Tinseltown Riff (21 page)

At another impasse, he wandered into the kitchenette and put some water on to boil, hoping for a gentle knock as Molly came for tea. For better or worse, he needed her to propel the story to a point of no return. But he wasn't able to admit to himself that he was the one who needed a respite, longing for her company and a way to block out whatever gonzo forces may be closing in.  

 

Chapter Twenty-one
 
 

 

 

Wearing his Levi jacket over the silky mauve T-shirt he was dying to ditch, Deke slid into a vacant booth at Islands Polynesian Delight, placed his cell phone on the inlaid tile tabletop and waited for Angelique to call back.

By now he'd driven around a bunch of times and saw no sign of an old green  pickup. In the twilight afterglow, with the hunger getting to him, he reminded himself not to confuse motion with action.  

The second rule, which went with the first, was not to move at all till he had something to go on a damn sight better than this. And getting definite information out of Ray, who believed the Feds could tap him if he stayed on any device more than sixty seconds, was harder than getting Angelique to use what little brains she had. But at least Angelique had snuck out, rang Deke's cell and offered to call the guy manning the studio gate. She did it, so she said, because she had to hook up with some dead ringer or at least get in touch with this Ben character. Failing that, she would get hold of her fitness trainer who put her on to Ben's situation. Bottom line: Angelique was in need of Deke's tracking service as much as Ray but for a different reason. And Deke was in need of some clear cut beeline to the payoff.   

It was now ten after eight. He had a few minutes to wolf something down and take it all in till Angelique touched base. Which, come to think of it, wasn't such a bad idea. This Ben character might be some kind of link. Any kind of link would be better than hanging everything on Ray's hunch about Angelique's handoff of a calling card. And his hunch this Mexican was about to horn in. Banking on both hunches leading straight to the missing stash was way too scattershot.     

And so was checking on that wimp Elton Frick's voice mail again. And finding out both Fed agencies figured Frick was spooked by organized crime. That's why Frick  wasn't calling back. And that's why they were looking into it.

Too much static all around.  He needed something he could get a bead on here and now.  

As Deke did his best to hang tight waiting for Angelique's call, a young punk dressed in a matching flower-print shirt and pants, brushed by and took his order. The only thing recognizable on the menu was an Island burger with chili and pineapple chunks. The chili was made of soy and tofu, but the beef was supposedly from a steer. Plus they couldn't have messed with a cold bottle of Coors.

The punk thanked him as he scooped up the menu and stopped in mid-motion. “Nice T-shirt. Say, you wouldn't happen to be a talent scout or something?”

Deke gave him a blank stare.

“Just asking. Our acting coach at the Strasberg Instiute says you never know. That's the same Strasberg--long departed, of course--who made Marilyn Monroe a star.”

Deke cast his eyes away from the punk and onto the tiled tabletop. Marilyn Monroe again. First Castroville and now here. Even more static.

“Okay, just tossing it out there,” said the pushy punk. “But like coach says, in this business you play the moment. You see an opportunity, you grab it.”

Deke tapped on the tiles. The punk finally caught on, excused himself and flitted off into the blare of the
Beach Boys Live
and the obstacle course of grass huts and tropical birds. The glazed macaws were perched overhead painted in turquoise, lime, orange and flamingo red.  

Deke snatched the crinkled L.A. map from the top pocket of his jacket, slapped it  on the table and scanned the West Hollywood streets. Last time he was here, the chase also took him every which way. This particular watering hole was set back on a boulevard that wasn't a boulevard. There was a chunky gold building down the street like a fake eastern temple, shoddy store fronts, radio towers that looked like mangled oil derricks, a weird Chinese-looking theater, then a cluster of chrome bimbos that looked  like a hood ornament for a 1950s Caddy.

Everything was so flung around, you were never
there
. To find Paramount or this Avalon Studios, you had to scout around up La Brea or Fairfax, cut across Melrose and turn down. And all the while cars zipped by on either side and tried to cut you off. Either that or everything slowed to a crawl. But if you tried some side street, you'd like as not wind up on the Santa Monica Boulevard and to hell and gone.  

To Deke's mind, at least in Vegas, all of it was piled up on the Strip. You couldn't miss it if you were blind drunk and had amnesia. There it was till they tore it down and stuck an even bigger load of crap in its place: shooting fountains, an Eiffel tower, the statue of liberty plunked in a fake ocean, and a screaming roller coaster. Inside, you got an old lion stuck in his cage, topless girls, every kind of blown up show, crowds streaming in and out of the casinos and banks of slot machines. From there you had your high-rollers betting $5,000 a hand, the buzz at the roulette tables, baccarat, blackjack dealers with their dead eyes peeling cards from a shoe. You want it, it's in your face and you were smack-dab sons-of-bitches
there
.

What it had come down to was that Deke had goddamn had it
.
Sick of being bottled up and jerked around. Sick of the spasms in his back. Sick of the jokers to the right of him, clowns to the left. Sick of what was up with the Feds, the Mexican, Walt and the Outfit. He was a footloose tracker and, one way or another, he was going to by-God stay footloose.    

The punk came back with Deke's order and made no more play for Deke's attention. But still no call from Angelique. He set his cell phone aside and wolfed down the meat and mealy-sauce-and-fruit combo. By this point, it had gotten so bad he almost missed Sin City. Missed getting a thick steak and all the trimmings any time of night and day. Missed being called in ‘cause some bozo had signed markers, comped a huge credit line, or some bag man was skimming off the top. No problem. You smoked him hightailing it to the desert or Red Rock Canyon. Then you were out of it, back to the shack up in Cold Creek. Over and done.

Draining the Coors and asking for another, Deke took out the little notepad and nailed down his plan. Intercept those “financial resources” and get the hell out. Over to Vegas for a juicy tradeoff with the Outfit. Then cool it down overlooking the Sierra Range: wild brownish red in the morning, a coat of fresh snow atop Mount Charleston in winter. The desert road to the Valley of Fire ...  dancing sunsets on Red Rock Canyon walls ... swinging over to Sunrise Mountain, Lake Mead, up and over to wherever the hell he goddamn pleased.

About twenty minutes later, he paid his tab and scooted out. Over to the beige rental car a few blocks away; his sightlines cut off by a humongous billboard display: some grinning nutcase, half of him dressed in a wedding gown, the other half in a tux, fat pink and blue letters spelling out
Split Decision
. Seemed everywhere he looked, something about this town kept twanging his back.

Finally, his cell phone did its jingle. He gave Angelique only a few seconds for her song and dance about how hard it was to keep sneaking away from Ray to make a private call.   

“Talk to me,” Deke said, “or forget it.”

“That is like so rude. Like I deserve this?”

“Then forget it.”

“All right.  Damn, this was supposed to be so-o fun.”

“The girl. You said she was coming down to do double duty. What was she driving? An old pickup maybe?”

“Who knows, who cares? The point is, Lester was doing his rounds last night and came across the card Ben must've slipped her. The point is, she didn't show up at my place and there's still no sign of her yet, besides the card and some doughnut wrappers and all. But if she's looking for me ...”

Angelique lost her train of thought before she came back with, “The story is, only Studio Three and the bungalow are open and there must be some kind of misunderstanding.”

“And this writer, this Ben character?”

“That's the worry part. He's playing hide-and-seek.”

“Who told you this?”

“Iris, my trainer, who else? She was just there, called back a bunch of times and finally caught him by the gate. Sounds like he's got something else going.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Look, I need a project real bad. Gotta make sure this comes to something. Gotta get back on the power list before I fade and die.”

Breaking in on Angelique's meltdown, he learned that Iris was at her fitness center this minute waiting to fill Deke in.

Deke made some more notes. A glance at the map gave him a two-step trajectory.  He was on it now and all he had to do was follow the trail.  

 

Deke drove a few blocks west and got a break headed down Fairfax hitting only light traffic. Parking behind the gym in a no-parking spot, he unbuttoned the suit jacket swearing he would never again wear anything that made him feel like a male whore. Then snatched the stainless steel attaché case out of the trunk for added effect. Afterwards, when he swung back up Melrose and over to the studio, he'd put on the Levi jacket and play it his own way.

Before locking the car, he checked under the front seat making sure the slim-line Walther and belt slide were carefully tucked out of sight.  

As he drifted through the glass doors of the gym, he got sidetracked by a bunch of gals in the room to his right. The space was lined with mirrors rimming a shiny wooden floor and they were all wearing bright halters and shorts with their hair done up in a ponytail. In the few seconds it took him to realize the instructor was much too young to be Iris, he nodded as heads turned to check him out. It seemed they were in the middle of a routine, reaching like they lost something way up high, crossing their arms in front, swinging them all the way around and obviously in no position to help him out. He pivoted to avoid the instructor's eyes but turned too fast and felt a twinge down low in that same spot in the small of his back.

Ignoring the spasm, he scanned the layout. The space beyond the front counter was much larger and held the treadmills and flickering TV monitors. Down a flight of stairs was a lineup of all kinds of machines, weights, bench press equipment and such much further back. And that's where he spied her, way over in the corner, well past the tall brunette and little blonde going neck and neck, stride by stride on parallel cross trainers. The only trouble was the pounding speakers overhead wailing and thumping about ‘good lovin' that hurt his ears. Adding to the racket, the giant fans were grinding and blowing the night air in a cross current. Having to raise his voice to get something out of this Iris character was dumb. But she looked too busy to move her outside and he didn't have time to ask her to step into an office.  

Just then, a body-builder type bulging out of his V-neck tank top lumbered out of the shower rooms behind the counter. Deke asked if he would mind turning the sound down. Snapping open the attaché case and pulling out the notepad and silver ball point seemed to get a rise out of him. But mostly it was Deke's mauve T-shirt that the body-builder called “very dishy” that did the trick. The bodybuilder asked if Deke was from out of town on business. When Deke said he had an appointment with Iris, the guy switched stations to Broadway show tunes and kept it on a low decibel level. He also said not to worry about interrupting her. Iris was only disinfecting the machines for their nightly dust-up. He added that he was free at ten and would be more than glad to show Deke around.    

After giving him a thanks-but-no-thanks, Deke headed down the stairs, straight between the dueling cross trainers and the water fountain and across to the far end. Iris still had her back to him as she sprayed the handles of something that looked like a huge snowmobile that had hit an embankment and spun on its tail. Her knees were on the seat of the contraption as she squirted away at the chrome handlebars with a plastic bottle filled to the brim with soapy foam. A paper towel rolled onto the floor. Deke picked it up and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” said Iris. “Angelique send you?”

“Uh-huh. Can we get right down to it?”

“You said it. Hey, wait a second, what happened to the beat?”

“I asked the guy at the desk to turn it down.”

“Oh, yeah? He didn't just tweak it. He switched to slurpy shlock. You can't pump iron to slurp. I'm telling you, everything right now is totally out of whack.”                                                                           

Before pressing on, Deke gave her a once-over. She was built like a squat lady wrestler but wore a silky yellow windbreaker with the sleeves rolled up, yellow shorts, socks and matching tennis shoes. Her thick grey hair looked like she'd clipped it with sheep shears. No makeup, deep tan. The lines in her face told him she was well over fifty. Her beady eyes and low, rusty voice told him she shot from the hip and he could cut to the chase.

“Get it?” said Iris, wiping down the handles again to make doubly sure. “What I'm saying is, think about it. Ben's all over the place. You got one dorky guy manning the gate who knows from nothing. Leo asks if the Mexican who works out with the heavy bag is Ben's secret friend. This is just the other day, mind you. Tonight, Leo calls and asks again, wants to make sure.”

“Of what?”

“That it's going down, what else?”