Tinseltown Riff (26 page)

“All right, I'm going.”

Ben held the hand gun low by his side, just like in the movies, just like he'd done as a little kid. They went over the drill, which was also pure Hollywood but, in the state they were in, it didn't matter. Ben would slip out into the night, scan the immediate area, wave and cover as Molly darted to each checkpoint. If the coast was clear, Ben would scurry across and join her. If not, she would split and Ben would hang back to delay any intruder till C.J. arrived.

On Ben's signal, as if they were two playmates, the maneuvers began. Rushing across the tech alley; then down to the ficus trees fronting the locked café, the far edge of the bungalow next to the fringe of the Western town; then to a spot behind the saloon dance hall and dumpsters and the back of the livery stable. Next, it was in and around the tangle of vinca and manzanita, clumps of sagebrush and thickets of chaparral and scrub oak.  

The only drawback was the darkness. Gone was the bright moonlight which had given way to a gauzy overcast. Though the cloud cover made their darting figures harder to spot, once they hit the tinder-dry foliage and long shadows made by the blocky wooden structures, it was even harder to spot each other.

Disregarding Ben as if she were home free, Molly cut through the narrow break in the chaparral, reached the stands of eucalyptus that masked the back fence, worked the slide bolt and was gone down the strip of gravel on the other side.     

After losing his way in a thatch of chest-high deer grass, by the time Ben followed suit, the pitiful whine of the pickup's reverse gear was almost upon him.

Raising his hands, he rushed onto the gravel strip. Molly hit the breaks as he spun around and checked out the side street. A quick glance revealed only the file of low-lying apartment buildings in the throes of renovation.

Ben ran back to Molly's side and found her slumped over the wheel, the motor still chugging. “Hey!”

“What?”

“Are you going to make it?”

Molly shook herself erect. “Sure thing. Just resting my eyes.”

“I don't know. If you fall asleep at the wheel—”

“I won't. Will you kindly get off my back?”

After checking out the side street again, he reminded her to use the couch. And leave no sign that anything remotely female had infiltrated the premises.

In turn, Molly stretched, widened her eyes and gripped the steering wheel hard. “Don't hold me to anything I said or did. We'll settle up first thing.”

“Nice. Okay, just head west, hang a left at the first intersection and keep going till Olympic. Then hang a right and you're golden.”

There was no kiss, no pat on the arm, not even a thank you. Ben checked out the street one last time, gave Molly a high sign and the next thing he knew she was gone.

He traipsed back to the rear gate, aware of the smell of damp concrete and eucalyptus, the sound of aluminum shards and loose gravel underfoot, and a faint trace of moonlight glinting off the muzzle of the gun. In all the rush, he'd almost forgotten he was carrying a loaded weapon.

He released the slide bolt, made his way through the break and paused by a stand of scrub oaks. What now? Hopefully intercepting C.J. and handing over the stuff. Afterwards, finding a place to spend the night. Perhaps the motel where Chula ran the desk.

Some wistful part of him cut in and pictured dull quiet things, like the Farmers Daughter activity across from the motel: the fabricated waterfall, the trolley car and little shops at the Grove ... sipping Kenya AA in the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf hangout. The images dovetailed into more wishful thinking, like telling his cronies he might have some irons in the fire. And they, as usual, informing him whether any of these projects might fly.

The illusions were immediately replaced by the certainty Gillian would have him on top of everybody's persona non grata list. Gone was the clarion call
You're
on your way up, soaring to great heights
. Gone was the daydream of a gathering around the campfire at trails end. Even in her daze, Molly had noted the words
You're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.
 
In that case you'll head straight
out of town
. Advice he'd given to the conference wannabes at the outset. But too-smart Ben was so desperate to hang on, he never knew when to get off.

With the realities staring him in the face, he reckoned Molly was probably safe for now. Of more immediate concern was a fluttering sound. Perhaps coming from the nearby street, as though someone had shut off their motor and was coasting in neutral.

Tensing up, he tried to reassure himself that the attempt to reach C.J. was not in vain. If Chula had taken him seriously, she must have relayed the message and C.J. would be on his way. All that was left was a hop, skip and a jump. Then a short wait in the shadows by Soundstage One within shouting distance of the front gate.

Then it dawned on him. It was too easy. As if he and Molly
were
a couple of kids playing hide-and-seek. Why hadn't he wondered why the cowboy gave in so easily? Was this guy really afraid Ben would fire the gun? And if the cowboy's back was really shot, how had he managed to maneuver his car so deftly and, again, why? Was it because he was lying in wait to see who came and left? Probably. Moreover, a receding empty truck bed meant the goods were still here. And Ben was still here—the one who, under duress, revealed that Molly didn't know where the sacks were. The very same Ben Prine who'd left Molly unguarded while he scurried away and only a few minutes later returned. Therefore, as any fool could see, this Ben character had hidden the trove close by and was simply waiting for “Pepe” to make the handoff. Which, any way you looked at it, was absolutely true.

A crunching sound coming from the gravel strip cut through the silence. Stopped.  Grew louder. Stopped again and was supplanted by a clink of the slide bolt.

Ben shifted to his right, crouched low and scurried through the patch of deer grass to the edge of the corral.

Then, for a time, nothing stirred. Apart from the faint traffic noise north at  Melrose and an occasional whoosh closer by to the east on Van Ness, his was the only movement. As far as he could tell, that is.   

He was about to circle around and drift forward toward his rendezvous with C.J., when he heard a clang. It came from the vicinity of the dilapidated dance hall behind the saloon up ahead.

Then a second clang. If it was who he thought it was, the cowboy was back in action rummaging through the dumpsters, searching every conceivable hiding-place. If so, a retreat to the back gate would prove fruitless. The cowboy could simply beat him to it and cut him off. If Ben continued to circle around the corral, past the livery stable and take off once he hit the bungalow, the cowboy was in position to shoot up and intercept him at the café.

Another clang. A glint of moonlight held for a second and gave way again to the thickening cloud cover.                                                                                                                 

Ben reached into his shirt pocket for the cell phone but then thought better of it. No matter how low he pitched his voice, it was so quiet he was bound to be heard.  Besides, the longer he kept hanging out in the open like this, the more vulnerable he became.

He opted for the little room in the recesses of the hay loft. If the cowboy squeezed the barn doors open and looked inside, what would he see? The closed back shutters blocked off any hope of moon-glow, and there was no electricity, no switches, no other source of light. All the cowboy could make out was the dim outline of the posts and hanging tack in the foreground. And maybe the oil drum, hanging motor and shell of the Model T in the far right corner. And maybe even the buckboard deep in the opposite corner. But sacks of rotting grain were lodged in a covered pit behind the buckboard and Molly's sacks were below that. The little room was way too far back, up and over and, ostensibly, non-existent. Judging from the hell-bent way the cowboy was scouring the back lot, he was not about to linger over anything.

Wary of the gun in his hand, constantly making sure the safety was on, Ben eased around the corall to the stable, lifted the wooden bar over the iron brackets and pulled the doors open just wide enough to slip through. As quietly as he could, he squeezed the doors shut, working against the squeaking rollers.  

He found the air inside heavy and steamy with the shutters closed; the smell of old motor oil, gas, hay, rotting grain and leather even more insufferable. He wanted to chuck the whole idea. Then again, if he found it so unbearable, how would an exasperated guy with a bad back take it?                                                                                                                                      

Using the acrid smells as a guide, along with his outstretched hand to keep from smacking into the posts, Ben inched toward the propped-up ladder. Halfway there, he tripped over an old saddle blanket and realized he'd gone too far to the right. Making an adjustment, he sidled over and bumped into the open oil drum. A slight jog to the left and he located the wooden rungs. He straightened and steadied the ladder and clambered up, keeping the hand gun away from his body, the muzzle pointing down.

Once safely up on the loft, he put the gun down, faced in the direction of the barn doors and worked the ladder to his left, past the stacks of hay, all the way to the wall so it would appear the loft was suspended in the air. And this pungent, claustrophobic, old-timey livery stable was, doubtless, unoccupied.

Back to the center of the loft. He retrieved the gun, edged his way over, groped around and found the loop of rope that served as a door handle. He tugged on the rope, stepped inside and secured the latch. With the shutters pressing against the window screens behind him, the room was pitch dark, the air close and stifling. Hopefully there would soon be a door slide and squeak from down below, a quick count, and the cowboy would be gone.

He sat on the cot. The springs creaked, the ticking tore exposing the rotting mattress.

He began to sweat. He ripped off a length of ticking, went over to the washbasin, cranked the hand pump a few times until trickles of rusty water doused the rag. He patted his brow and the back of his neck. Then squatted down and searched for a crack by the flimsy door so he could have some idea what was going on.

For a moment he felt like a sniper as he peered out. Make that a sniper and a mark both with the jackpot hidden about twenty-five feet below him.  

Back to the hand pump. After a few more cranks and another mop of his brow, he thought he heard the scrape of the overhead rollers as though someone was testing the barn doors. Just to make sure, he crouched back down in time to see the huge doors split apart. Backlit by a smidge of moonlight, the cowboy's shadowy figure appeared.

This was the moment for the quick count, a cursory look-see and perhaps a reluctant sigh as the barn doors slid back where they belonged. But it wasn't to be.

 
 
 
 

Chapter Twenty-six

 

 

The cowboy reached inside his Levi jacket and struck a match. It was a tiny flame but enough to illuminate the posts closest to the entry. He walked forward, his back ramrod stiff, his boots scuffing the rough planks. He kept it up, took in his immediate surroundings, struck another match and progressed further.  

When he reached a point between the saddle blanket and the hay loft, Ben knelt down, unable to squat a moment longer. Flipping off the safety, Ben thought of a series of commands, but they all seemed as ridiculous as the one he used on him before:  “Hold it right there ... hands up ... reach ... freeze ...”

Another tiny flame, this one highlighting the motor hanging over the oil drum followed by another scratch on the matchbox. This time the ladder was lit up in the far corner. The cowboy grabbed it, moved it over, steadied it against the edge of the loft and mounted it one rung at a time.

Unable to see from this vantage point, all Ben could do was listen to the scuffing footsteps, on their way toward him from the stacks of hay to the center of the landing. Ben raised himself up, grabbed his right wrist and held his shaking forefinger close to the trigger.  

Yet another scratch of the matchbox. A tug at the door's rope handle. A long hesitation. Then the footsteps trailing away.

Hunkering down, peering again through a crack in the slats, Ben was barely able to make out the cowboy's descent from the ladder. More scuffing against the rough-planked flooring and the cowboy's shadowy form reappeared behind the oil drum.  

“Seems everybody's folded,” the cowboy said, “except you and me. And you've boxed yourself in. So, looks like you got only one card to play.”

When no answer came, the cowboy said, “Eight shots in the clip, by the way. Then again, it could be seven.”

Ben had no idea what to do. It could be a hunch on the cowboy's part that Ben was hiding behind the door. It was warped and stuck for all the cowboy knew. It wasn't necessarily latched from the inside.

Then it hit him. The cowboy had heard the squeaking overhead rollers when Ben entered.

“Okay,” the cowboy said. He shoved the ladder over until the top was almost directly opposite Ben's sightline. Perspiring like crazy, Ben gripped his wrist tighter and thought of pulling the hammer back. Instead he took slow deep breaths and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

“There now,” the cowboy said, moving back to his position behind the oil drum. “As near as I can figure, these oily rags will just smoke. But there could be flames. At any rate, that'll leave you at most two minutes. Any longer and your lungs'll be shot with CO and deadly fumes. If it weren't for the closed shutters you could last a bit longer.”