Tinseltown Riff (23 page)

There was no response. Nothing.

Dejected, Ben flopped back down in his chair.

With her eyes drooping, Molly tossed the Dr. Seuss book aside and returned to the couch. “Right, never mind, forget I asked. So, back to business, about this gig. Twin sister or doubles act? We're talking my age, correct? I mean, if I play it right. Yes? Isn't that so?”

She slumped back on the couch and stuck her feet on the coffee table, barely missing the mug.

Ben gave her a halfhearted nod.

“Okay, that's better. All right. I'll help you out if you drop the not-so-good-street stuff. I mean, we're both trying to make it, right?”

“Bingo.”

“Awesome. So what do you need?”  Fluffing up a throw pillow, leaning back against it, she let her head to loll to the side.

Hoping against hope he could make up for the time wasted, Ben gave it another try, grabbed a hunk of charcoal and waited for something to click.

But instead, after a few yawns she went off on another tangent. “Oh, wow, just to be part of it all. I passed by the Prado and saw some real celebs. ”

Eyes still drooping and with her voice getting more and more slurry, she paid no mind to Ben's frustration. “I pulled over on Rodeo Drive too, spotted a couple of girls, my age, through the tinted window. Highlights, foil strips, some guy pouring on the gold so their hair looked sun-bleached. Leaving the roots so they looked hot ... no worries, no regrets.”

Ben had no comeback, except to say it was cute, like the pigeons. He kept staring at the blank panels, the piece of charcoal clutched in his fingers.

“Cute, huh? Pretty easy for you, bud. Are you in over your head? Is your mom tramping around Sausalito? Is your granny a wino?”

“Come on, Molly, give me something.”

“You bet.” She let out a sleepy moan followed by an almost inaudible, “Oh, man, I am so out of it.”  Fluffing up the throw pillow, she finally let something slip. “But I got stuff I gotta do first ... hide something a whole lot better.”                                                                                                                                           

“Uh-huh,” Ben said, trying to fake that offhand tone. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Mmm,” said Molly, her eyes comfortably closed “In a minute, in a sec.”

“But why bother? Thought you wanted to meet Gillian?”

“Mmm.”

“Hey, tell you what. Maybe I can help. Work it in.”

But she drifted off again, slid over on her side hugging the pillow.  

Turning back to the easel, Ben sketched-in a suggestion of the pickup truck, tailgate down ...  a cage full of pigeons resting inside the truck bed, a few sacks hovering behind them ... tying it in to Molly scurrying around the back lot in the shadows.

Molly tossed and turned and let out a few more incomprehensible murmurs.  

“Hid it in the barn, did you?”   

No answer.

“Of course, somewhere near the loft.”

Another affirmative “Mmm.”

“Couldn't hide it well ‘cause Lester spooked you. Had to move the pigeons as well. And, judging from your license plates, you've been running yourself ragged.”

Yet another “Mmm.”

“So, much better to stay put, wait for Gillian, while I make sure the secret's good and tucked away.”

When she snuggled up a bit more, he went over to her and whispered, “No problem, Molly, you got it. No trouble. No trouble at all.”

There was no murmur this time, no sound at all. Only the deep breathing of an exhausted young woman fast asleep.

It was all so simple. He was looking for trouble. He was this close. If he could parlay the hidden stash into a juicy point of no return, it would be a win-win. A hook to feed Gillian so they'd green-light it in a flash.
Hey, chicks, what are you waiting for? Check it out
.
Be the girl, play the game, it gets worse and worse. Do anything, babe, and take it all back.     
 

He flipped the light switches and set the three overhead fans in motion. Even though it had cooled off, the air inside was getting stuffy and it would mask his exit.  

As he passed through the alcove and squeezed the front door shut, it crossed his mind that the contents of her sacks were suspect to say the least. Which was promising but a bit worrisome to boot.  

He scurried past the shabby facades of the Western town keeping only Gillian's directive in mind: come up with something seamy, off the mean streets and totally now.  With or without C.J.'s help, what did it matter? The second Gillian, aided and abetted by  Leo, confronted him at the bungalow, he would deliver.

The bags were only a springboard, he kept telling himself. A device to jolt his imagination while doing Molly a favor.  

If he wasn't in such a rush, he might have also pondered over what Gillian and Leo would make of it if they came across Molly lying dead asleep on the couch. But it had all come down to stowing away some sacks, hyping their contents, racing back to his easel and winging it in record time.  
  
 

The second he reached the stable, he lifted the rusted iron bar. The overhead rollers resisted, forcing him to shove even harder till the doors gave way enough so that he could barely squeeze through.  

Once inside, he saw that, with the heavy window shutters closed tight thanks to his clumsiness, it was almost pitch dark. He immediately banged into a wooden post. The rancid odors of axle grease, motor oil and stale gasoline from the oil drum and hanging Model T motor were overpowering. With Lester tramping around with his squirrel rifle, it was patently obvious why she only made a cursory attempt to hide her wares, latched  the barn doors shut and, with Iris headed for the bungalow, took off for Studio Three lugging her bird cage.  

He banged into another post before he got his bearings. Threading his way past the musty harnesses, he located the wooden ladder and clambered up to the hay loft. The rest was easy. It didn't take long to locate the tarp from her truck bed and uncover the sacks. Although his eyes were getting accustomed to the dim shapes and shadows, he had no idea what kind of sacks they were. They seemed like the same plastic and burlap ones  they use in the post office for hauling packages.

No matter. He only needed to find a better hiding place so he could beat it back to the bungalow while reaching for the most illicit thing these light-and-chock-full sacks could hold. A cheap thrill enterprise, a no-no the girl gamers would love to take on and beg for more.  

His first notion was to slip the latch and dump the sacks in the makeshift bunk. Another possibility was to hide them under the moldy sacks of grain in the pit behind the buckboard. He opted for the latter, pitched all half dozen over the side along with the tarp.

Scrambling down the ladder, he jammed the lot of it under the rotting lumps of grain, made for the entrance, bumped into another post, squeezed through the opening, shoved the heavy double doors back in place and secured the iron bar.

A quick survey revealed no sound or movement approaching down from the tech alley. A glance at his watch under the filmy glints of moonlight told him he had, at the outset, less than twenty minutes to fill in the blanks. Which, given the fact that nothing dicey enough came to mind, left only the prospect of cajoling Molly, telling her he'll never reveal the whereabouts of her plunder if she let on what it was or even could be that would be worth all this grief.

Rushing back, slipping on the scattering of oranges by the walkway, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Which was odd because he could swear he'd shut it tight. And the blinds were closed. He'd left them partially open to let in the night air.

Perhaps Molly had split? But that was unlikely considering how fast asleep she was and the fact she needed him as a go-between. Anxious to meet Gillian. And then there would be Leo who held the purse strings.

Scanning the area, there were absolutely no signs of activity. No golf-cart parked under the shadows of the ficus trees fronting the sealed café. No indication of anyone's  early arrival.

He eased through the alcove and peered inside. The fans were whirring just as he'd left them. And Molly hadn't stirred. The big difference was the sight of a rangy figure wearing a faded Levi jacket. What was even more troublesome was the nod of recognition despite the fact that he and Ben had never met.  

 
 
 
 

Chapter Twenty-three

 

 

As the guy chain-locked the front door and steered him into the kitchenette, Ben froze. Even the intermittent sounds Molly made tossing and turning on the couch in the next room didn't snap him out of it.                                                                                      

With the rangy figure blocking the way, he was trapped inside the narrow rectangle of space. He had no idea what he was dealing with, what with the guy's wind-burned leathery face, dry twang, dress shirt and slacks and that open Levi jacket. And Ben had no idea when and if he would start to function and raise at least a single protest..

“Maybe you'd like to make a call,” said the guy, reaching in the top pocket of his jacket and flipping open his cell. “Seeing how you don't have a phone on hand.”

Averting the guy's squinty eyes, Ben turned to the sink and toyed with the drain stopper. At least his hands were moving. Maybe his ability to speak would follow suit.

“How about the police? Maybe I could call for you?”

Ben took this as a joke. As though the guy knew full well Ben was high up on the L.A.P.D nuisance list and had sworn to keep a low profile lest he be brought up on charges.

“Right. Wouldn't want to let them in and spoil your game.”

When Molly's restless murmurs rose above the sounds of the whirring fans, the guy said, “What is it? Want me to toss something your way before bringing the girl into it?”

Another joke. Weren't those the same words that started this whole fiasco--Gillian's offer to toss Ben a bone? From now on he would regard this phrase as a red flag.

“Well? What's it gonna be?”

“Look,” said Ben, surprising himself, “I don't get it? What do you mean, ‘bringing the girl into it'? You act like I know what you're talking about. Like I'm some kind of accomplice or something.”

Ben went back to the drain stopper, images of Gillian and Leo's impending entrance flitting across his mind. “This is ridiculous. Who put you up to this, Lester?”                                                                                                                                      

Ben was so rattled, though he'd started groping for answers, he didn't know what else to say.  He'd paid Lester off to sit tight and man the front gate. So Lester would've never let this guy in unless there was some kind of security issue. Which, given Lester's skulking around after Molly, must be the case.

“Is that it?” said Ben. “What do I have to do, guess?”

Cutting off Ben's sputtering, the guy said, “Now what in hell does that have to do with it?”

“I don't know. I'm thinking, I'm thinking.”

“Well you'd best quit thinking and lay it on the line.”

Wincing, the guy braced his lower back with his knuckles and sucked in some air; a routine, along with everything else, Ben had no way of deciphering. At the same time, Molly's murmuring was growing a bit louder.     

Then, as if the atmosphere in the kitchenette wasn't stifling enough, the guy backed Ben up against the sink. “Look, friend, the girl's coming to. Everybody, including Angelique and your feisty cousin are getting antsy.”

“Iris, you've talked to Iris?”

Shaking his head, the guy turned on his heels and went back to check on Molly. The overhead fans in the work room whirred on.

Ben edged over, saw that he was only looking at her, not shaking or touching her in any way. Back to the sink counter Ben went, fussing with the box of cone-shaped coffee filters. He flipped them right-side up, placed them neatly back in the box and wondered when, if ever, his brain would start to kick in.  

The second the guy returned, Ben said, “Okay. Not to appear dense, but why are you working on me? What is it you think I've done?”

All Ben got in return was that same squinty stare.

“What is it? My sneaking around? Is that why they called you in?”             

Molly's yawning prodded Ben that much more.   

“Okay, I get it now. You see, as a hack, when nothing comes to me, I get ideas  from whatever's around. Then I jump back in, sketch, babble, whatever it takes to keep the ball rolling.”

Moving right up to him, Ben said, “Look, I know you think you're doing your job. But I am under the gun. I suggest you consult with whoever put you up to this and let me get on with the finishing touches.”

“Right. Look the other way while Pepe steps in. How dumb is that?”

It wasn't much, just a palm pressing against Ben's chest, but it was enough. With the little shove and the words “Pepe” came the realization this was no security man. In turn, Chula's report about a cowboy stalking Pepe in the barrio and running over C.J.'s kids struck brain. This was the very guy.

“Listen,” said Ben, “You have got this all wrong.”

“Tell me about it,” said the cowboy. “He calls you late at night and is hooked up with Chicano hoods. Iris says you got something going on the side. You draw a sketch of wiped-out sleeping beauty here, her old truck and the sacks in the truck bed. And then you take off again.”