Tinseltown Riff (28 page)

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Repeat.”

“Not to worry. And ...”

“Stay awake, calm and mellow.”

“Mellow.”

“That's it, sweetie. You got it.”

With her departure came a break in the on-again off-again din from the nearby passing lanes. At first, Ben's dazed mind took in Perky's directive and considered what it would be like to be calm and mellow. To simply be: all banged up, under a cloud, letting others see to your needs.

This notion stayed with him till the din picked up again. Somewhere close by, a whiny voice filtered in. Ben assumed he was a floater. Nearby spots in the passing lane were a temporary stop for orderlies and their charges--those lying on the gurneys, awaiting a signal to move on. At this point, the patients were free to exchange pleasantries, gripes, or lie quietly lost in thought. The whiner in the corridor, however, was not content to take any of this lying down.

“Somebody has got to do something about this,” he snapped. “Think about it. All this crap about battered wives. What about battered husbands? Look at my arms, look at this face. I wait on her hand and foot. I do her bidding. And just because I ask where she's been and mention that her nice supper has been cold for hours, this is what I get. And this is not the first time. Oh no. Oh-oh-oh no.”

“Too bad,” rumbled the low voice that doubtless belonged to an orderly.

“Let me tell you, she was cute when I married her. But now she has become one tough mama.”

During the time it took for this exchange to trail off, Ben wondered if the whiner on the gurney was rehearsing for a bit on a sitcom. In this town you never knew.

As more time passed, Ben came further out of the fuzzy abyss, his mind a bit sharper, grateful for the lull.  

The lull, however, was short-lived as a new and louder voice drew closer and took the whiner's old spot. From the gist of his banter, Ben assumed the guy was a retired psychiatrist anxious to amuse the orderly or just plain anxious.

“Know what we say to each other? ‘You're fine, how am I?'”

“Uh-huh,” said the attendant.

“No good? Okay, here's another. The patient is lying on the couch. The analyst asks him to start from the beginning. The patient says, ‘Okay, in the beginning I created the heavens and the earth.'”

“Uh-huh.”

This hopeless routine really did it. No matter how hard the guy tried, he had nothing to show for it, not even a chuckle. Not unlike the prospect of everything Ben had been through amounting to zilch. Totally worthless.

Eyeing the closet, he was able to make out the scuffed edge of the cell phone protruding from his shirt pocket. Overhearing some problem here with reception due to the steel girders, he also recalled connecting with Portland information via the cowboy's speed dial. And other links, doubtless including one to Ray. Gazing up at the ceiling, his thoughts shifted to Molly and the hope she was safe and snug. Which led to a growing anxiety about when, exactly, C.J. would be popping in.

What followed was the abiding image of the cowboy yanking Molly's head back and flinging her around like a rag doll. He wished he'd rapped the guy over the head with something harder than Iris' can goods and done some real damage.  It was all this unfinished business that got him going and kept him solidly in the here and now.

In the remaining hours before dawn, in between putting up with Perky's ministrations—inhaling the mist from the robot nebulizer, having his blood pressure and temperature checked, and other various and sundry interruptions—Ben spent the time sorting things out. With pen and a pad of paper provided by Perky, he made a list of provocative statements gleaned from C.J., Leo and the cowboy. He also noted the order of events, marked Molly down as eyewitness and victim, and added people who should be interrogated and/or anything else pertinent to an investigation. When he was finished, he had a concise summary all set to hand to C.J. and spare his vocal chords from any explanations. Plus he'd made Perky happy by limiting her frequent checks to see if he was still among the living.

But even so, second thoughts began to stream in. What did he know about any of this, save what he'd seen on the silver screen and TV and snatched from brainstorming sessions in a writers room? And of what value was a scribbled report from a fixture on the LAPD nuisance file?

If nothing else, he had to have C.J.'s assurance that the cowboy would be charged for arson and assault, was in some kind of holding pen, and eventually would be put away for good. And in some way Molly and her dubious dealings wouldn't come into play and she could rest easy.    

This hoped-for outcome carried him through a meager breakfast of soothing Jell-O-like substances and the resumption of a heightened noise level throughout the ER.

Less than an hour later, the broad features and shaggy mane that belonged to Carlos Jose Rodriguez slipped into view.   

“Oye, carnal, they told me to sleep because you were doing so good.  And, calidad de gracias, I see they were right.”

“Never mind.  Let's have it.”

“Let's have what?”

“Fill me in. Is the cowboy in shackles?”

“Whoa, tranquilizate. Olvidalo, man. Olvidalo.”

“I
have
been sitting tight.”

“Ai, Chihuahua. Que pasa contigo?”

“What's the matter? I'll tell you what's the matter ...” Ben pulled back. His throat couldn't take it.

C.J. rolled his eyes. He looked none the worse for his scuffle with the cowboy. Then again, he was one landing all the blows. In fact he looked totally refreshed, sporting a new shirt with a flaming red batik pattern to go with his smooth shave and a faint odor of lime cologne.  

“Look, amigo, I only stopped by to see how you were, you know? But now when I hear that voice, so sore, we got to do something. Si, we must. When is your birthday? Tomorrow? Friday? Saturday? Ai, I must fix it with Chula. A little celebracion, not too big. But cold jars of tepache to wash down your throat. Something like that.”

“Will you quit messing around?”

“Who's messing? Oh, and la musica of course. And some woman to get those juices flowing.  Some chaparrita. No, you need two chaparritas after all this time.”

Raising his hands, Ben said, “Knock it off.”

“Why?” said C.J., obviously in one of his giddy moods. “We could start with cumbia and a beat like a clip-clopping horse. Then we segue to rancheros, corridos and nortenas. You hear that?
Segue
another word you gave me. I am so
fluent,
no?”  

“No.”

“Okay, you do not like my idea? Tell me your wish and I will honor it.”

“Guess.”

 “Ah, you want to know. I will tell you. This cowboy of yours is in a holding cell.”

“Great.”

“Si. I go check with my Chicano troublemakers now. Two who are still recovering. I will show the cowboy's photo, take statements and wipe the smile from his face. Es loco. He has damage to his back and ribs and is coughing. But will accept nada, not even ask for his rights. Only points a finger at me. Like we are compadres. He points, smiles and rolls over on his cot.”

“Is that it?”

“What?”

“Why you finally showed up last night? An outside chance for a little revenge?”

“Hey, he was clutching at you, I save your ass.”

“And why was he clutching? Why was I there waiting for you?”

 “Okay, I take my time. Because I say for you to keep out of trouble. But also tell  Chula for you to keep your eyes open. And now you are here, sick, doliente, herido.”

C.J. swaggered around not about to actually admit he was at fault.

“Si, okay. For you, for me I check on my two bandoleros and come right back.”

“How soon?”

“One hour.”

 “And promise to see it through: arson, assault--the works.” Waving his notes in the air, Ben said, “There's a lot more to this, C.J.”  

“Si, bueno. Tranquilizate.”

“I mean it.”

“Yo comprendo. Rest your throat, rest your brain. I come right back.”                                                                                                          

 

It would be more than an hour, Ben knew that. But at least he had made contact and would rouse C.J. to see to Molly and a lot more.

In the meantime, Perky took Ben off everything except the lozenges and eye drops. She even gave him permission to doze off and told him he might be able to split by late afternoon. That is, if he could get a relative to deliver some decent clothes. Which meant Iris. Someone Ben couldn't bear to think about after letting her down vis-à-vis her jungle mate Leo Orlov. Who, thanks to Ben, was now more manic than ever, given the immediate threat of deportation hanging over his head. Not to mention in trouble with Ray. Not to mention the fallout from the whole subterfuge and scam.

Nevertheless, grogginess overtook all of these concerns. Unable to keep his eyes open a moment longer, he soon gave in and dozed off for a good thirty minutes.

He would have slept longer were it not for the arrival of the inimitable Mrs. Melnick. Barging through the fluttering partition with her squat body percolating beneath her tangerine muumuu, she unleashed her honking bark and woke Ben up.  

“Not to worry,” said Mrs. Melnick. “I told them I was a relative.” Brandishing an
L.A. Times
she went on as if this were a running conversation. “Beautiful. Here's you above the fold and a hint of suspicious findings. So obviously you know what this means. Lucky you, crafty me.”

Ben was still barely opening his sore eyes when she flashed the front page a second time right in his face. There he was, in the foreground with the EMTs lifting him on the stretcher and the billowing smoke in the background. The caption read:
This Is Not A Simulation
. The chances of Mrs. Melnick caring about his health were nil, but he did want to know where she was going with this.  

Rambling on full tilt, Mrs. Melnick said, “Can you stand it? All these years a desert and now a fountain gushes. Anyways, I get a hold of Budd, my contact on
The Tonight Show
and said, ‘What about Howie as not only the world's youngest oldest virgin but also a tie-in with an unlikely hero? In the papers and all over TV is Howie's sidekick, Ben. Another one with no sex life. Too pure like Howie and a throwback to Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. Now who knows what you were doing there, Benjamin, but we can spin this sucker. How about ‘They're one in a million, girls. Pure as the driven snow'?  We'll get all kinds of broads worked up.”

Ben strained to sit upright.  

“Hey, Mr. Prine, are you getting my drift? I promised as soon as Howie's comet blasted off I would let you ride on his tail. So, am I coming through or what?”

Ben managed a hoarse, “Mrs. Melnick ...” but that was all.

“Shh, don't thank me and not to worry. I heard from Iris. Well not exactly heard, but when she cut me off, I knew. Whatever you had going, you blew it. So what? Misfortunes, who needs them? Spin City, like I said. By the way, Howie loves it. Always wanted to work with you since day one.”

“Look, Mrs. Melnick ...”

“No no no, save your energy. But what's with the voice? Never mind, we can use it. Look, gotta run. Budd says there's a chance they can work us in tomorrow night due to multi cancellations from the A and B list, and the fact this back lot fire thing is so hot, no pun intended.”

When Ben shook his head in disbelief while dabbing his sore eyelids, Mrs. Melnick honked a little louder. “You do know Budd, right? Oliver's significant other. I mentioned, I know I did. Oh, this is so great. And, before I forget, Oliver'll be back sometime after six. So you'd better call. Even though you're a mess, his Prelude is fine, tell him. Maybe get someone to drive it by, keep everything smooth like butter so there's no glitch.”  

“Look, Mrs. Melnick,” said Ben, attempting to raise his voice.

“Shh, I said, save your strength. Read it and gloat and let me take care of the rest.” She tossed the paper in his lap and barged out even faster than she'd barged in.

In her wake, Ben scanned the lead story as best he could. He wondered if Molly had seen it.  Or caught the local news on Aunt June's TV?  Was Molly even up yet, for that matter? Or still too scared to go out into the open?  

Ben pressed the button. With a little effort, he managed to induce Perky to ring Aunt June's number. However, if no one picked up, Perky was not to leave a message on the machine. (What would June think when she returned? She would know Ben had broken his promise and let some footloose female into her sealed fortress.)

He sucked on another lozenge and awaited Perky's return. Alas, upon reentering all she could say was, “Sorry, sweetie, no answer.”

By ten-thirty, Ben's anxiety level had risen another notch. Apart from his defining moment as a failure, nothing was clear, nothing was resolved. And of all the issues, the one constant was a concern over Molly's fate; a fear the psycho cowboy would somehow get out on bail and be on the loose. Disregarding any effect on his blood pressure, Ben anxiously awaited C.J.'s return.   

Some twenty or so minutes later, he got his wish. However, C.J.'s agitation gave off a direct signal things hadn't gone as planned.  

“What's wrong?” said Ben, as C.J. rapped his knuckles against the metal closet.  

Letting up on the closet, C.J. said, “My boys they will not finger him. They say, Si, he did run them over. But if they tell, their companeros will come down hard on them. The barrio will come down hard on them because I am still a cop. Eso no lo creo.”

“Eso no lo creo,” C.J. repeated even louder. “I go back to the holding cell, the cowboy holding his ribs. And he says to me, ‘Let me know when you are ready to deal. Because if I go down, you go down.' Still he has not talked to anybody. Nobody will talk to anybody. Dios mio, por favor.”