Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  The sun woke me up. Or maybe whatever I’d been shot up with had worn off. Whichever the case, I opened my eyes. I was hot, and my body felt like it had been twisted into knots. As my world became clearer, I discovered why. My six-foot frame was stuffed into the backseat of a car—and it wasn’t my Falcon. All the windows were up, and I was fully clothed in slacks, shirt, even shoes, with my sport jacket draped over me like a blanket. As much by reflex as anything, I threw off the jacket and sprung up.

  The inside of the car was stifling, and my mouth felt like I’d eaten bark. I crawled over the seat into the front of the car and flung open the driver’s side door. When the fresh air hit my face, it was like being resuscitated. I crawled out and rolled onto the ground. The sun was bright, but not scorching, and it felt good. It felt like the stuff of life.

  I lay on the hard earth with my eyes closed for several minutes, savoring the fresh oxygen, while my brain continued to reset itself. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what had happened, I did. I remembered everything about the assault—at least, up until the time I blacked out. It was that I needed time to breathe and process what I was feeling, an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

  Once I was somewhat together, I struggled to my feet and took stock of my surroundings. I was in the desert, that much was obvious. But where in the desert? And which desert? In one direction, all I could see was nothingness. In the another, more nothingness, with some snowcapped mountains as the backdrop. When I turned and looked behind me, however, I could just make out what looked to be the tops of buildings sneaking over the horizon.

  I looked away and then looked back again, to make sure it wasn’t a mirage. It wasn’t. It was there. Far away, but it was there. A town, with honest to goodness buildings, and honest to goodness people, who lived, and loved, and laughed, and breathed, and did other honest to goodness cool things.

  An immense feeling of relief washed over me. I’d been stranded in the desert before, and it was an experience I had no interest in revisiting. Furthermore, as I’ve made clear in previous recounting of my adventures, I have a passionate dislike for wide open spaces. I don’t call it a phobia, as that would make me sound bananas. I prefer to think of it as a completely rational loathing that all sane people should possess.

  The car I had been stuffed into was a white Rambler. I didn’t know what year, but it looked new. I got back into it, and to my relief, found the keys were in the ignition. I turned the key, and it started up without protest. Thank God!

  I glanced down at the dashboard and saw the clock. It was a little after ten-thirty. My moment of elation disappeared and my heart sank. I dropped my head and smacked the steering wheel.

  Yes, as silly as it sounds, even though I’d been attacked, drugged, and shanghaied out into the desert, I began fixating on how I was missing Gabriella’s recording session. My twisted brain could only focus on how everybody must be wondering where I was, especially Miriam. Also, what would Larry Levine, the music contractor who was forced to put me on the gig, think? That made me sick. I felt like I had not only let him down, but even worse validated the pudgy little weasel’s initial low opinion of me.

  Understand, even though I was still admittedly under the influence of God knows what kind of chemical, I hadn’t gone completely crazy. I was well aware there were extreme circumstances at play, and it wasn’t lost on me that the people I was working for were most likely responsible for putting me in my current position. But still, once a musician, always a musician. It was a matter of pride. I’d never missed a gig before in my life. When it came to reliability, Trip Callaway was as close to a sure bet as one could get. My reputation was taking a hit, and it was darn near unbearable for me, but if I’m honest, in that moment, it was mostly about Miriam and what she must have thought of me.

  After a proper amount of suffering, I decided I wasn’t going to fix anything by sitting in the car and moaning about it. So, I rolled down the window, put the Rambler into gear, and sprayed a plume of sand behind me, as I set off for the unknown town in the distance.

  As I drove across the abyss, little by little, my mind sharpened. As it did, so too did my priorities. Meaning, I began to let go of the trivial, and instead started focusing on more serious matters, like what the hell had actually happened to me. Not so much the who, I figured that had to be associates working at the behest of Cabaneri and Goetz. But more the why.

  I went over it and over it, and the more I did, the more it didn’t add up. What was to be gained by drugging me and then whisking me off to the desert? Where was the logic? If Cabaneri and Goetz knew I was working undercover, then surely they must have also known I had already reported their dastardly little smuggling scheme to my superiors. What was to be gained by doing this to me? And for that matter, why abduct me at all? Why not just kill me? I didn’t know about Goetz, but I knew Cabaneri had no qualms about exercising such an option. He didn’t leave loose ends, like witnesses—a fact that I, as well as a recently deceased starlet named Tiffany St. James, can personally attest.

  And then there was the thing that made even less sense. The Rambler had a full tank of gas. I noticed it the moment I started her up. Why would someone drug me, dress me, drive me into the desert, put me in the backseat of a car, but then take the time to fill up the tank before leaving me there? It was like some sort of ridiculous prank—and not a very funny one, at that. I could have died, for Pete’s sake. A fact that became clearer and clearer the more my scrambled brain returned to normal.

  After thirty minutes of tricky desert driving, which included dodging all manner of obstacles, animal, vegetable, and mineral, I was completely clearheaded. Just as happily, I, at last, came upon an actual paved road and evidence of civilization—well, sort of.

  It was a small, wooden structure, slightly atilt, with a rickety front porch, boasting two rocking chairs and a perfectly content sleeping hound dog. It looked as if the dilapidated shanty, as well as the dog, had been in the same location since the days of Kit Carson, and had it not been for the sign that read CHIPPER’S FRESH HERBS, I might have mistaken it for some crusty, old prospector’s residence…or a leftover set piece from a John Ford film.

  I came to a stop a few yards from the porch, and before I was out of the car, a skinny young man appeared in the doorway. At least I think he was a man. His dirty blond hair hung down to his shoulders, and he was clad in what looked to be—and there’s no other way to describe it—a white muumuu.

  “Hello,” I said, coming around the car, approaching the porch.

  “Hey, man,” he crooned slowly, raising his hand. “What’s happening?”

  “Sorry to bother you. I’m just wondering, can you tell me where I am?”

  His eyes got wide, and he began nodding his head. “Oh, man. Righteous question. ‘Can you tell me where I am?’ I can dig it, I can dig it. Where are any of us? Right?”

  Uh-oh. I nodded back and then said, “Yes, indeed. Where are any of us? That is…righteous, but what I meant to say was can you tell me where I am, physically, I mean, at this moment?”

  He squinted his eyes and nodded some more. Then, he pointed to the hand-painted sign above his head and softly said, “You’re at Chipper’s, man. Chipper’s Fresh Herbs.” His smile widened. “I’m Chipper. This is Bob,” he added, referring to the sleeping dog at his feet.

  I smiled back. “Pleasure to meet you both. My name is Trip.”

  No sooner had my name come out of my mouth that I regretted saying it.

  “Trip?” he echoed back…like he’d just heard a voice from Heaven. “Bob, the dude’s name is Trip. Oh, man, what a far-out name. Trip. Tripster. Trippy. Totally groovy name, dude. How did you get a name like that?”

  “Oh, you know, it was just given to me,” I answered.

  “Man, that’s so cool. I wish somebody would give me a name like that.”

  “Okay. Well, you know, Chipper is a pretty good name, too,” I said.

  “Yeah, but it’s no Trip. That’s the coolest,
man. I totally dig it.”

  “Well…thank you. So, Chipper, back to that existential question I posed. What I’m asking is, where exactly is Chipper’s Fresh Herbs?”

  He laughed and held out his arms as if to say, right here, man.

  I tried yet again, “Where on a map, is it? Is it in California, for instance?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, man, it’s in Cali. Hey, are you lost, or something?”

  “Aren’t we all, Chipper? Aren’t we all?” I replied.

  That almost made the young man’s head explode.

  I continued, “Let’s put it this way. I might currently be detached from my exact place in the universe, if you can dig what I’m putting down, Chipper.”

  “I dig. I dig. So, what you want to know is, where you are right now?”

  “Right,” I answered, nodding my head in rhythm with his.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he replied, drifting away and going silent.

  “And…that would be…” I coaxed.

  He snapped back. “Oh yeah, well, that town up yonder is Banning.”

  “Banning? Okay. And how far is Banning from Los Angeles?”

  He scratched his head. “Hmm. It’s been a while since I’ve been to L.A., but I’d say about eighty miles due west. Give or take.”

  “I see,” I replied. “Well, thanks, Chipper, that’s very helpful.”

  “So, Trip, how’d you get out here, anyway?”

  I had no reason to lie to the young man but didn’t feel much like explaining everything to him, either. Especially since I couldn’t explain it to myself. “Oh, you know, I’ve been traveling around the country with some friends, exploring my place in the cosmos, but somehow lost them. Wouldn’t you know it, they have all the maps in their vehicles so, here I am. Just a weary traveler looking to get home.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, man, I dig, I dig. Not too many people come out this way since the four-lane went in. That’s probably where you lost them. You probably got off the four-lane and didn’t know how to get back on. I get it. It can be totally confusing.”

  “Totally,” I agreed. “Yup, that’s probably what I did.”

  Then Chipper said, “Hey Trip, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, man, but you don’t look so good. You okay?”

  “Had a rough night, Chipper,” I answered.

  “Oh, man. I can dig that. Me too.”

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “Bad ‘shrooms. Grew them myself but must have used putrid spawn.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I replied, having no idea what spawn was. “Hey Chipper, you wouldn’t have a phone I could use, would you?”

  “Sorry, man. I have no use for a telephone. You’ll have to go into town and find a payphone. That’s what I do. You’ll find a phone booth on the side of the road when you hit the city limits. It’s usually working.”

  “Okay, thanks. And thanks for the directions.”

  “No prob, man. Hey, Trip, let me get you some of my herbal tea for the road. I just mixed up some for myself, and you look like you could use it. It’s guaranteed to bring you back to life.”

  “No, thank you anyway, Chipper, but—”

  “Nah, hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  Chipper ran into the shack, and in less than a minute was back. He jumped off the porch and handed me a jar with some brown liquid in it.

  “Here you go. This will fix you right up. Make you as sharp as me.”

  I took the jar. “Well thank you, Chipper. Uh, you wouldn’t happen to have water too, would you? I could use some.”

  “No prob, man. Hang on.”

  Again, he went inside but was back in a flash with a Mason jar of water.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me the jar. “You can keep the jars too.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t mention it,” he replied.

  “Well, I better get going,” I said.

  “Okay. You have a safe trip, Trip,” he said, adding a wink.

  I forced a smile. “I will. You take care, Chipper. You too, Bob.”

  And with that, I hurried back into the Rambler, waved a final goodbye to Chipper and Bob, and headed off for the town of Banning.

  To be clear, I did not try Chipper’s herbal tea. I figured my body had enough mind-altering substances put into it for one day. I did guzzle down the water he gave me. I also stopped at the phone booth at the city limit sign, right where Chipper said it would be.

  I fumbled through the Rambler and miraculously came up with fifty cents in nickels and dimes. I prayed that would be enough for a long-distance call. I picked up the receiver, dialed the number, and was more than happy to deposit the forty cents for three minutes that was requested.

  “The Roosevelt Hotel,” the female voice answered.

  “Room twelve twenty, please,” I said.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll ring the room.”

  With Ma Bell’s clock ticking, I was ready with what I was going to say when Clegg answered. I’d tell him what had happened and where I was. But a lengthy discussion on why would have to wait. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t get the chance.

  After eight rings, the operator came back on the line. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no answer. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll call back.”

  I didn’t slam down the receiver, but I wanted to. I was frustrated. Not because Clegg hadn’t picked up, but because I could have used the forty cents to call the recording studio and attempt to salvage my reputation. I would have told whoever answered that I was sorry for not being there, but that I had come down with a case of yellow fever and was quarantined. With any luck, the story would make its way to the bandstand, and more specifically, to Miriam. She probably wouldn’t have bought it, but then again, who knows? I figured it was worth a shot. As they say, desperate men do desperate things. Perhaps that explained why Anthony Cabaneri and Ricardo Goetz did what they did. Desperate men doing desperate things. In that way, I could sympathize.

  It’s possible that was the moment it became clear to me what Miriam thought of me mattered to me—a lot. I knew the case would be over soon, and I didn’t want it to mean she and I would be over soon too. Who knew if our budding romance would go anywhere, but I saw no reason why it had to go all del segno al coda before it had even gotten through the first verse. I had grown quite fond of the girl from Amsterdam and wanted the chance to get even fonder. I wanted her to have the same chance with me. As I saw it, that meant I needed to remain the ever-reliable, ever-charming, fun-loving genius in her eyes for as long as possible. And if that meant spinning a whopper of a fish story to achieve that possibility, then so be it.

  I took one more rifle through the car for spare change before accepting getting back to L.A. as quickly as possible was my only play. So, I fired up the Rambler, set a vector due west, and put the pedal to the floor.

  Chipper’s four-lane was called Interstate 10. It was straight as a penny whistle, with all the scenic nuance of a dust bin. One could easily become hypnotized by its brutal redundancy.

  For over an hour, I kept my brain busy by inventing theories about why I had been absconded, but mostly I spent my time deciding what story I was going to tell Miriam when I saw her. For several miles, I had convinced myself the best course of action would be to come clean. Tell her everything about what had happened, along with how I worked part-time for the feds as a secret agent. It was insanity, of course, and I never would have done it, but it felt good to at least imagine doing it.

  With every mile I put behind me, the more impatient I grew with the ones ahead of me. This was only exacerbated when the closer I got to L.A., the more traffic became an issue until ultimately my spirited sprint through the desert turned into an agonizing crawl. There’s nothing quite like the helplessness one feels when one is desperate to get somewhere but is sitting at a dead stop in one’s car surrounded by other cars sitting at a dead stop. It might not technically qualify as torture, but this one thinks i
t’s pretty darn close.

  Finally, after what seemed like days, I merged onto the Hollywood Freeway and knew my journey’s end was in sight. Instantly my body relaxed, and my heart rate returned to something resembling normal. However, being almost back also brought the realization I now had a choice to make. I could either go to the hotel and report in to Clegg, or I could go to the recording studio. I wanted to go to the studio, beg for forgiveness from Levine, and more importantly, attempt to explain myself to Miriam. However, given I hadn’t come up with a believable story for either of them, along with being certain that if I blew off Clegg again he’d knock me over the head himself, I decided the hotel was where I needed to go first.

  I haven’t said much about the Roosevelt Hotel, but at this point, I think I should. I was thrilled when Clegg told me it would be serving as our base of operations while in Hollywood because the Roosevelt was famous among folks like myself—meaning, bona fide movie buffs. I imagined sleeping in the famous Gable-Lombard suite, or perhaps even in the room where Marilyn lived for a while. If I remember correctly, when I mentioned this to Clegg, he chuckled.

  The hotel was named after the twenty-sixth president of the United States—Theodore, not Franklin—and every inch of the place harkened back to the golden age of Hollywood. Most famously, it was the site of the first Academy Award ceremony, held in 1928. For the record, Emil Jannings won that year for best actor, Janet Gaynor for best actress, and Wings for best picture. The cost to attend was five bucks, and the entire ceremony took all of fifteen minutes, but I digress. The point is because the Roosevelt Hotel was one of those grand old inns from days of yore, it also meant it was relatively small. Not minuscule, mind you, but compared to the behemoths they were building on The Strip, the Roosevelt looked more like a gussied-up hostel. I suspected that’s exactly why Clegg chose it as our headquarters.

  In the year or so since I’d been under his employ, I had come to notice a few interesting quirks about our intrepid G-man, one of those quirks being his preference for situations he could easily control. He didn’t like anything too large, too cluttered, or too unmanageable. This made the Roosevelt perfect in his eyes, I theorized, because if the old manse was nothing else, it was exceedingly manageable, at least most of the time. On this day, however, it was anything but.