Tinseltown Riff (27 page)

The cowboy tilted the drum and rolled it till it sat directly under the hay loft.

“But if these rags should catch, the dry hay'll take off and the fire'll ventilate itself. Collapsing the roof probably. But that's even worse. Especially after I bolt the barn doors from the outside.”

It wasn't so much the words, it was that dry, raspy tone again. In the bungalow, it was bullets and semi-automatics. This time it was fumes and flame.

“Another thing,” the cowboy went on. “Old weathered lumber chars at a fast rate. And if you stay put and shoot holes in the shutters, the fire'll travel even faster to get to the oxygen. You'll be done in by flashover.”

After the next dead silence, the cowboy rapped his knuckles against the metal drum. “Hey, you getting this?”

Still not at all bothered by the lack of response, the cowboy continued in the same offhand way. As though he was really in his element.

“Anyway you look at it, you're gonna have to drop the hand gun. ‘Cause you won't be able to see diddly, leastwise shoot the damn thing. Meaning, you're gonna have to scramble down the ladder, knock on the barn doors and beg to hand over the stash.”

Unable to still his racing mind, Ben cranked the pump and drenched the shredded rag till it dripped all over the floor.

The second Ben unlatched the flimsy door, the cowboy struck another match,   held it high for Ben's benefit and called out. “Time's up,” he said, as he dropped the match in the oil drum and strode away.

As soon as the smoke began to billow, the barn doors shut with a resounding clunk. Ben fell to his knees and snatched the cell phone out of his pocket. He hit a wrong button that flashed a 503 area code. On his second try, he managed to hit 911 just before the smoke darkened and thickened. The second someone picked up, Ben hollered, “Fire ... back lot ... Avalon Studios!” rang off, retrieved the hand gun and crawled to the ladder.

His eyes were stinging and running, and even with the wet rag over his mouth he wasn't getting enough air. If the cowboy was right, he had only about ninety seconds left.

Slipping on the safety, he tossed the gun over the side, grabbed the top of the ladder with one hand, held the rag over his mouth with the other, and swung his legs over. The ladder swerved, Ben dropped the rag and grabbed the ledge, let go, hit a couple of rungs, twisted around and jumped. He skinned his knee as he crumpled to the floor and   writhed around. Disregarding the wrenching pain, keeping his face close to the floor boards and cleaner air, he drew quick, shallow breaths, using up more seconds till he found the rag and the gun a few feet away.

Gagging into the rag, he released the safety, pulled the hammer back, got to his feet and shot, aiming at what he took to be the top of the barn doors. He kept it up, the shots going wild, maybe letting in more air, maybe attracting attention, maybe making things a helluva lot worse.  

With the smoke swirling up to the rafters, he stumbled back to the oil drum and tossed in the gun, reckoning that at least the weapon would be inoperative.  

Gagging uncontrollably now, unable to see much of anything through his streaming eyes, he rushed toward the doors, whacked into post after post till he pounded his fists right and left, screaming, “Okay, okay, you got it!”

The doors slid open somewhere to his right. A hand shot out, yanked him into the night and threw him on the ground, exacerbating the pain in his right knee.

Retching and spitting up globs of crud, Ben muttered, “Behind the buckboard ... under the trap door ... under the rotten sacks of grain.”

“You think I'm gonna go back in there, is that what you think? You're gonna go back in there.”

But try as he might, the cowboy was unable to lift Ben off the ground. He clutched his back, cursed and snatched the rusty rag Ben was hanging onto for dear life.

Perhaps deciding to cover the smoking oil drum with the saddle blanket, snatch up the trove and make off free and clear. At any rate, all Ben could think of was to get to some clean water and relieve his scorched throat.

Half-stumbling, half-scrambling, Ben went across the planks that fronted the old Western town, past the hitching posts and into the bungalow. Rushing into the dark workroom, a lurching swerve took him through the portal into the kitchenette. Sticking his head under the sink, he turned on the faucet full tilt, gurgling, gulping and spewing the cold water out of his mouth.  

This went on till he could swear he heard the beep of a horn. Shutting off the faucet, he heard it again.

Totally drenched but thinking
Maybe, just maybe
, Ben doused a dish towel. He dabbed the flayed skin above the tear in his ripped trousers and cried out. He was not only bleeding, he was riddled with splinters. Still gagging and spitting, he hobbled back outside, alternating between holding the towel over his mouth and gulping in the fresh night air.

His leg throbbed, his throat burned, his watery eyes kept streaming, clouding his vision. He turned left in the direction of the tech alley and found nothing, no vehicle, no more beeping. A turn to the right in the direction of the pungent smoke sent him dragging himself forward, blinking and straining his eyes.

Just then, a shrouded form seemed to slip through the billows. Covered by a saddle blanket perhaps, it was hard to tell. Three sacks dropped to the ground one by one, maybe more. There was some faint coughing but nothing compared with Ben's spasms. Ben pulled the dish towel away from his mouth and sprawled onto the hardpan soil in front of the ficus trees. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for the cell phone. The blue monitor flashed but his eyes were too watery, his vision too blurry to make out the numbers. Working by touch, he tried to locate 911 again, realizing he may not have gotten through before.

Hitting the speed-dial by mistake, he muttered, “No, not Portland Information. Good God, will you just get me 911?”

He repeated his fire-alarm message when, out of nowhere, the cowboy reappeared closer by as if just remembering something.

Ben rang off and tried to fathom what the cowboy could possibly want. Why was he walking toward him? He had his loot. It had to be the cell phone—the speed dial. Here in LaLaLand he had no name, no identity. He and the snatched bounty couldn't be traced. But the stored numbers could. Someone picking up at an Oregon exchange might be more than happy to tell all about this character. And so, when it came to it, would good ol' beak-nose Ray.   

If Ben had had any energy left, he might have attempted another retreat. But it was all he could do to keep from passing out. So he just sat there on the rough ground watching the cowboy drift closer. Maybe he could roll over on his stomach clutching the cell phone, give him a hard time. But even that seemed unlikely.

More gagging and retching.  As though making fun of him, the cowboy paused on his stiff-legged way and hacked into the back of his hand. When he was only a few yards away, he stopped again. This hesitation came on the heels of the blare of a horn. The same horn Ben swore he heard off in the distance while gulping and spewing the cold tap water.

No horn this time. Instead, a slam of a car door. At the same time, before Ben knew it, the cowboy was on top of him trying to tear the cell phone out of his hands.

Ben struggled for a moment and was about to give it up. But somehow through his bleary eyes he caught a glimpse of the wild shoulder length hair and brawny form that belonged to C.J.

A backhanded slap sent C.J. out of view. The frame froze with C.J. to Ben's left, the cowboy opposite. The space in-between was occupied by the outline of the burlap sacks in the near background, a smoky haze in the distance.

Ben sat up, C.J. turned toward him. Ben waved him off as the cowboy said, “Now what?”

Ben went into a rocking motion trying to ward off more gagging and spitting. In the interim, the cowboy muttered, “Oh hell,” and sent a roundhouse right that just missed the side of C.J.'s head.

Without uttering a word, C.J. immediately went into his shadow boxing routine, bobbing, weaving and back-peddling. Dipping his shoulder, he rehearsed a few combinations: left jabs, crosses and uppercuts. Feigning a left hook to the cowboy's head, C.J. moved in and began stalking, this time letting out a few choice invectives. Whether he understood Spanish or not, there was no doubt the cowboy knew that C.J. relished the opportunity to get back at him for what he did to his boys.

The cowboy shuffled around and then stood his ground. Another roundhouse right misfired and glanced off C.J.'s shoulder. Through toying with him, C.J. countered with a left hook into the cowboy's ribs. A right cross clipped the cowboy's chin and a flurry of left jabs landed somewhere in the cowboy's midsection. With his arms flailing every which way, punching wildly, only a few of the cowboy's blows managed to hit the mark. Then, catching the cowboy flatfooted, C.J. feinted throwing another jab to the stomach and landed a hard high cross smack in the cowboy's face that snapped his head back.

But nearby shouts accompanied by a pulsing red light broke things up. Camera flashes added to the melee along with squawking intercoms and ear piercing sirens. All of it ruining what promised to be a perfectly good fight.  

 
 
 
 

Chapter Twenty-seven
 

 

 

Ben protested but to no avail. He tried to convince the EMTs and the paramedics that he'd escaped from the barn before conditions worsened and it all caught fire. They didn't listen. No one listened to him. But how could they in all the noise and confusion? And with him gagging and sputtering while straining to get a glimpse of the aftermath of the C.J./ cowboy bout? After being summarily hauled into the ambulance, a tube was shoved down his throat and an oxygen mask was clamped over his face while IV fluids dripped into his veins.

And this was just for openers. Once inside the calamitous ER, blood was drawn along with a lot of talk about blood gasses, oxygen saturation, noxious fumes and levels of CO2. A saline solution was employed to mop up the blood and gunk around his knee.  Then a surgeon went to town with a sharp forceps on the clusters of splinters. The area was sterilized, dressed and bandaged, and a toxoid tetanus shot added for good measure. Not to mention a series of antibiotic injections.

As if this weren't enough, he was carted off for a chest x-ray in a mausoleum-like chamber where he was outfitted with a lead vest and sandwiched between rectangular plates. While all this was going on, some disembodied voice ordered him to hold his breath as she toyed with her buzzers.

Eventually, he found himself inside a cramped cubicle rimmed by daiquiri-colored cinder blocks and a metal closet crammed in the corner. The open closet door afforded him a peek at his dank, sooty dress shirt and shredded khakis with its long, bloody rent where his right knee and thigh should be. There was no sign of his socks and tattered moccasins.  

How and when they got him into the matching daiquiri-colored hospital gown, was anyone's guess. But here he was, in the middle of the night, lying on an elevated hospital bed adjacent to the occasional din of a bustling corridor. At the moment, there was an oxygen clip affixed to his nose and a lozenge for his parched throat that tasted as bad as the rest of him felt, which included his throbbing right leg and aching sore eyes. These sensations and the now-familiar drip of the IV combined to convince him all this was actually happening. He was grateful that the probes had ceased but unable to shake off the notion that his abused body had been dumped and abandoned.

His reeling mind began to blame it all on the carousel's painted pony and the faux Santa Ana that had blown Ray, Angelique and the cowboy into town. It was also the fault of the ramshackle back lot that, as a last hurrah, had drawn everyone in. Like mad, gun-toting Norma Desmond in
Sunset Boulevard:
 hell-bent for a revival of her heyday no matter what the cost.

He also tried to lay blame on Dr. Seuss' book, a legacy culminating in Ben's last-chance quest to finally
arrive
in time for this birthday or else. (Once again, he conveniently blocked out the part about the not-so-good street and the directive to get out of town.)       

All these discombobulated notions dissolved with the arrival of a perky nurse with a mole on her left cheek who barged in out of nowhere.  

“How's my guy? Blood gasses look good, CO2 level a bit high but let's see how you do. Objective is not to be admitted, right? Do not want to be a resident of this hospital. One blink for Yes, two blinks for No.”

Though Ben didn't respond, she said, “That's the ticket. So how about some soothing drops? Good idea? You bet.”

Still giving Ben no chance to reply, she tilted his head back and applied the drops with a cheery, “There you go, sweetie. Now for your temperature.”

She stuck something in his ear but it was so fast he didn't feel it.

“Yes,” said Perky, “holding steady. I'll be back in a bit with the nebulizer thingamabob. Cute as a button. Rolls in and out like a robot. Think of it as just hanging out here for a while. So, in a nutshell, no official admission and, before you know it, you can split.”

“Split?” said Ben, realizing how hoarse his voice really was.

“Scoot, skip, scram. Listen, if you need anything, press the button. And don't pass out on me, you hear? Stay with it.”

“Can't even doze off?”

“Not an option, heavens no. Not after what you've been through unless something's wrong.”

“Like ... ?”

“Like you don't want to know.”

“Blood pressure, right?”

“Which reminds me. The guy with the great bod and wild hair was asking about you. We sent him home for some shut-eye. Told him you're on a fast track long as you're not disturbed.”

“Till when?”

“Morning at least. No close encounters, no worries is the order, understood?”