Tinseltown Riff (24 page)

“Ben?” said Molly, yawning and calling out. “What's going on?”                                                                            

The cowboy jabbed a forefinger right at Ben's face. “See what you done?  Now I got to get it all from her.”

That said, the cowboy stepped into the work room.

Ben sidled down, hopelessly trying to wave him off.     

Woozy as can be, Molly pushed off from the rattan arm of the couch, knocked the mug off the coffee table and peered up at Ben. “Don't tell me. You stalling again?”

Molly ran her fingers through her tousled hair and looked over. When she saw the cowboy leaning against one of the tacky posters on the far wall studying her, she flopped back down, grabbed the throw pillow and buried her face.

Fighting off a growing sense of panic and a metallic taste in his mouth, Ben said, “Okay, here's the deal. As it happens, Molly here is only resting up for her appointment with a producer and a project developer. Which, of course, is why I am here, providing the material for the initial pitch. Hence the storyboard. You see? But if you don't believe me, if you'd like to see for yourself, stick around. They'll—”

“Be right over,” said the cowboy. Lester got the call. So we'll have to bring Miss Molly around while you ditch them. And while Pepe waits for a signal that never comes.”

“What do you mean, bring her around?”                                                                                                 

“Toss some coffee down her gullet and bring her to. I could've been in and out with no one the wiser. But you had to stall like she said. Endanger others. Worry my aching back.”

“Wait a minute,” said Molly, mumbling into the pillow. “Who is this guy?”

The cowboy moved stiffly to the edge of the couch. His tone was growly and deliberate, like he'd been saving this up but wasn't used to having to explain himself. “I am not gonna put up with any more bullshit. I want a bead on the switcheroo, the setup and the timetable. Then the goods. So I know what I've got going for me clear of any Mexican cartels. Ben here is gonna ditch the jerkoffs. You both'll come up empty but no worse for wear.”

In response, Molly could do no more than peer up again from her pillow.

“So, missy,” said the cowboy, “you are gonna move your little butt into the little kitchen. ‘Cause you don't want me to drag you there. ‘Cause you want to get outta sight and get your head straight, quick as can be.”

“But ... ?”

“Now.”

As easily intimidated as Ben, Molly raised herself up and got off the couch. Still groggy as can be, she looked back and gave Ben a puzzled, anxious look. All Ben could manage was a feeble gesture as she straggled off through the portal and out of sight.

“Open the blinds some,” said the cowboy, “so it looks normal and I can catch what's happening.”

“What if they barge in?”

“You're gonna see to it they don't. The second you spot them, you're gonna blow ‘em off.”

No jabbing forefinger this time. No need. The cowboy was standing watch by the portal and Ben was back in brain-lock.     

Absentmindedly, Ben straightened up the couch pillows, picked the tea mug off the floor and put it away inside a desk drawer. While opening the Venetian blinds partway, his listened for any sounds of distress coming from Molly. Hearing nothing but puttering sounds coming from the kitchenette, he wandered into the alcove, unlocked the front door, stepped out and waited.

Presently, he heard the gurgle of the coffee maker back in the kitchen; then, a few minutes later, the put-put of the go-cart. He moved forward as soon as Leo hopped off. Gillian shut the motor and hung back. As Leo's bulk shambled toward him, Ben met him halfway.   

As always, in preparation Leo smoothed the remaining strands of hair by his temples. His thick lips, however, were pursed in attack mode and his broad, Slavic brow was crinkled. Nearing the shadows of the scraggly orange trees, wearing the same California-black outfit, he resembled a henchman in an old B movie.  

Gillian clopped forward on her sandals and then abruptly halted. Her rumpled silk lounging pajamas and mussed-up do, plus the way she was giving Ben a slow burn, signaled it was over before it started.

The part of his brain that was working told him the best recourse would be to pass them a note, have them call the police and then take off and run. But Molly was back there with the cowboy. He couldn't leave her in the lurch again. And, in some weird way, he was still as eager as the cowboy to find out what she was up to.  

Faking a grin, Ben stepped closer to the miffed duo.

“Is amusing?” said Leo. “Is high-concept hook you got for us? Is rest of storyboard pages which I am not yet seeing?  Is reason you are smiling so up the toilet we are not going down?”

“Well,” said Ben, “that's what I came out here to talk about.”

“I told you, Leo,” said Gillian. “What's the point?”                                                                                                                                       

“Hold please,” said Leo, advancing right up in Ben's face. “Angelique pick you because you will make her into action figure and not sex kitten. Plus you have the jump on everyone with Pepe supplying hard-core grit. Yes?”

“Yes. And, happily, I'm on to that hard-core grit as we speak.”

“That is so pathetic,” said Gillian, the slow burn permanently stuck on her face.                                                                              

“Enough,” said Leo. “Is high time, is past high time. You will hand material over now.”

“Love to. But you see—”                                                                                         

“You playing with me?” said Leo, clapping one of his meaty hands on Ben's shoulder. “Because I am bark worse than the bite? You stiff me? You stiff your cousin Iris? We have no contract, idiot. I have no contract. I need position! Without position I go down shit's creek without paddles!”

“Forget it,” said Gillian, yanking Leo away. “We'll go with my step outline.”

“Your step outline is from hunger. Is rehash with no hook. Is old hat with no hat and pictures for dummy yes men who say no.”

Removing his hand from Ben's shoulder and retreating a few steps, Leo switched gears. “Benjamin, you give Gillian good start. I am loving the double in old truck, dead ringer driving, hiding and seeking in back lot like runaway gypsy. But now, my hand to God, we need big danger.”

“I'm in on it, believe me. Later, okay?”

Gillian tugged on Leo's arm, Leo pushed her away. “Okey-doke. Tell it to me, Benjamin. Before deportation back to Odessa. What is bad business that is going down you are in on? What, who?”

It was the hard squeeze of his arm and the sense of what might be happening in the bungalow that did it. “You, Leo.”

Releasing Ben's arm, Leo said, “Say again please?”

“Producer by day, at the cleaners by night.”

“Cleaners?”

“Laundering, Leo. Did you ever hear of it? Isn't that really what it comes down to?”

“You are telling me ... ?”

“I'm telling you somebody's going to get hurt and I can't fake it anymore.”

“Where you getting this?”

“Where do you think? You picked him. You wanted a close eye to boost the sleaze quotient.”

“So?”

“So, among other things, Pepe's close eye is eyeballing you.”

Instantly, all the animation drained out of Leo's face. He stood motionless, then turned and shambled back to the cart. From the little Ben knew of Leo's brand of Russian, he was telling himself his shady dodge had sprung a leak and he was about to go under.   

Gillian lingered for a moment. After studying Ben as though her contacts had fogged up on her, she said, “You know something. I was so pissed when I got back to my cubby hole at Paramount, I took a chilled Pinot Grigio from the frig and got sloshed. I knew it, knew you were out of your element and would somehow fuck it up. Never again, Benjy, I swear. In Leo's immortal words, ‘My hand to God.'”

With this tag line still reverberating, Gillian clip-clopped over to the go-cart, switched on the puttering motor and sent them both on their way.

Ben shifted over to the edge of the tech alley, not in pursuit, but simply to watch the last vestige of his so-called career dissolve. Just before he turned back, he noticed the shiny car parked nearby, blocking the doorway to Studio Three. He half wondered why neither Gillian or Leo mentioned it. But, then again, they had other things on their mind.

Ben hurried back to the bungalow, cut through the alcove and reentered the work room. There he found Molly wide-eyed standing by the portal to the kitchenette watching the cowboy closing the blinds. Molly appeared to be frazzled but unharmed; the cowboy champing at the bit as he returned to her side.  

Without a word, Ben ripped his excuse of a storyboard off the easel, wadded it up, tossed it as far as he could and plopped onto the chair behind the desk.

“Okay,” said the cowboy, calling over to Ben, “you juggled that pretty good.”

“Right,” said Ben, elbows on the desk top, head in his hands. “That's what I do.  That's what I'm good at.”

“Which just leaves Molly here to provide the finishing touches. End of story.”

  
 
 

Chapter Twenty-four
 

 

 

At first the cowboy let Molly carry on. He braced his lower back and leaned against the tacky movie posters while she stayed opposite, prattling away and nervously  straightening the leaves of the dusty potted palm.

The good thing was that her eyes were alert and searching, like the first time Ben spotted her on the running board of her truck. And, yet again, nothing like that first time. Here, she was blurting out bits of useless information, like the fact her mom kept hooking up with a series of promoters, sending Molly off to dance classes while she shacked up. And then dumped her on Granny the wino, to labor in the fields when mom was between gigs. Getting the word out that she, like Molly's Granny, had a kid by accident when she was only a teen. Which made good ol' mom a prize for anyone looking for a footloose showgirl in her prime.  

When the cowboy asked what the hell she was yakking about, Molly said it was one of her mom's rejects who pawned her off on Angelique as a backup dancer. Also, she'd been playing errand girl between bookings to keep in line for her big break. Not like her Miss Artichoke Granny who wasted away in a packing plant. Except that lately, when Angelique's star plummeted, Molly panicked and announced she was willing to do anything to help out. “Whatever you guys need. Long as I'm still on board.”

Still plunked down at the desk by the front windows, Ben strained to get the gist of Molly's story under the whir of the overhead fans. He was at once curious, dejected and climbing out of his skin. Along with the abiding metallic taste in his mouth, there was a weird chill running down his thighs to the tops of his feet. All this, coupled with Molly's imploring glances some thirty feet away, drove Ben to fiddle with the contents of Iris' survival kit. He reached in, took out the clunky tins of protein mixture one by one. It was senseless, as useful as emptying out the coffee filters in the kitchenette. But he had no more words to offer, no more plans, no way out.

After another hitch in Molly's ramblings and yet another imploring glance, like a neurotic stock-boy, Ben had all eight cans stacked up neatly.  

Molly rubbed more dust off the palm fronds and stopped gyrating and glancing at Ben. “So that's it,” Molly said. “That's the deal about me and Angelique.”

“What deal?” said the cowboy, his voice straining this time. “Start with dumping the station wagon. The setup from there to here hooking up with Pepe. ”

“Pepe?”

“The setup, the spillage and the timeframe.”

Molly shook her head and walked around in circles. She muttered something about delivering diet supplements ... making stops in Santa Cruz, Monterey and Morro Bay. And then finding the game plan had changed.

“Right,” said the cowboy inching closer to her. “You jumped at the new goods, switched sides and took the truck route instead.”  

“No,” said Molly, moving away from him. “I just guessed something was up, something risky, something illegal.”

The cowboy's cell phone jingled. He plucked it out of his Levi jacket, listened for a second and said, “Later, Ray. No, no sign yet of Mexicans. Now get off my back.”

A poke and a flip of the cowboy's wrist and the cell phone came winging in Ben's direction and landed on the couch; the lit blue screen indicating there would be no more interruptions.

“So, missy,” the cowboy said, speaking slowly as if Molly was hard of hearing, “we got you taking the back road. Then, all of a sudden, Ben wants in. You're caught between. You got Ben and Pepe's crew. You got Ray. And you got Angelique's double cross of Ray with your wannabe actress gig as the brass ring.”

“That's crazy. That's all mixed up.”

“Like hell. No goddamn wonder you're so fagged out.”

“Say something, Ben. Help me out here.”

But at the moment, whatever thoughts Ben could muster were centered on linking Ray, the scrawny guy with the beak by Angelique's pool, Molly running off at the sight of him, and what the cowboy was after.