Tinseltown Riff (32 page)

He shifted his focus to mundane immediate concerns. Where was he going to sleep tonight? Was Aunt June's vacant?  It would be if Molly had taken off. But even if she was long gone, there was no way he could even think of going back to his old room. Aside from declaring he was definitely about to become solvent, the place was sold and June was skipping off to the Pacific Northwest. Like his ties to the industry, his link to Aunt June's place were at an end.

Absentmindedly, he snapped open the lid of his old suitcase and placed it on the bed. He gathered up the tube of prescription ointment, fresh dressings and tape, bottles of eye drops and packets of throat lozenges and tossed them on top of the rest of the stuff Iris had packed. He secured the latches, set the suitcase at the ready and resumed his waiting position.

Before long, the noise level picked up another notch. Adding to the din, a breathless female voice echoed up and down the corridor. Shutting it all out, Ben remained in limbo, biding his time.

Shortly, out of nowhere, Molly came bursting in.

“Oh, there you are. Man, this place is impossible: North Le Doux Road, North Carson Road, eight parking lots, George Burns Road, the Atrium Building, the Spielberg Building, the North Tower ... I mean, you could lose your mind.”

At the moment, Ben couldn't bring himself to do anything but gaze at her. It wasn't the outfit, not the white peasant blouse over mauve jeans. And it wasn't the fresh-scrubbed look and her squeaky-clean honey-blond hair. As she clutched her ribs and caught her breath, it was her skittishness that made her seem so ephemeral.     

Carrying on, Molly said, “Nice of you to give me away and put that cop buddy of yours onto me.”

“Not true,” said Ben, his voice as low-key as his washed-out feelings.

“Then how did he find me?”

“I don't know actually.”

“Come on, you must have told him something.”

When Ben shook his head, Molly gave him one of those get-off-it looks and said, “Hey, I didn't come all the way out here for nothing. I want an explanation.”

“Look, it wasn't just me and some smoke.  The guy threatened you with a gun and assaulted you.”

“And?”

“And I was really worried.”

“And now the guy—whose name is Deacon by the way—will be stalking me till he shuts me up for good.”

“No.”

“Oh, really?”

“Not if C.J. nails him.”

“Great. Let's count on that. All I got going for me--after Angelique ratted on me too-- is no criminal trespass in return for a statement. Haven't I had enough? How much can a person take?”

More quick breathing on Molly's part. And no matter how much he tried to catch her eye, she wouldn't look directly at him. She played with her red hair band, shifted her weight back and forth and glanced up at the corners of the ceiling.

“So, anyways,” Molly went on, “that also still leaves you and me. ‘We'll settle up first thing,' was how it was left. But you didn't show up. And I didn't sleep much, let me tell you, figuring the angles.”

Pointing to his throat, trying to indicate he was in no shape to banter with her, he said, “Please, can we just slow it down?”

“But no worries,” Molly said, completely ignoring him. “I cleaned up, your auntie would never know I was there. Walked all the way to Larchmont and got a bite to eat so's not to open the frig and leave any traces. Or use the truck, of course, ‘cause who knew where this Deacon creep was lurking. Drove here, the whole time with my eyes glued to the rearview mirror, which I had no intention of doing in the first place.”

Going off on two more tangents, she revealed the pigeons weren't hers but Granny's and were now hidden in the bed of her truck. C.J. gave her Angelique's unlisted number after Molly “kinda begged him” and C.J. told her Ray was out of the picture. Plus Angelique might have some wiggle room, might be up on lesser charges if she too agreed to tell all. What C.J. didn't let on was Angelique had crossed her off her list. The second she got her on the phone, Angelique told her to “stick it in her ear” and hung up.

Looking straight at him now, Molly said, “Can you believe it? After all I've done.  You want spunky, nice and eager—you got it. You want a no-questions-asked go-fer, personal delivery service—ditto again. And just ‘cause I got antsy when Granny confiscated the keys to her wagon, just ‘cause I figured something was fishy about this Hollywood run, what happens? What's my reward? I tell you, I was perfect for the part. It was my ticket, my big break, my foot in the door.”

She tried to pace around but there was no place to go. She wound up at the fluted screen and turned on him again. “There was talk of going global, did you know that? And now it's shot. It is totally shot.”

Ben tried to tell her it was all a crapshoot, always was, always will be. But she paid him no mind.

Another shuffle around the cramped space, then she rattled the fluted screen
.
“Oh, great, listen to me eating my heart out.  I'll bet the whole hospital's getting a charge out of this.”

“No, it's okay.”

“Maybe for you. You're used to being a loser. But you're not dragging me down with you.  Oh-oh-oh no. Nobody asked you to hole up in that barn and almost get choked to death. So I'm not falling for it, you hear me? You get it? I mean, how can anybody hook up with a guy who still reads Dr. Seuss?”

“I don't know.”

“That's right. It's ridiculous.
You
are ridiculous!”

In the ensuing dead silence, tears welled up in his sore eyes. He faked one of those smiles, but it was no use. The tears trickled down his cheeks.                                 

“Oh, man, what is it now?”

Ben turned his head and reached back for a Kleenex.

“Stop it, dammit.”

But Ben couldn't stop it.

“Oh, why did you have to come along?  Why did I have to run into you in the first place?”

Spinning around, she smacked into the orderly's wheelchair. Her momentum took her past the slight black figure in green scrubs and out of sight into the bustle of the corridor.

The orderly stooped down, retrieved his rimless spectacles and asked if he should give Ben some time to collect himself. But Ben was unable to reply, unable to do anything.  

“That's what I'll do,” said the orderly in a soft, nurturing tone. “I'll give you five minutes and come back for you.”

Alone again, Ben's sensible side made an effort to step in, telling himself he hardly knew Molly. What was he thinking of? It was over. It never was.

But it was no use.

With nothing better to do, he set about dabbing his sore eyes, applied a few more drops and tried to get ready. The orderly certainly didn't deserve the added burden of a floater dragging his heels in an inconsolable funk. Ben got to his feet, gripped the suitcase handle, hobbled over to the wheelchair and flopped into position.      

When the orderly reappeared, he gave Ben a wary look. When Ben told him it was okay, the orderly wavered a bit more. By rote, he reviewed what he called “decamping procedures” in that same coddling tone. Then did a last minute check, placed the suitcase on Ben's lap, and wanted to make absolutely sure Ben knew what he was doing. In response, Ben simply asked if they could please move on. Shrugging his bony shoulders, the orderly began wheeling Ben out.

Passing by the occupants of assorted gurneys and wheelchairs, the orderly was still unconvinced he was doing the right thing. Perhaps Ben needed to prolong his stay, request counseling, words like that?  With a bit more conviction, Ben insisted that they proceed to the exit.

At the elevator, they encountered a couple consoling their little four-year-old whose right hand was covered with thick gauze and tape. They told him over and over what a brave little boy he was and that Mom and Dad would always be there for him. Ben couldn't help wondering what that would have been like. Having someone watching out for you, always making sure you're okay.  

Before his spirits sank even lower, his whimsical side stepped in. How maudlin can it get? Wasn't the heartbroken battered failure enough? Did he have to toss in the lonely orphan too?  

When the elevator doors parted at the ground floor, the little boy looked up and waved goodbye with his good hand. Ben waved back and watched the three of them taking their sweet time as they drifted out of sight.  

Moments later, outside at the departure circle, Ben had to ward off the coddling attendant one last time. Yes, Ben assured him, he'd be fine. No, he didn't want him to call a cab. Yes, he, the kind aid to the gimpy and downcast should go and help others truly in need.

A few words of comfort, some time-honored homilies like, “Remember, this too shall pass,” and Ben was alone and wheelchair-less.   

He cast his gaze north. Suitcase in hand, he began hobbling along. Disregarding his throbbing knee, he threaded his way past the awaiting luxury cars that rimmed the massive North Tower and headed up George Burns Road. With a tint of sepia washing across the sky, he pictured himself in the last shot of a Chaplin classic: a poor but undaunted tramp, fading off into a slow dissolve. Another maudlin image to be sure, but easier to take than the shattered orphan.  

The classic movie shot in his mind was cut off by a chorus of beeps. He waved the shiny black Mercedes on, and the white Porsche and the brace of cream colored luxury sedans. But the beeping didn't stop. It wasn't until the running board almost grazed his left side that Ben finally understood what was going on. Before he had a chance to speak, there was a squeal of brakes, an open door blocked his way, his suitcase was summarily taken out of his hands and tossed under the tarp of the truck bed next to the pigeon coop. With a traffic jam forming behind them, Molly yelled, “Hop in!” She helped lever him up and over the running board onto the passenger seat, scooted around and slid behind the wheel as they slammed their respective doors. To make more room, she tossed a Hollywood souvenir pillow and half-empty box of doughnuts under the dash by Ben's feet, worked the long wand of a gear shift hard, double-clutched and they were off.

As they hit Sunset, Molly said, “Guess I kinda lost it back there. I mean, after this whole stupid nightmare, fitful sleep and all. And your undercover buddy tells me about you and then you kinda lost it back there too.  I'm saying, let's back up and give it another shot.”

Quick translation: they could better conclude their unfinished business in the cab of the pickup. Now that she had simmered down, that is, and provided he was no longer teary.

At a loss, Ben simply nodded.

The ride was rough, the shocks, if there were any, probably leaking. But Ben hung in there. If she could ramrod this ancient crate with no qualms, he could sit still while riding shotgun and gird himself for a more definitive goodbye.

Maneuvering through the crush of five o'clock traffic and fending off the glare bleeding through the tinted smog, Molly eventually swung onto the Hollywood Freeway heading west. Above the growl of the tired old motor, Ben continued to wonder what she had in mind.

For openers, broaching the subject as she finally settled onto a right-hand lane, she offhandedly asked about his situation. Matching her tone, Ben told her that discounting Mrs. Melnick's latest gonzo scheme, and apart from some leftover cash and a dwindling amount he could draw from an ATM, his prospects for avoiding vagrancy were nil.

In turn, Molly admitted her own finances were in pretty rough shape. After Ray laid her off when the concert tours dried up, her only hope was getting paid for her deliveries and an advance on her upcoming role in Angelique's “new thing.” A hope, like she already said, had been dashed forever more. In fact things were so bad, she had to give C.J. Granny's trailer as her home address.

All in all, the only good thing that came out of this exchange was the canceling of debt. As far as she was concerned, it was tit for tat and the subject was moot.  

Continuing in this vein, Molly asked, “What about Aunt June and your birthday and all? What about that?”

Though he had no idea how she knew—perhaps he'd said something, perhaps she'd gotten it from C.J.—he told her it hinged on whether or not he'd at long last “arrived.” As things stood, he had not only not arrived, he'd been tossed off the train.

“Tossed off the train—gotcha, right.”

He turned away from her and looked out the open window at nothing in particular, still wondering when she would hit him with the wrap up. If she was through complaining how Ben had wrecked her life, what was it? Letting off steam, going for a long drive, pretending she was a typical Angelino? Hardly.

After an interval during which neither one of them spoke, she veered off somewhere in Camarillo. At first Ben thought this was where she was going to come out with it. But she simply pulled over by a seedy taco drive-through, left the motor running and said, “I really can't take any more of this. I have got to know where I'm at.”

“Me too,” said Ben, realizing he was miles from his old stamping ground, headed God-knows where.

“That's no help. I'm talking about my situation.”

Ben thought for a moment and said, “Look, if it's still the stalking thing, by now maybe C.J. has enough on this pyro gunslinger to charge him and put him away.”

“So you say. But what if the Vegas mob or whatever sprung him and he's right this minute on my trail.”

“Not if he's double-crossed Ray, which he has,” said Ben, surprised at how his voice and off-the-cuff style had suddenly revived. “He's obviously a loner and whoever was running him has hung him out to dry.”

“In your dreams.”

“Okay, I can check, if that's what you're driving at. I can make a call and find out.”    

“All right,” said Molly, as she gunned the motor and took off again. “That's better. That would take care of problem number one.”