Tinseltown Riff

by Shelly Frome

  Just then, Angelique reappeared and murmured, “How about this?”

  Glancing back, Ben positioned himself so he could respond to her and keep apprised of the prone, goggled thing from Vegas.

  Still naked from the waist up, she clutched a yellow Lycra top with slashes on the side as if she’d just been in a knife fight, two silky tube tops, a nylon bomber jacket, a polka dot halter, and a florescent pink button-down with the shirttails tied in a knot. “Which one? Which one?” she squealed.

  “The button-down. Look—”

  “Hey, come on. You can at least gape at my bod and take in my porcelain complexion and tousled wispy locks. Wanna know the secret? My hair’s really light brown, but after lots of sun and a douse of platinum and gold, it gets this bold-blond glow. But it’s no good if the sun is gonna hide like this.”

  “Granted. It’s tough, I understand. But if you could put something on and we could get on with this ...”

  “Another secret for you. I get a lot of facials. A skinline by Nicholas Perricone plus my hair and nails done every week. And a massage and body scrub for sheer indulgence.”

  “That’s terrific. But—”

  “I’m giving you clues, dammit. I’m clueing you in.”

  “Really? I’m sorry, I hadn’t noticed.”

  Angelique’s Barbie face went blank for a second. “Hey, what gives? The other seven came on strong. Said how they could ... re ... re ...”

  “Revive? Revitalize? Revamp?”

  “That’s the one. Revamp my image by repositioning me within the right tailored vehicle.” She uttered this statement slowly, like memorized patter she’d been rehearsing all day. “Revamp not ditch it,” she went on, a little faster this time. “They each also hit on me and wanted to jump on my bones.”

  “Well, that’s guys for you.”

  “Two were women.”

  “Exactly. Listen--”

  “Hold it.”

  Angelique went blank again, gazing past Ben over to the pool. Then, staring Ben in the face, she said, “Has Ray moved at all?”

  “Must have,” said Ben, assuming Ray was the creature from Vegas. “His head is now facing this way.”

  “Oh, rats, better hurry. I’ll choose one of these tops. Which’ll give you two minutes to ready your pitch.”

  “My pitch?”

  “Oh, get off it,” said Angelique. “I am in trans ...”

  “Transition?”

  “Yeah. The cutesy-hot shtick has obviously had it. And that’s despite what those studio bimbos have been blowing in my ear.”

  Dropping her act entirely, Angelique’s features suddenly hardened. “It’s a bitch running on two speeds, you know? Skin-revealing casual to red carpet. Sleazy duds by day, flash and glitter at night. And even then, half the time who the hell knows if you’ve got it right. I have got to jack it into gear!”

  Still having no idea how to get in and out of this as fast as possibly, all Ben could mutter was, “Like I said, must be tough.”

  She nodded, said, “You got it,” and let out a weary sigh. “Hey, you want one of Iris’s smoothies? Soy yogurt, fiber infusion, chopped fruit and protein powder. Before, she gets here, I mean.”

  “Iris?”

  “Of course. Get with it. Like everything’s gotta click, you follow?”

  “Great. Let’s skip the two minute breaks and get down to it. Just keep holding the tops up.”

  “Yeah, fast but not that fast. I gotta be dressed for it.”

  Again she was gone. As the wind gusts fluttered through the palm fronds, Ben stepped out onto the pink cement rimming the pool. He checked out motionless Ray and peered again through the gate at the Prelude. Going over his exit strategy, he’d have to slip into reverse gear, head twisted toward the rear window, glide down the serpentine run and hope to God he didn’t smack into Iris and get completely boxed in.. With luck, he’d finally get something going with Angelique and hightail it. In short, following the first rule of this business, he’d jump in with a hook, spring back and hope he scored enough points to keep the ball rolling.

  Off the top of his head, he began to come up with a recipe that might zip him past this hurdle.

  Once again the bamboo curtain rustled. Angelique plopped down on the edge of a white leather recliner. Her chosen top was the tackiest of the lot, the yellow floral with the slashed slits still covering up next to nothing.

  Ben stepped back onto the porch as she fumbled for a stick of gum, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and said, “Okay, shoot. And remember Gillian gave her word it wouldn’t be ditsy. And none of that stuff with me playing some sleaze has-been. Check out the monitors at Iris’ gym with me in my glory. You get my drift?”

  “No worries. We’ll capitalize on today’s tough times, hankering for the good ol’ days of ‘You go, girl,’ ‘Breakin’ out’ and ‘Catch me if you can.’”

  Ben didn’t know if these were song titles or what, but he was on a roll and didn’t want to give Angelique any time to think.

  “In other words,” Ben went on as Angelique tossed the gum wrapper aside, “chicks want to be the Angie of old--do anything and take it all back. Let’s simply call it Retro Now.”

  Angelique winced, sucked in more smoke, held it and blew it out through her nose. “That was um ...”

  “Too brusk?”

  “Yeah. Like you see right through me.”

  “See a way to appease our target audience, you mean. They want to do it and, like I said, take it all back.”

  (Ben also had no idea what he meant by “do it” or “our target audience” but keep on going.) “Call it Angie rides again: fearless, cruising the back streets, darting in the shadows, shaking off the denizens of the underworld.”

  “Hey, let’s leave Ray out of this.”

  Thrown for a second, Ben countered with, “Look, I’m just throwing out some ingredients. You told Gillian you wanted it streetwise with backup, well you got it. Got an underpinning. Working title, Angie’s Run—whatever.”

  “Angie ... The Rolling Stones ... me in the same league, I like it, I like it.”

  “No no, not rock videos or any of that stuff. That’s out of my league. Okay? You’ve got to keep that in mind.”

  “Okay, I got it, all right already.”

  “Great. So, what do you say we leave it at that? I mean, with you under the gun, Ray about to wake up, Iris on her way, and my car parked--”

  “It was the tour that did it,” said Angelique, sitting up, puffing away. “I always hit ‘em with this killer pose and listened to ‘em scream. But this time they checked me out when I put on my pouty face, flashed some thigh and cocked my head. Nothing. Like they were waiting for the headliner. Like they didn’t realize it was me. I broke into my jiggly moves, my backup dancers offering maximum booty-shaking sizzle, the screen blazing with meteor showers, the band pumping and blasting. But the teenies barely shook it. Even when I tossed them scented tattoos.”

  She coughed, puffed faster and sprang to her feet. “Then my voice went off key and the reviews hammered me.”

  “I hear you, I get it.”

  “That was at the Arena a few weeks ago. So, when the same thing happened up in Monterey and Ray told me when you can’t cut it the burial is permanent-- in an unmarked grave, he said--I ditched the rest of the tour and went ballistic.”

  “Honest, believe me, you don’t have to go on.”

  Prancing around, the cigarette turned into a pointer. “So ... I mean, like Gillian said, with you being so hungry and having been around the block, and all the others out of town or putting me on, more after my bod than repackaging my brand ... you could maybe crank me up a second coming. With the backup of this machismo guy Pepe.”

  “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 person
al 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.