Tinseltown Riff

by Shelly Frome

  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.”

  “All brought about by capitalizing on some offhand remark, you mean. Something you heard at the gym and passed on to Gillian.”

  “You’re saying please?”

  “Who,” Ben went on, “among other things, used it to hawk her screenwriters’ conference for idle wannabes.”

  “Again, you will please repeat?”

  With the aid of the margaritas, feeling no inhibitions whatsoever, Ben declared, “Doubtless, this whole thing was instigated by you after learning that down-and-out rock star Angelique was looking for some streetwise venue. Then learning that Gillian was looking for a way to both keep her Secrets-of-Screenwriting gigs going and her development projects percolating. Hazarding a guess, and at the risk of repeating myself, I’ll bet, like always, you overheard something and jumped at it.”

  “Oh, you’re meaning muscle man with long hair at Iris’ gym. Mexican fellow who has cachet maybe.”

  “Aha. And says who?”

  “Iris tells me he signs in as Pepe. You know him maybe. So I figure he has cachet because someone else at gym tell me someone else tells him this Pepe is undercover. And person who tells him knows somebody at big studio who says what is going on under the covers is new crime stories but like old and so is going to be hot.”

  “And how, pray tell, does this retro brainstorm connect with conning me to glom Aunt June’s super camera? Glom it and zoom-in past police barricades? How, in the whirl of your gonzo schemes, does this all add up?”

  “Fits positively like hand in glove, I am telling you. Pictures you take show Angelique this is insider person she is talking to. Person who has access and penetrates like movie camera, like seeing-eye dog, like Cossack who travels anywhere, what you need, where you want to go. So Angelique finally is saying to me ...”

  Fumbling for a slip of paper in his out-of-style cubavera jacket, Leo proudly stated, “And I am quoting here, ‘Wow, this Leo sure gets around.’”

  “Terrific. And as a direct result, I am now on the L.A.P.D. nuisance list.”

  “But worth it, I am telling you with no bull. Is price you pay when you strike hot iron. And what we got, I am swearing to you, is hot irons in fire for sure. Empty studio with cop movies sets, everything connecting.”

  Leo shook Ben’s arm with all his might, released his grip and signaled to the waiter for the usual, which was a double Belvedere Polish vodka on the rocks. This was followed by a disparaging look on Leo’s part, signaling that he was unsure about Ben’s preppy attire. To be with-it, this new venture called for California-black duds like Leo’s. But then, in typical Leo fashion, his meaty features shifted a tad to uncertainty.

  “Mistake?” said Leo. “My getup, deep charcoal and shiny, is no longer in? You’re not telling me?”

  “Haven’t said a word.”

  “Exactly. I’m talking face you are giving me. Better we table this, yes? Until I am taking more soundings.”

  “Gladly.”

  But it was obvious Leo wasn’t about to table anything. Just as Ben was up against it the day his unemployment insurance ran out, Leo was more than a bit anxious about his prospects. Otherwise why was he running around putting so much stock in Angelique’s Starshine Productions?

  Pulling himself together as the vodka appeared as if by magic, Leo downed it, spotted someone in the opposite corner and slapped Ben on the back. “I see power brokers I must greet. You understand, old timer that you are. But I am returning spit-spot, we are getting show on the road before you can say okeydoke. All right, dude? Yes!”

  True to his word, Leo’s table-hopping and shmoozing seemed to be going well and took up less than five minutes. Which bolstered Ben’s hopes somewhat and indicated there may be more to Leo than hot air. To be fair, it was highly possible that Leo did indeed grow up in Odessa on the Black Sea, ran a theater, had a hand in some fledgling movie and entertainment operations in Bucharest, Budapest, Belgrade and Istanbul. It was even possible that he once played the panpipe in a gypsy band throughout Romania. Leo was that mercurial as evidenced by his grappling with the Hollywood scene, not to mention his alleged feats of sexual prowess with Iris. The problem was always the problem: any Tinseltown venture, no matter how promising, was a crap shoot.

  The gold-buttoned mannequin reappeared. Ben ordered another drink and an entrée seconds before Leo barged back through the pink alcoves.

  “Leo,” said Ben, just as Leo alighted with an exuberant sigh, “Can we nail this down?”

  Leo ordered another double vodka and told Ben to leave everything for now on that selfsame table.

  Pressing on, Ben said, “As it happens, I just had a little accident—very minor—but I will need some additional coin. And some tangible reassurance. Are there really bona fide, legitimate backers in place?”

  Leo, who was waving at people again and only half listening, countered with, “No worries. You got agent, someone you must fork over percentage?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So, I’m telling you, no worries, dude.”

  “You’re telling me nothing.”

  “Oh?” said Leo, getting a little miffed. “You getting serious, making life no pleasure in t
his cockamamie world?”

  “In a business where everybody lies ...”

  “I am lying?” said Leo, rising, reaching up to the fading sky and jostling Ms. Brit yet again.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Leo sat back down, moved his chair in even closer and lowered his mellifluous voice and soulful eyes as if about to reveal Russian state secrets. “Listen to me and listen good. I get tourist visa from U.S. embassy in Odessa. Is good for six months. Extension is good twice, no more. Assurances, you want, I give you assurances. Immigration office expect me back spit-spot.”

  “So? What are you telling me? You’re over the limit? You’re in trouble?”

  “So,” said Leo, “I don’t know if is from God for my Slavic soul or drop in from sky or around the corner or what have you for breakfast. Gift horse does not everyday look in my mouth. Angelique is climbing walls, front money almost in place Thursday, not in place Friday, comes back in place yesterday but not all.”

  “Translation please? And what are the odds?”

  Leo waved at a few up-and-coming starlets in flimsy attire making a mock sweeping entrance. After another conspiratorial look, Leo lowered his voice another decibel.

  “Question, dude, which is always question. Can be marketed, no or yes with hot outlet like race horse ahead of pack? Is right now in Gillian’s lap. With maximize exposure? Is also in Gillian’s lap but cooking up storm on the stove. Making banker in Budapest jumping to loan money against presale of foreign rights. I know business, business knows me. Is on my head, not yours. Is golden rule writer is last to know. So what is your problem?”

  As always, Ben had no idea how these things got bankrolled. He could have brought up dubious Ray from Vegas and something gone wrong in Portland and tried to link it with the floating front money. But all he could muster was, “Bottom line? Money in my pocket is my immediate problem.”

  “You give, you get. I get from you, everybody gets. I become specialist, do work not everybody can do, am needed in this town of tinsel. Cash money man writes letter of support, I am fulltime employee and not deported. Everything is okeydoke. We are joined at hip. So, tomorrow, in studio, you are starting from storyboards like cartoon. From beginning you begin, on way to road to happy ending. For story, for family—you, me, Iris, Gillian. My hand to God.”

  “Hold it. Let me get this straight. Are you telling me, starting tomorrow, I just walk in there, into the defunct Avalon Studios and wing it? And then I somehow get paid?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Bring estimate from garage, crayons, what-have-you-got,” said Leo rising to his full height. “Avalon Studios, first thing. Time is depending on tonight with Iris.”

  “Oh, no,” said Ben, as Leo’s immediate plans came into focus. “Come on, Leo. Not the sexual gymnastics. I desperately need some sleep.”

  “Sleep you will get. Tonight you go to movies, remember? Was all arranged.”

  It was true. In all the madness, Ben had forgotten. “How many rounds? How many timeouts? How long till I can crawl into the back room and crash?”

  By this time everyone was looking up, including the four jaded women and the gold-buttoned mannequin. Unfazed, hovering over his audience, Leo announced, “Is not sex. Is world going round, is celebration, is ritual. And is over truly by eleven.”

  Ms. Brit turned around in her chair, looked Leo in the eye and muttered, “There is nothing so disheartening as a cheery Russian.”

  Still totally disregarding her, Leo said, “Dinner and movie, what could be better for you? No microwave. Drinks, food on me. Then, tomorrow you create with fever.”

  Ben could have corrected him and said “fervor” but why bother? Correcting C.J. Rodriguez’s English was at least fruitful.

  A smack on Ben’s back and Leo bolted out of sight. The mango infused seafood dish that followed managed to make a difference. That, coupled with the third margarita and the stylings of a jazz pianist who began tinkering with old Cole Porter melodies.

  A short while later and another margarita for good measure, Ben scuffed out of the Polo Lounge into the twilight afterglow and found himself grinning. Unaccustomed to a good meal and nothing more bracing than an occasional Heinekens, he was feeling no pain and had only an old Cary Grant flick remaining on the night’s agenda. At this point he had put everything on hold, including any thoughts as to Ray’s true identity: causing Angelique to become skittish; causing the maiden to turn back and run.

  Just in case, he cast his gaze high and low. All was still, not a smidge of a warning sign.

  Again he reminded himself (with Angelique, Leo and Gillian seconding the motion), it was all out of his hands. You have your niche, you stick to it. Ever since he was a kid, it was always the same: Find something to do, Benjy, there’s a good boy. Got business to attend to. Real estate, out of your league. Everything in this factory town was compartmentalized. Especially business that had to be tended to, including Aunt June’s hawking of alluring property for well-heeled clients like Ms. Brit and company. Which went a long way to explain why Ben was so fragmented. Keenly aware that things were happening in Vegas and East L.A. but shutting his eyes. Cautious yet eager, lost yet hopeful.

  Reaching for some more reinforcement, he turned to the words of an old college professor:

  “It’s simple physics, Mr. Prine. Think about it. Couple any endeavor with external fluctuations and there is no telling what will happen. And since external fluctuations are a given, any endeavor, especially in your field, is a random proposition.”

  Right, Ben told himself, reveling in the comfort of his margarita-saturated brain. Absolutely. It’s all a bunch of quarks--up, down and backwards ... moving here, moving there, moving everywhere. I mean, hey, there’s no telling.

  He spent the next few minutes repeating this new mantra. Shrugging everything off, being quite offhand about it.

  Then trying a lot harder; trying to repeat “Hey, there’s no telling, kiddo” with a little more conviction.

  Chapter Eight

  As morning came on two days before, Deke found himself in the observation car following the course of the Columbia River. The lean woman in the green jump suit to his right was still carrying on about the fluky wind gusts. The flukiness, the woman declared, was the reason there were no kite-surfers flying backwards or landing nose down, flipping over, re-launching or some such thing. That was also why there were only a few tiny fishing craft wending their way for Deke to enjoy. As if Deke gave a damn about any of this small talk. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate.

  On the other hand, Walt always told him it was good that folks naturally took up with him. It was useful, one of his pluses. Deke had the kind of lantern jaw and all-purpose face anybody could use as a sounding board without fear of response. People would open up and, thirty minutes later, couldn’t recall exactly who it was they’d been talking to. When it came to nosing around and disappearing into the woodwork, Deke’s cool, flat style couldn’t be beat.

  His shortcomings, as Walt always pointed out, were another matter. He was also a liability, what with his wild side always percolating underneath. Judging from what just happened with the nerdy bookkeeper, that was a topic Deke would have to sidestep. And the thing with his back was only a glitch: what came of hurrying, Walt bugging him and loose terrain high up on the rimrock. Since Deke had no use for fathers in the first place, he’d just shake it off at the noon meeting. Like he’d always shook Walt off as far back as the time Walt was running security for his old man at the sugar plant down in the Glades. And as he’d shook Walt off for the past fifteen years in Vegas. And as he’d keep shaking him off till Deke came up with his own sweet plan.

  In the meantime, he let the lean woman jabber away. He nodded, rested his palm firmly on the attaché case by his side, and tried to ease the tension in his lower back by breathing through it. Like on the TV exercise show he’d seen in a motel room the other night.

  But the breathing didn’t do diddly. Truth to tell, something was still
eating at him. The way things were going, after laying fallow the past month, he had lost a step or two and would have to watch himself.

  Mulling things over, he recalled that the Outfit out of Chicago had its finger in casinos and anything you could name in Vegas. Loose ends were Walt’s lookout and Deke was on standby if something got out of hand in Vegas. So why had the Outfit dispatched Walt to Portland? That and the run-in with the little guy and the funny way Walt was talking meant Deke really had been out of touch. Meant he was going to have to keep a sharp eye and have something up his sleeve just in case.

  Which was why, first chance he got, he examined the contents of the attaché case real close. He first made double sure he had the key item: the purple memory stick shaped like a thick piece of chewing gum with the word Sony on it and XC 2TB. He’d heard Walt mention about a file transfer which meant the thing was some kind of memory card. A record that proved some phony company was cooking the books, under investigation by the Feds like the little guy said. Then there was the little guy’s tri-fold wallet and his smartphone. At the time Deke wasn’t sure why he swiped them but now it was starting to hit him. The plastic window showed his name was Elton Frick. The driver’s license, CPA and other plastic cards showed he had a lot of connections, and so did the numbers on his speed-dial. In some way, possession of this stuff gave Deke an edge. A bargaining chip, maybe. Especially if Frick survived and was found crawling around miles-long 500-foot-deep Lake McDonald and didn’t fall in. Or managed to crawl back up to the cabin to wait it out. In any case, Frick would be too spooked to finger him; and Deke had the wallet and all in case Walt or the Outfit tried to stiff him. Or in case Deke wanted to stick it to the Outfit after not only tracking Frick down and recovering this incriminating stuff, but also maybe tracking down the whole scam from start to finish.