Tinseltown Riff (6 page)

 

Minutes later, Gillian kept barking into the receiver, pressing him for a definite answer. “Out with it, Benjamin. Did you hook up with el mysterioso? Is he on board, yes or no?”

“Yes,” said Ben. “But he is to remain anonymous. Available to me when in dire straits.”

An almost inaudible “hmm?” and an interminable stillness before she finally said, “All right.  I'll spin that to a ‘at your beck and call.' Give me a few minutes, I'll set something up.”

“An actual few minutes?”

“Oh, puh-lease. What's your number?”

After they both rang off, Ben occupied his time perusing the faded posters tacked on the walls, like the one for
The Day the Earth Stood Still.  
This was the oldie that featured a dignified alien who came down to earth to issue a warning about nuclear warfare. But was pleased to learn that everyone on this planet wanted peace and tranquility. A premise far removed from life as we've known it and any pop mayhem Gillian was pushing nowadays.

True to her word this time, Gillian rang him right back. “You're on. She'll see you anytime between four and five.”

“Who will see me?”

After Gillian filled him in employing her usual cryptic style and was about to cut him off, Ben said, “Hold it. As much as I am champing at the bit, are you asking me to believe she will see me right now?  That it's actually come down to me and a mystery sidekick?”

“Highly competent back-up.”

“Right. A grade-A Sancho Panza.”

“I'm waiting, Benjy. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine. I will go in blind.”

“And you will comply.”

“And I will comply.”

Satisfied, Gillian gave him the unlisted address in Laurel Canyon and advised him that if, by some miracle, she gave him a thumbs-up, the rest would fall into place. Predictably, before Ben could say another word, he was left with a sharp click and a dial tone.  

Dutifully thanking the would-be sci-fi writer for the use of his sanctuary, Ben wandered back out into the blustery haze. While talking himself into this dubious chance of a lifetime—which, as far as he knew, hinged on a ditsy rock star--he could swear he saw the phantom green pickup cruising past the next intersection.

He also sensed that the wind gusts were shifting direction. On some whimsical wayward course independent of anyone's calculations.      

 
 

Chapter Five

 

 

When Angelique flounced onto her sun porch, practically naked save for a frilly pink-paisley skirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs, Ben knew he was supposed to react. Turn red, leer, cover his eyes, bolt from the premises—something. But he just stood there. All he saw was a body-builder Barbie. Even her breasts seemed manufactured, the result of so many reps on a Strive body-part enhancer, plus quarts of cousin Iris' Protein/Power Cooler.

“Ooh,” said Angelique, feigning innocence. “You're here.”

“Yup,” said Ben, trying to appear nonchalant and competent. “As requested, right on time.”    

“Oh, golly. How embarrassing.”

“Oh?”

A fake pause, eying him, putting on her own act as well. “Guess I should slip on something a bit less revealing.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Okay. No peeking.”

“You bet.”

Before easing back through the bamboo curtain, she gave him what he assumed was one of her patented glances: lowering her smoky eyes and pursing her pouty lips, belying the fact that her ingénue years were a distant memory.  She waited again for a more heated response. Still covering up a sense of unease, Ben could give her nothing but a wave of his hand.

To any casual Hollywood observer, a slender sandy-haired thirty-something had just flunked the test. The shot of Angelique's moves alongside a lasciviously responsive Ben surely would've boosted his cachet among his hapless associates alone. Those, that is, who were hobnobbing at today's coffee klatch on Fairfax at the Farmer's Market across from the Screen Writers Guild. Be that as it may, it wouldn't dawn on his fellow hacks that something else was off-kilter on this loopy day. Doubtless, they'd be so taken in, they wouldn't have noticed the scene while cruising up the Hollywood Hills and winding around Laurel Canyon. They wouldn't have sensed that no other rock stars were wailing on their keyboards; no pool parties were vying for billing as most outrageous.  Moreover, under the overcast sky and fickle wind-gusts, all the hidden villas were silent. No motor bikes had caromed past Ben as he ascended. Even the weekend foragers, scouring through the wood ferns, needle grass and chaparral, hadn't materialized out of the gullies and ravines. This was not Laurel Canyon as advertised.  No matter how he tried to remain focused, this was Ben's special omen-generator working on overtime.

Amplifying this notion, a shift into second and a sharp turn up Angelique's hidden drive became a walled-in s-shaped slalom run. At the top, the turnaround was blocked by a silver Jag with Vegas plates, perfectly positioned to make the downward spiral, leaving Ben with the prospect of exiting backwards. After managing to crank up the hand brake as tightly as possible, he'd slid out and found the high wooden gate ajar, opening onto a long, narrow azure pool. At the far end he'd spotted a scrawny form lying on a chaise lounge like the discarded dregs of a failed debauch. The eyes were covered by opaque sun goggles resting on a beak of a nose, a huge orange towel covered most of the rest. The sun porch opposite ran the entire length of the pool. As for what lay beyond the sun porch, there was the bamboo curtain Angelique had just slipped through and, like everything else, anybody's guess. Anyway you looked at it, Ben needed to keep his eye on a quick exit. Anyway you looked at it, today's edginess was more than justified.    

He waited a while longer for Angelique's return. He paced around the sun porch and glanced back. The scrawny form with the beak didn't stir. He peered through the rolled-up bamboo shades that separated him from whatever was lying there, over to the opening in the gate, praying that no one would pull up behind the Prelude, blocking off his only avenue of escape.

Just then, Angelique reappeared and murmured, “How about this?”

Glancing back, Ben positioned himself so he could respond to her and keep apprised of the prone, goggled thing from Vegas.

Still naked from the waist up, she clutched a yellow Lycra top with slashes on the side as if she'd just been in a knife fight, two silky tube tops, a nylon bomber jacket, a polka dot halter, and a florescent pink button-down with the shirttails tied in a knot. “Which one? Which one?” she squealed.

“The button-down. Look—”

“Hey, come on. You can at least gape at my bod and take in my porcelain complexion and tousled wispy locks. Wanna know the secret? My hair's really light brown, but after lots of sun and a douse of platinum and gold, it gets this bold-blond glow. But it's no good if the sun is gonna hide like this.”

“Granted. It's tough, I understand. But if you could put something on and we could get on with this ...”

“Another secret for you. I get a lot of facials. A skinline by Nicholas Perricone plus my hair and nails done every week. And a massage and body scrub for sheer indulgence.”

“That's terrific.  But—”

“I'm giving you clues, dammit.  I'm clueing you in.”

“Really?  I'm sorry, I hadn't noticed.”

Angelique's Barbie face went blank for a second. “Hey, what gives? The other seven came on strong. Said how they could ... re ... re ...”

“Revive?  Revitalize? Revamp?”

“That's the one. Revamp my image by repositioning me within the right tailored vehicle.” She uttered this statement slowly, like memorized patter she'd been rehearsing all day. “Revamp not ditch it,” she went on, a little faster this time. “They each also hit on me and wanted to jump on my bones.”

“Well, that's guys for you.”

“Two were women.”

“Exactly. Listen--”

“Hold it.”

Angelique went blank again, gazing past Ben over to the pool. Then, staring Ben in the face, she said, “Has Ray moved at all?”

“Must have,” said Ben, assuming Ray was the creature from Vegas. “His head is now facing this way.”

“Oh, rats, better hurry. I'll choose one of these tops. Which'll give you two minutes to ready your pitch.”

“My pitch?”

“Oh, get off it,” said Angelique.  “I am in trans ...”

“Transition?”

“Yeah.  The cutesy-hot shtick has obviously had it. And that's despite what those studio bimbos have been blowing in my ear.”

Dropping her act entirely, Angelique's features suddenly hardened. “It's a bitch running on two speeds, you know?  Skin-revealing casual to red carpet.  Sleazy duds by day, flash and glitter at night. And even then, half the time who the hell knows if you've got it right. I have got to jack it into gear!”

Still having no idea how to get in and out of this as fast as possibly, all Ben could mutter was, “Like I said, must be tough.”  

She nodded, said, “You got it,” and let out a weary sigh. “Hey, you want one of Iris's smoothies? Soy yogurt, fiber infusion, chopped fruit and protein powder. Before, she gets here, I mean.”

“Iris?”

“Of course. Get with it. Like everything's gotta click, you follow?”

“Great. Let's skip the two minute breaks and get down to it.  Just keep holding the tops up.”

“Yeah, fast but not that fast.  I gotta be dressed for it.”

Again she was gone. As the wind gusts fluttered through the palm fronds, Ben stepped out onto the pink cement rimming the pool. He checked out motionless Ray and peered again through the gate at the Prelude. Going over his exit strategy, he'd have to slip into reverse gear, head twisted toward the rear window, glide down the serpentine run and hope to God he didn't smack into Iris and get completely boxed in.. With luck, he'd finally get something going with Angelique and hightail it. In short, following the first rule of this business, he'd jump in with a hook, spring back and hope he scored enough points to keep the ball rolling.

Off the top of his head, he began to come up with a recipe that might zip him past this hurdle.  

Once again the bamboo curtain rustled. Angelique plopped down on the edge of a white leather recliner. Her chosen top was the tackiest of the lot, the yellow floral with the slashed slits still covering up next to nothing.

Ben stepped back onto the porch as she fumbled for a stick of gum, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and said, “Okay, shoot.  And remember Gillian gave her word it wouldn't be ditsy. And none of that stuff with me playing some sleaze has-been. Check out the monitors at Iris' gym with me in my glory. You get my drift?”

“No worries. We'll capitalize on today's tough times, hankering for the good ol' days of ‘You go, girl,' ‘Breakin' out' and ‘Catch me if you can.'”

Ben didn't know if these were song titles or what, but he was on a roll and didn't want to give Angelique any time to think.

“In other words,” Ben went on as Angelique tossed the gum wrapper aside, “chicks want to be the Angie of old--do anything and take it all back. Let's simply call it
Retro Now
.”

Angelique winced, sucked in more smoke, held it and blew it out through her nose. “That was um ...”

“Too brusk?”

“Yeah. Like you see right through me.”

“See a way to appease our target audience, you mean. They want to do it and, like I said, take it all back.”

(Ben also had no idea what he meant by “do it” or “our target audience” but keep on going.) “Call it Angie rides again: fearless, cruising the back streets, darting in the shadows, shaking off the denizens of the underworld.”

“Hey, let's leave Ray out of this.”

Thrown for a second, Ben countered with, “Look, I'm just throwing out some  ingredients. You told Gillian you wanted it streetwise with backup, well you got it. Got an underpinning. Working title,
Angie's Run
—whatever.”

“
Angie ...
 The Rolling Stones ... me in the same league, I like it, I like it.”  

“No no, not rock videos or any of that stuff. That's out of
my
league. Okay? You've got to keep that in mind.”

“Okay, I got it, all right already.”

“Great. So, what do you say we leave it at that?  I mean, with you under the gun, Ray about to wake up, Iris on her way, and my car parked--”

“It was the tour that did it,” said Angelique, sitting up, puffing away. “I always hit ‘em with this killer pose and listened to ‘em scream. But this time they checked me out when  I put on my pouty face, flashed some thigh and cocked my head.
Nothing.
Like they were waiting for the headliner. Like they didn't realize it was me. I broke into my jiggly moves, my backup dancers offering maximum booty-shaking sizzle, the screen blazing with meteor showers, the band pumping and blasting. But the teenies barely shook it. Even when I tossed them scented tattoos.”

She coughed, puffed faster and sprang to her feet. “Then my voice went off key and the reviews hammered me.”  

“I hear you, I get it.”

“That was at the Arena a few weeks ago. So, when the same thing happened up in Monterey and Ray told me when you can't cut it the burial is permanent-- in an unmarked grave, he said--I ditched the rest of the tour and went ballistic.”

“Honest, believe me, you don't have to go on.”

Prancing around, the cigarette turned into a pointer. “So ... I mean, like Gillian said, with you being so hungry and having been around the block, and all the others out of town or putting me on, more after my bod than repackaging my brand ... you could maybe crank me up a second coming. With the backup of this machismo guy Pepe.”