gorge gave way to a waste-dump of charred and splintered red cedars directly opposite from where the cabins would be.

  At that moment he couldn’t help but remember the time down in the hot, sticky bowels of Belle Glade, Florida where his old man ran a sugar mill. There they would burn the dried stalks and flush out the critters. Watch them hop and skedaddle till the thick black soil was empty of debris. Like what Walt had in mind for him next probably. More flushing out till the whole job was stripped clean.

  Moving on, drifting inside the canopy of gnarled whitebark pine, he passed the first empty cabin and then a second about two hundred yards apart. Past a third cabin closer by, he guessed that even if the bookkeeper decided to run, he would spook him past the pine, down the slope, across the slabs in the river where he’d likely fall in, holding his attache’ case up high. And even if he made it to the other side, the climb through the scorched timber would do him in. He’d keel over and that would be that.

  Still brushing past the stands of pine, he came upon a fourth cabin. Inklings of twilight glinted off a side window and meshed with the glow of a Coleman lantern.

  Bending low till he came within a few feet of the warped back porch, he noticed the backpack and fishing gear--obviously just purchased after asking some outdoor trader for whatever could be tossed in the trunk of a cab for a camping trip. Knowing diddly about camping or where the fish were running or what bait and tackle he’d need. The little guy was probably sitting there right now, scouring a map, figuring his next move. Maybe even wondering how in hell he could hit a bunch of trailheads and lodges till he made his way across into Canada.

  Deke crouched down and watched as a scrawny shape flitted by the window and flitted back. Against the glow of the lantern, the figure looked like a sputtering shadow-puppet.

  Deke checked his watch. It was going on six-thirty mountain time with only the afterglow left of daylight. The last thing Deke needed was to waste any more time and wind up traipsing back in the pitch dark. Running into some grizzly cub looking for its mother or worse.

  When he glanced back, the flitting figure was gone.

  On his feet, keeping low, he skirted around to the log railing, assuming the guy must have flopped down on a chair just inside the back door. But he no sooner reached the edge of the plank steps when something clobbered him in the back. Tripping and twisting around, he threw up his hands just in time to avert the next blow.

  “You’re trespassing,” said the scrawny figure. “I have a receipt. I’m renting this cabin so you’d better clear out.”

  Regaining his balance, Deke just simply glared at him.

  “Ah,” said the little guy dropping the chunk of firewood. “I know what you’re thinking. Actually, I don’t know what you’re thinking but let me guess. You’re a caretaker or something—sure, that’s it. But why did you sneak around? Why didn’t you knock?”

  Still motionless, it was all Deke could do to keep from losing it then and there.

  “Ah,” said the little guy once more, clutching his oversized windbreaker, kneading it with both hands. “I’ve got it. You’re with the park service worried about the fires. Boy, you can still smell the soot, can’t you? Well, there’s no need to worry about me. I am not the type to use a fireplace without observing every safety precaution.”

  The little guy kept rattling on, as if there was some straw he could grasp if he could talk fast enough.

  Deke told himself not to throttle him. This was only lost and found. Not worth the effort.

  “Right,” said Deke as he stepped onto the porch and flung open the screen door.

  “Hey, come on,” said the little guy, bolting past him through the doorway and fronting him. “Whoever you are, I’m sure we can straighten this out.”

  “Forget it,” said Deke, spotting the attaché case. “It’s over.”

  “Oh, now I get it. I get it. You’re the one who’s been hounding me.”

  Deke flipped the latches and spotted the CDs, ledgers and registers. He was about to snap the case shut when he caught the little guy glancing over toward the wall. There atop a knotty pine bureau lay a high-end smartphone and a tri-fold wallet. Noting the ID window and the fully stuffed credit card pockets, Deke tossed both of them in and secured the case.

  “No, wait a minute, you can’t do this.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen to me. That’s robbery. Not to mention you’re messing with the S.E.C.-- the Securities and Exchange Commission, in case you didn’t know it. And that’s not the half of it. Do you realize how far this thing goes? You don’t, do you? Because if you did, you’d hand that case right back to me and get lost.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  Deke shoved him out of the way.

  But he countered by rushing past him again, blocking Deke’s way out while fumbling for the latch on the screen door.

  Deke grabbed a handful of billowy jacket, spun him around and slammed him against the wall. But the second he reached back for the case, the little guy beat him to it and took off.

  Hurrying after him, Deke jerked open the screen door, leaped off the porch into the tree shadows, lunged forward and grabbed hold of his sleeve. But it was so loose, he slipped out of it, leaving Deke tripping over his own feet.

  Cursing, Deke sprang forward and darted through the overar
ching stands of pine till he spotted him in the shadowy near distance smacking into a low-lying branch that sent his glasses flying.

  Reaching the slope, rushing headlong now, Deke closed in, drawing closer and closer to the darting figure and the running river below. In the back of his mind, he knew you don’t scamper down a steep incline of loose soil, rocks and brush and suddenly brake the momentum of a guy weighing at least a hundred and forty pounds. But he did it anyway, lurched at an impossible angle, grabbed hold, hoisted the squirming body and shoved him toward the rock slabs below. The only thing that prevented Deke from inflicting further damage was the wrenching spasm in his lower back.

  Ignoring the whimpering cries, he turned around, shambled back up the rocky slope and foraged for the attaché case which he easily located a few yards over in the brush. Clutching his twinging muscles with one hand and the case with the other, he straggled back up the remaining distance. All the while, he barely heard the calls near the river’s edge. He also barely heard the tail end of the last-ditch plea:

  “Wait a minute. My ankles twisted, maybe busted. You can’t just leave me here ... Okay, I downloaded the files, sure. But that’s nothing compared to what you’ve got yourself in for ... I mean, you’ve really done it now. You hear me?”

  “Uh-huh,” Deke mumbled to himself, straining as he approached the top of the rise. “Tell me about it.”

  “I mean, for God’s sake! You’ve got to call somebody. You have to at least do that!”

  Deke tried to imagine putting in a call for some paramedics. But the notion didn’t take. He could also just hear what would happen if he got Walt in on it:

  What you got here, Deacon, is a whole can of worms and I don’t know what-all if he survives. Might could finger you for openers. Get hold of government and law enforcement agencies besides. Plus a short circuit with some cartel or what in hell this whole thing’s all about. Just goddamn stop and think. There’s always consequences, things you don’t figure on.

  But that was Walt for you. Walt could come up with more worries than an old hen. It was all Deke could do to get back to the car. Back to where he could cross off this first pain-in-the-ass item without getting hogtied with wet-nursing by the river bed and a bunch of lame what-ifs.

  He did, however, wonder what Walt would make of the smartphone, wallet and ID as a kind of insurance. But put that possible leverage on hold.

  Wincing, paying the fading cries for help no mind, Deke double-backed along the rim of the ridge, the remaining glints of daylight melding with the murky shades of green and gray. The attaché case was almost weightless, but toting it somehow aggravated the jabbing, pulsing pain in his lower back.

  Presently, high up, a red-tailed hawk circled by, making swooping shadows against the steep rock face opposite, mocking him, reminding him how clumsy he’d been.

  Working his way through the bitter brush, hugging the tree-line, he tried to distract himself with a favorite image. It was an old circus poster over a bar on the outskirts of Cut Bank announcing that the Flying Walenda Brothers were coming to Billings. The caption was: Life is on the high wire. Everything else is waiting.

  Continuing to disregard the pain, more fun images flashed across his mind. There was a job he’d pulled for Walt outside of Gallup: rifle-toting carjackers, driving semi-trailers, hauling stolen Mercedes headed for Beverly Hills. In his mind’s eye, he could still picture the low-slung red adobe shacks ... a blown-up statue of a desperado on the roof of Don Diego’s Restaurant, the New-Mex Pottery Co. and Zuni Fetish store. And that’s when Deke let loose with 500-gram repeater firecrackers and a torch or two arched in the air landing in the tinder dry clumps of sage and juniper. The carjackers hightailing toward the table-flat mesas, through the smoke and poplars that looked like petrified feathers ... Yes!

  As the images of better days came and went, Deke stopped over a dozen times to rest his back. Then pressed the speed-dial on his cell knowing damn well he wouldn’t get any reception till he got back to the rental car but trying anyhow.

  At one of his rest stops, he reached inside a pocket of his Levi jacket for the little matchboxes. Conceivably, he might have to start a fire to ward off some wild thing if his back caved in. After all, you just never know.

  By the time he made it back to the gravel wayside, he was two hours late. He slid behind the wheel, hit the speed-dial again and cut Walt off before he had a chance. “Talk to you later,” said Deke.

  “Dammit,” said Walt, “you’ll talk to me now.”

  “I got the goods, I’m comin’ in.”

  “Oh, yeah? Maybe I don’t want you comin’ in till I hear what happened. What’s the fallout, how was it left? And don’t tell me it was, ‘Sorry for the inconvenience, mister, won’t happen again.’”

  Dismissing all thoughts of the racked-up accountant, Deke said, “Look, Walt, I’ve had it.”

  “Don’t give me that. The problem, honcho, is spillage. Spillage here, spillage there, maybe could be all the way down the coast. Now give it to me. How did it go?”

  Deke hit the ignition, shoved the case under the dash and said, “I shut it down on this end, Walt. And like I said, I’m comin’ in.”

  Deke left the rental car at the Enterprise lot in West Glacier and managed to catch the night train with a few minutes to spare. But he got no rest, only dozed off once in the half-sleeper. The rocking motion kept aggravating his back and soon he was at it again, taking stock.

  He was pushing forty. Which meant sloughing off what just happened and staying on top of his game. Especially if he wound up in goddamn L.A. and had to take on some flaky Angelinos.

  Chapter Four

  Still holding his own on that same blustery Monday, Ben spotted a Chevy pickup. It was parked far behind the endless rows of shiny sports cars clogging the beachfront; the only item of note the fact that it was dusty, ancient and out of place. But to someone like Ben, it was another sign, perhaps prompting him to slip away with some migratory workers or just plain toss in the towel while he had the chance.

  Girding himself and shrugging off this latest cop-out, he moved on. The hot sand sifted into his loafers, the hurly burly of the Pier greeted his eyes and ears a scant few hundred yards to his left. But he had no time to muse over the carousel, nor the Playland Arcade and the Rollercoaster with its screeching passengers at the farthest end. At this point it was all as amorphous as the signs, omens and the dusty old truck.

  The offshore wind began to pick up again, blowing off the land out to sea. As he focused solely on the water, he noticed the rolling beach-break, one swell catching up with another forming a low, long line. His gaze took in the little kids flopping on their boogie boards directly ahead, barreling through the froth and scurrying towards him onto the sandbank. At a distance beyond the kids, a gaggle of Chicano teens were splashing and dunking each other.

  Shielding his eyes from the glare, he finally caught sight of a figure in a wet suit far to his right, paddling out on his stomach toward the surfing area. In the haze it was hard to tell exactly, but the surfer appeared to be shifting position and sitting up as a new wave crested. Then he stood when the wave broke, dropped down the open wave face, lodged himself somewhere in the hollow of the wall of water, disappeared in a rush of foam and reappeared momentarily further out.

  Another wait; more minutes passed. Ben scanned the surfing area again. Finally, a second figure appeared closer by, as if accepting the challenge. He was clad only in white swimming trunks, knees bent, crouching low on a spear-shaped board. For a time, the wind seemed to blow harder, holding up the swells and freezing them in place.

  Grinning, Ben glanced back in the direction of the borrowed Prelude but realized he no longer had a camera. It was doubtless clutched in Aunt June’s hands as she snapped away at a new listing, while here a true photo op was going to waste.

  In that same moment, he thought he heard something. Though the sound mingled with the myriad of other noises, the grinding gears made him wince. Obviously
, it had to be the old pickup. Scanning the line of vehicles, he could barely make out the outline of the weathered tarp covering the truck-bed as it lurched away. How he managed to hear the gear shifts or catch the fleeting outline of a tarp cover and why he even bothered to notice was beyond him.

  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.