by Shelly Frome
At this point, Deke figured his new outfit made him look rigid and uptight. Which was the same reaction he got from the hooker and massage gal in Portland. She took one look at him in his new duds and told him he was going to be a real challenge. But neither she nor the muscle-relaxer pills Walt foisted on him hardly made a dent. They both mainly served as reminders he’d better not twist or make any sudden moves. Any way you looked at it, ever since that run-in with Elton Frick, ever since he’d scrambled after that nerd accountant, he’d been hamstrung.
Forcing himself to concentrate and shut off the yakking Disney-brained three, he closed his eyes and tried again to sort it out. Just as he’d done before boarding while shuffling the cards in Frick’s wallet:
As things stood, two things went off the rails. First, Frick was about to blow the whistle on the pop touring company the Outfit was using as a front. Now that Deke had recovered the memory stick and as long as Frick was out of the picture, that problem was scratched. But the Outfit’s point man screwed up again leaving a bigger hole—this one in the pipeline; what the Outfit was really running under the Fed’s nose. Meaning, as far as Walt and the Outfit were concerned, intercepting that missing stash patched the hole and marked the end of the line for Deke. As far as Deke was concerned, sticking it to Walt and the Outfit and keeping the missing stash all to himself would put him in the catbird seat for the first time and for a long time to come.
And that’s as far as Deke could get with it. The yakking and flirty interruptions from the flight attendants made any thoughts about what it might take and what he’d run into almost impossible.
Eventually, the Disney-brained three said their cutesy goodbyes but, as usual, he barely acknowledged it.
Afterwards, at the terminal, two more muscle-relaxers enabled him to get the new, soft-grain luggage off the conveyor belt in Oakland in time to meet up with his contact. The guy was twenty-something, baby-faced, wore a black tank top with a shimmering crimson logo that read Starshine over his silver cargo pants.
After letting on that his name was Tyler, he snatched Deke’s luggage and told him to follow close. Holding on to his carry-on bag, Deke nodded as Tyler dumped Deke’s suitcases in the trunk of an electric blue Lincoln town car waiting at the pickup curb and told Deke to hop in the back.
Shortly it turned out that Deke had two disposable clowns to deal with. The driver, who introduced himself as Seb, had on a duplicate getup, his head and neck shaved smooth, accented by a stubbled pasty face. To top it off, he had four silver studs lodged in his earlobe and a set of blood-red Starshine tattoos plastered over both flabby arms.
As Deke shifted around in the roomy interior, he realized that either Seb was on something or had a screw loose. As a duo, Tyler tried to play it brainy while Seb kept breaking into some lame, rhyming patter as he headed the Lincoln south toward Salinas.
While barreling down a clogged freeway, air-conditioning blasting, tinted windows up so Deke could barely make out where he was, Deke reckoned his only recourse was to eke out whatever information he could before cutting loose.
“I hear all you fellas from Starshine are about the same age.”
“More or less,” said Tyler, turning his smooth face in Deke’s direction.
“Less is more,” Seb chimed in. “Over thirty you hit the floor, like a wasted--”
“Shut it,” said Tyler. “Stick to your driving.”
“Like you’re the boss, chief Crazy Horse, and I don’t give a toss.”
Tyler shook his head and shrugged in apology. “Pay him no mind, man. He drives pretty good. That’s about it.”
“Yeah,” said Seb, switching lanes and then swerving back to the center. “Enjoy the ride as I drive with pride.”
“Could’ve saved you boys the trouble”, Deke said, after a few minutes of dead air. “Don’t know what you heard, but my back’s fine. I could’ve rented a car.”
“Not the point,” said Tyler, still facing him. “We got to tighten things up. Orders from above.”
“From above with a shove.”
Breaking in and out of his routine, Seb added. “I told Tyler here we should’ve cut and run. But oh no, Tyler says the man with the plan, the punster-funster’s gonna take on Hollywood. Oh yeah, big whoop. Put his finger in the dike and shoot the moon.”
Tyler slapped Seb’s flabby arm and told him to keep his eyes on the road.
Deke let another few minutes go by before slipping in another prod. “Seems you boys got yourselves a bookkeeping problem.”
“Well,” said Tyler, “you know how it is. Hard to keep accounts of all the spin-offs and stuff. And, like any business, you got to retool sometimes. Who knows? Probably some little misunderstanding or bump in the road.”
“Yeah,” Seb shouted, gunning it past two eighteen-wheel rigs and barely swerving back in time, “no worries. We got airhead Angelique in gear but never worry, never fear.”
Tyler slapped him hard this time. “Shut it, Seb, and just freakin’ drive.”
“Sure thing,” said Seb, jabbing a finger at the review mirror. “Dis me in front of our over-the-hill dude here so’s he can dis me too.”
Deke reached out and squeezed the back of Seb’s neck. “Like Tyler said, you’d best stick to your driving.”
It was silent after that for a good long stretch. Deke passed the time making out highway signs indicating how many miles on U.S. 101 before Hayward, Fremont and San Jose.
It was outside San Jose that he’d had it with the hazy sky and the dullness of the landscape. What ranges he could make out weren’t ranges at all. They were squashed down, lumpy and brown, more like a string of sand piles. Nowhere near the jutting rimrock that carried you up to the Bitterroots, Rockies and Cascades. Nothing like Mount Charleston, Red Rock or the Valley of Fire out of Vegas. These coast ranges were for weekend picnickers.
Heading toward Morgan Hill, Deke started in again. “So, the only lead you got is a Town & Country wagon with an artichoke pasted on it. And you figure it’s a company car from Salinas.”
“We know it’s a company car,” said Tyler, looking back at him grinning. “Besides, we checked from Monterey up the coast and back. Nothing. It’s either stowed away somewheres at its home base or headed south.”
“With the missing cargo.”
“Come again?” said Tyler, playing it coy.
“Vital to your retooling plan ...”
“Say what?”
“... that’s sprung a leak.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t be rude, mister dude,” muttered Seb. “You’re just a hound till the lost is found.”
Whacking Seb hard across the neck to save Deke the trouble, Tyler said, “Look, man, all you have to do is help us find the station wagon. We’ll take it from there.”
“In or around Salinas, is that it?”
“Yeah, Salinas,” said Seb, taking his hands off the steering wheel in fake rapture. “The salad bowl of the world. Green gold, they call it—fresh lettuce, broccoli and such. Stick with us, lame old bro, and maybe you’ll learn something.”
“Uh-huh,” said Deke. “Just making sure.”
It was just as Deke thought. These two knew next to nothing. A company wagon with an artichoke stamped on it had to hail from Castroville. Deke had forgotten more about harvesting crops from coast to coast than these jokers would pick up in a lifetime. Which meant he’d be ditching them in Prunedale about thirty-five minutes short of where they were heading. Which meant they could keep the fancy luggage. The sooner he was shed of both it and them the better.
Approaching Prunedale, his excuse was that he had to relieve himself and he hadn’t a bite to eat since an early morning black coffee and pastry in Portland. He timed it so that Seb had to pull over at a spot where 101 became El Camino Real. Which, as luck would have it, featured a roadside diner with a sun-bleached “Open on Sunday” sign plastered across a plate-glass window.
Without missing a beat, Deke headed for the restrooms in
the back as Seb, still looking for some way to get even, called after him. “There are salt marshes along the Salinas River, bro. And shacks where the migratory workers stay. But I’ll be glad to fill you in on all that stuff. Yeah, old man, I’m generous that way.”
Deke glanced past the counter and spotted the back door under the wheezing air-conditioner. Another glance to the front of the place and he caught sight of Seb seated at a booth studying a plastic-coated menu. It was mid afternoon. No other customers. No sign of Tyler either.
Deke bypassed the restroom, crossed to the kitchen, brushed by the short-order cook and waitress who seemed too bored to notice. He exited and found himself hedged in by a tall wire fence that rimmed the perimeter of the building. Stepping over to the near side of the building, he peered around the corner. The traffic zipped by in the haze of dry heat. Tyler’s back was to him, standing by the trunk of the Lincoln facing the traffic.
Deke walked back into the kitchen and looked around till he spied some rubber gloves and a can of oven cleaner on a nearby shelf. The bold red letters on the can warned that the product was of industrial strength, required the use of those gloves and, in case of contact with the skin, would cause severe burning. In addition, inhalation of the fumes without proper ventilation would cause respiratory problems. Deke grabbed the can and gloves and slipped out and around to the side of the building.
Soon Tyler shuffled out of sight. Then returned to the trunk of the car, possibly unsure whether or not Deke was going to try to get his hands on the luggage and split.
Deke waited till Tyler gave up on his guard duty and reentered the diner. Wasting no more time, Deke reached inside the back seat of the limo for his carry-on, hurried around to the dashboard, sprayed the steering wheel and the inside of the windshield till it was thick with yellow foam; sprayed the outside of the glass for good measure, tossed the gloves and can and took off down the road.
In no time, he was well off 101 and El Camino Real. But the funny thing was, even over the whisking sound of traffic, he could hear screaming and yelling. Proving that the warning on the oven cleaner label was accurate. And Seb simply got what was coming.
Picking up his pace, he thought about how far behind he was in the game. Not much, he reckoned judging by the laidback way Tyler and Seb were acting. It also dawned on him that Walt knew Deke would put up with those two for only so long. That he would use them and, soon as possible, take off.
He started to wonder if he’d underestimated Walt. He also wondered who the other players were and what, if any, obstacle they might pose.
Chapter Thirteen
As Iris warbled the Southern Cal Trojans’ fight song in the shower, Ben gulped the last sips of iced Kenya AA. After a good night’s sleep, the advent of a sparkling new day and an accountant’s outlook still fresh in his mind, Ben was good to go. Accountants had their balancing act; Ben had his. The juggler was his spiritual ancestor. Juggling was his stock in trade. His task was clear.
Tossing the remnants of a Go-lean blueberry waffle into the bin, he was about to head out the front door when the phone rang. He snatched up the receiver in case it was another snag. Luckily it was only a long distance call from Aunt June applying a little more pressure.
“Relax,” said Ben, “rest assured. When engaging in any venture, one must be orderly. Keep everything in its proper place. Maintaining a keen sense of balance is the watchword for today.”
Taken aback, Aunt June said, “Venture? What kind of venture?”
“Strictly business, ma’am. Just as you prescribed.”
“Am I hearing right?”
“Indeed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I happen to be on a very tight schedule.”
“Wait a minute. This is a little hard for me to believe. A business venture with who?”
When Ben mentioned Leo’s name, June began to back off. When he added that Iris was on his back to meet the deadline, June became ecstatic.
“I like it, I like it. When Iris dropped the hint, I naturally took it with a grain of salt. But considering the pressure Leo is under and the fact that you are as close to vagrancy as you can get ... I mean, if you could really swing it, parting ways will not be sweet sorrow.”
“Meaning?”
“Like you said. No time for small talk.”
“Come on, Auntie, out with it.”
“Well, as I forget to mention, I have this great chance to hook up with Pacific Realty. But this fella wants to make sure I’m unencumbered.”
“He? I thought it was an all-gals conference? And you were off men for life?”
“Yeah, well, what can I say? The guys happen to be having their own realty thing next door and—never mind.”
“Great. So now you can tell this dreamboat—”
“Ted.”
“Tell Ted you threw the gauntlet, I snatched it up and am literally off and running to solvency.”
“Terrific. So, we’re clear on this? No backsliding?”
“Not if you get off the phone and quit hampering me.”
“Absolutely. Tell you what. From here on I’ll check in with Iris and let her keep on your tail. In the meantime, I’ll tell Ted it’s looking good. They’ll be no strings back in L.A.”
“Sweet, Auntie.”
“Oh, come on now, we’ve got your birthday coming up. This time we’ll have something to celebrate.”
“Really sweet.”
“Don’t give me that. First we gave you till you were twenty-one. Then twenty-five. Then we pushed it to thirty. You are three years overdue! Besides, you admitted you owe me.”
As always, Aunt June wasted no time with coddling goodbyes. By the same token, Ben hurried out of the house. It was the day after Labor Day, a normal workday even by Hollywood standards and he really did have a tight agenda. It crossed his mind to put in for another cell phone, but that errand was way at the bottom of his list. At the moment, he didn’t have a second to spare.
Turning the ignition key of the still-trusty Prelude, letting the cylinders idle, he checked his watch. It was eight-thirty, right on schedule. He would drop off the car for an estimate on the crunched tail lights. Then swing by the Farmers Daughter Motel and hand Chula a query for C.J. to estimate his possible culpability vis-a-vis the little accident with the maiden’s old pickup. Next, he would skip over to Iris’ gym and work out while boning up on the latest schlock on the video monitors. After that, armed and apprised of the viewing habits of Angelique’s target audience, he would hit the Avalon Studios for his power meeting with Leo and Gillian.
While heading out, he kept in mind last night’s message on Iris’ answering machine. The maiden’s housing needs, little threats and whatnot held fifth place on his agenda and would be attended to as soon as he got the chance.
As it happened, his trip to the Honda dealership took up very little time. However, the cost of replacing the tail lights and, it seemed, the rear bumper as well was only a tad less than outrageous. The real issue was dropping the car off and getting it done in time before Oliver, the owner and Ben’s old hapless agent, returned from the orchid festival in South Florida. So much for task number one.
At step two, the surly albino manning the desk at the Farmers Daughter Motel informed Ben that Chula would not be in before four and it was against policy to pass along personal notes. When asked, “Whose policy?” the reply was a snide, “You got a problem with that? Somebody told you this was a community bulletin board or somethin’?”
Shrugging off the second glitch of the day, bypassing the usual parking problems, Ben left the car in the motel lot next to the empty pool and hurried down Fairfax to Iris’ gym. A quick change in the locker room, a dash to the right with pop-rock blaring over the loudspeakers competing with the whirr of the fans, he barely managed to beat out a chubby matron for the only unoccupied treadmill. He pressed the speed button on the digital control board till it hit the brisk walk mode, grabbed the remote and began hitting the channels. The images and the subtitles informed him what
in the world was going on.
Less than a minute after, a bronzed Amazon in her early twenties hopped on the treadmill beside him the second it became vacant frustrating the matron once again. Simultaneously, the bronzed one clicked her remote, revved the speed button to full throttle and began pounding the revolving belt.
As luck would have it, while tapping his own remote, Ben found three MTV channels. At the same time, (thanks no doubt to Iris) a brace of monitors over to his left and to the far right was looping old Angelique videos. With her younger buff form on full display, these gems showed her bouncing around a pink Styrofoam stage set, laboring to transform from airhead to predator. Taken together, the MTV shows Ben was perusing directly in front, the pulsating images of Angelique’s former self to the right and left, and the blaring pop-rock over the hidden speakers would have to do in order to stay on schedule.
Checking his watch, Ben soon discovered that none of the MTV scenes lasted more than two to three minutes. Adding to this apparent regard for attention deficit disorder, the Amazon next to him was watching a soap which also couldn’t hold a scene for more than a minute or two as she continued to pound away on the revolving tread as though doubling the pop-rock beat.
Focusing as best he could, the first show Ben keyed on was about a twenty-something who only wanted to “be okay” and clear up a misunderstanding. It seemed her fellow plain-Jane roommates accused her of being mean. In the next shot, she announced she would settle for “an okay nice job” in an “okay part of town” with “some okay nice guys” who would tell her she was “really okay.”
A second show featured footloose singles ensconced in a beachfront condo who were “looking to be doing something that feels like me.” And “to stop being polite and get real.” At the moment, this involved a pair of heavily muscled beach boys dickering over whether or not to hold back. The object of their dilemma was a cute Latina lazing nearby on a straw hammock.