Tinseltown Riff Page 11

  With no sign that Gillian would deign to give up her perch, Ben walked over to her side. “Well there then now, can it be?”

  “Can we dispense with the patter, Benjy?”

  “Funny, that’s what I was going to say. Great. So let’s have it.”

  “Are you alert? Are you intrigued?”

  “Lady, you better believe it.”

  “All right then. Do you recall the video game you bungled at the house party in Malibu?”

  If he was reading her right, the game she was referring to was Crossfire. And if memory served, you the player (as ex cop Bruce) learn at the outset that your wife and baby were murdered by druggies. You’re out for vengeance the second you come home and discover their bodies. Thus, if Ben hadn’t chosen to enter the house, the game would’ve ended. But even on easy mode, Ben lost track of the druggies hiding upstairs. Prompted by a voice-over to shift to the next scene, Ben had Bruce cut down a dark alleyway rimmed by fire escapes. Within seconds he was met with a barrage of crossfire and was instantly gunned down. It was silly, but after three attempts, Bruce still got three in the chest. At that juncture, Ben swore off video games forever.

  “Well?” said Gillian, tapping her false fingernails on the cart’s steering wheel.

  “Okay, okay. I blew it and gave way to a pair of jaded starlets who did a lot better.”

  “Not only that. But what did they keep bitching about?”

  “After blowing away an army of toothless thugs, they’d had it. Claimed the macho stuff was as lame as the lady-countess tomb-raider crap. Kept eyeing me as if it was my fault.”

  “And? What did they say?”

  “I don’t know. ‘Show us something, man. Bring it on.’”

  “So?”

  “What do you mean ‘so’? They are the focus group! That was the test marketing! They were clamoring for an iPod with touch-screen joystick controls. And open-ended hard core scenarios.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Come on, come on,” said Gillian. “Don’t pretend you don’t gobble up the buzz, don’t hear what’s trending. That you laid it on thick with Angelique totally out of the blue.”

  With his mind clicking away, it dawned on him that she was currently in a relationship with some gaming media designer in the Valley—another part of the industry Ben knew zip about.

  “Gotcha,” said Ben, as though he was on point all along.

  “Well I should hope so,” said Gillian, constantly checking her flimsy designer watch. “Are we or are we not in an upgraded world?”

  “We are indeed,” said Ben, recalling the Amazon on the treadmill egging on the jabbing night nurse as if she wanted a lot more.

  “Ergo, Angelique needs a sure-fire vehicle with intense visual exposure and saturation. One her old form can be jigsawed in with real, not CGI, backgrounds.”

  As if Leo’s sputterings about financing weren’t enough, Gillian rattled off so much shop talk, all Ben could catch were snippets like “... emotional impact ... Angie’s Run—perfect ... game to film adaptation ... potential of 124-million units worldwide ... first sequence grabber leading you on like a killer elevator pitch ... ”

  Breaking in before he went into brain-lock, Ben said, “Okay, okay. But what does that have to do with conning me to check out actual crime scenes? And the hype about Pepe at the writers’ workshop? What does it have to do with this wreck of a studio? What is the simpleminded upshot?”

  “The upshot is an annual growth rate of 20-percent and an untapped market topping it by another ten.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Gillian, however, was on a roll. She was standing now, so psyched she’d flung her slipper off her right foot and hadn’t even noticed.

  “Ask any girl under thirty,” Gillian went on. “Would you rather spend your time watching a screen, waiting for the story to happen? Or would you rather take charge? ‘Retro but new’—you nailed it. A real-time experience. Mission after mission no matter how dicey and to hell with the consequences.”

  Still at a loss, Ben came back with, “Then let me just ask you this. My job is to--”

  “Good God, isn’t it obvious? Come up with a hook, backed up with whatever smarts Pepe can provide. To put in my hot little hands a thumbnail sketch complete with captions I can pitch to bozo execs who can’t read and have the attention span of a toddler.”

  “Okay, I hear you, I hear you,” said Ben, recalling the videos and the soap as Gillian plopped down on the go-cart bench to catch her breath. Just as suddenly, she demurely wedged her toes back into her slipper, pulled out a compact from her clutch bag and re-perfected her façade.

  “Otherwise,” Ben added, “you keep leasing ancient reruns for Viacom and the proverbial handwriting is on the wall.”

  ‘Oh, puh-lease,” said Gillian, applying a dab of lip gloss. “Just shut up and, while you’re at it, work in a double.”

  “A double?”

  “You heard me. A double, a stand-in. My Lord, what does it take? See you in a bit.”

  Left in the lurch, Ben noticed neither Gillian’s fading form as she headed back toward the front gate, nor the dissolving drone of her go-cart. Having no idea how he was going to come up with a cheap thrill for girl gamers, let alone shoehorn an Angelique stand-in, he shuffled back through the stunted orange trees, absentmindedly turned the knob and entered the bungalow.

  He passed through the alcove, found a switch for the three overhead fans and stood there glancing at the action-flick posters lining the walls. He told himself to quit slip-sliding and just buy in. The last time he worked, he’d been summoned to storyboard a pilot featuring a potty-mouthed hotel heiress on the loose. It seems the producers were getting cold feet over logistics. Ben had no sooner begun thumbnail sketches of the resort hopping itinerary when he got word the project had been scrapped in favor of two underemployed potty-mouthed waitresses on the prowl on Melrose. In turn, hapless agent Oliver threw up his hands in favor of tending to his orchids.

  So, at this juncture, Ben should bloody well do what he was told. For the first time in living memory he was there at the inception and given carte blanche.

  This firm conviction held steady for all of two minutes. Then it was, But still and all, why the rush? Why was there no time for development? It took months before a project--any project—started to see the light of day. Take the potty-mouth fiasco. Take anything Ben had had a hand in. With this scheme it was as if Starshine had to be repackaged quickly. And just as quickly work in a double.

  Not to look Leo and Gillian’s gift horse in the mouth. And yet ...

  Then he noticed it. A rumpled sleeping bag lay in the corner highlighted by glints of dappled sunlight. Strewn about were a couple of Styrofoam cups and wads of Krispy Kreme doughnut wrappers.

  Walking over and hunkering down, he fixed his gaze on an Avalon Studios card, the one with Angelique’s signature pink curlicues. He also noted one of the cups was embossed with a trace of lipstick.

  “Right,” said Ben. “Just what I need.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  With this next glitch, Ben’s juggling act became more problematic. The itinerant maiden in the bib overalls obviously crashed last night at the bungalow. The bungalow was his slotted work space. Getting her squared away, along with the other two immediate concerns, would allow him to concentrate solely on his job.

  Heading east on Beverly toward Beechwood, Ben decided to kill two birds with one stone. There was a good chance Mrs. Melnick, Oliver’s landlady, would reassure him that Oliver wouldn’t be back for a few more days to reclaim the Prelude. That would give Ben enough time to have the car fixed and slip the girl temporarily into Oliver’s pad. The maiden would surely agree that a secluded hideaway was worth the slight inconvenience of a bent grill on an obsolete pickup and a helluva lot better than trying to hole up on a studio lot about to swing into gear.

  There was, of course, Aunt June’s as an alternative. But Ben had promised to keep it off limits. Aunt June’s
cactus fortress was out and Oliver’s rented hacienda was the best bet.

  Suddenly finding himself famished, he swung into the upscale shopping area on Larchmont, popped into a pricey bistro and wolfed down a Hawaiian tortilla wrap stuffed with rock lobster, pineapple, mango and swabs of wasabi mayonnaise. This he washed down with another iced Kenya AA.

  Soon after, he took a couple of side streets and tooled down Beechwood. But when he pulled up in front of Mrs. Melnick’s duplex and spotted her in all her glory, he realized he’d be lucky just to get her ear. There she was at the edge of her rock garden, her squat body gyrating, her scrunched-up face animated, carrying on with a gaggle of stoop-shouldered neighbors. She obviously had news as her honking bark kept underscoring the name “Howie.” Which, for Ben, meant yet another stumbling block.

  As it happened, Howie and Ben had attended public school together. The major difference, aside from the fact that Howie had a mother and father, was the fact that Ben had gone on, whereas Howie never worked a day in his life. As soon as he became of age, he declared his independence, occupied the other half of the duplex, ate all his meals with his parents, and dutifully collected his allowance. He also continued his lifelong pursuit: gathering trivia relating to the entertainment business, attending live TV broadcasts, and attempting to get on game shows. While his introverted father collected rent from Oliver and tenants in his dilapidated apartment buildings south of Pico and Robertson, Mrs. Melnick became Howie’s personal manager. Lately, she’d sworn as soon as Howie’s star began to rise, she would help Ben with his flagging career; an offer Ben took with the largest grain of salt on the planet.

  Flustered, Ben waited till Mrs. Melnick’s crowing abated and, at last, her audience straggled off. He eased out of the car, but before he had a chance to reach the swale, Mrs. Melnick waddled over and blocked his path. In the near distance, Howie stuck his mop of hair out of the front door of his side of the duplex and waved. Shielding his eyes from the glare bouncing off the glossy-white façade, Ben waved back, holding Howie at bay with, “Be with you in a sec.”

  “Well well,” said Mrs. Melnick, flaunting her orange muumuu and unfortunate permanent, piled so high she looked like a victim of incipient brain fever. “You heard, right? From Iris I bet. You were eating your heart out. But, mild-mannered class act that you are, you had to come over and offer congratulations. Plus maybe cash-in, huh?”

  Shaking his head, he considered blurting out his simple question about Oliver’s travel plans and quickly taking off. But, knowing Howie’s doting cheerleader of a mother, he would have to ward off an additional dose of crowing.

  “I see you’re dying, Benjamin, so as a special favor, I’ll let you in.”

  Ben glanced at his watch. It was almost three. The traffic would step up and congeal any minute. The last item on his agenda was connecting with Chula and passing on his concerns about his accident if only he could zip past this Melnick hurdle.

  “To make a long story short,” Mrs. Melnick went on, “it dawned on me that whatever Howie was doing wasn’t working. All these years I’ve had to listen to ‘my son this, my daughter that.’ So I asked myself, What angle can we play? What’s Howie got nobody else has got?”

  Deftly moving to Mrs. Melnick’s side, his back to Howie and the glittering duplex, Ben said, “And what’s the answer?”

  Ignoring Ben’s prod, Mrs. Melnick related how she dragooned Oliver’s significant other, an assistant producer on The Tonight Show, into coming over. The pretext was that she had checked in on Oliver’s orchids and thought they might be dying.

  “So naturally,” Mrs. Melnick said, “I got hold of Budd, you know he spells it with two Ds. And we talked about the hothouse system breaking down. What do I know, right? But anyways, I said the one with the ivory petals and hot pink lips looks peaked. Not to mention the ones that look like explosions in a paint factory. Not to mention the ones that look like butterflies, lady’s braids and little birds. And the one that smells like chocolate and the other one that smells like angel food cake.”

  “Excuse me. I’m in a rush and I only wanted to know—”

  “A rush? And you’re driving Oliver’s car? Is this wise? Are you taking care of it? If I were you—”

  Practically screaming, Ben said, “Can we please have the kicker?”

  “You got it, you got it. I said to Budd maybe Oliver should forget the orchid show in Lauderdale.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. Because Budd misses Oliver something terrible. Crafty me, I comforted Budd, said, No worries I’d ring Oliver, crying his plants are sick with loneliness too. Then I wangled my way round to the subject of Howie and you’ll never guess. Budd was so grateful about the wilting orchids and getting Oliver back, plus he loved my idea about Howie.”

  “So Oliver’s ... ?”

  “Flying back. You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if I wasn’t right about those cockamamie plants.”

  “And he’ll be here when?”

  “Who knows? Soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

  “That’s just great,” said Ben, twisting away from her.

  “Hold it,” said Mrs. Melnick, tugging on his sleeve. “You’re missing the angle, the pot of gold, you gotta hear this. They’re billing Howie as the world’s youngest oldest virgin! Fresh, undamaged goods. He’s booked for a quickie Monday. If there’s a call-in from sexually active ladies —his doctor tells me at his age it’s not good for his bodily functions and you know how a mother worries. Anyhow, if it flies, and there’s a follow-up after the first date and maybe some preliminary hanky panky—”

  “Please, I’ve got to run before I’m caught in the slipstream. Tell Howie I’ll catch him later.”

  As he broke for the car, he suggested she consider the aftershock to Howie’s system.

  Her jowl dropped a few inches, her beady eyes locked. Recovering, she hollered back, “Such dry humor. You are eating your heart out. And who could blame you?”

  At times like this, Ben wanted to chuck anything remotely connected to the entertainment industry.

  It was only five miles from the Melnick duplex to Chula and the Farmer’s Daughter Motel. But with the escalating traffic, it took Ben a good thirty minutes to find a way past clogged Fairfax, around and down until he finally veered into one of the coveted parking spaces across from CBS.

  The motel was another of those two-story L-shaped slabs divided into cubicles with one queen-sized bed, spongy mattress and a boxy frig on the floor permanently set to cool-but-never-cold. All that mattered to those who’d just checked in was getting a jump on the free tickets to the daytime shows across the street.

  Ben hopped out of the car, skirted by the dank oblong pool and rushed into the lobby, hoping that Chula was more amenable than the surly albino he ran into this morning.

  This time he got a break. There behind the cramped front desk, murmuring short answers over the phone in Spanish, stood a young woman with features as soft as her voice. Her hair was jet black, long and braided. Completing the image, she wore a muted blouse over a supple beige skirt, no makeup save for a little blush over her cheeks and no accessories except for a delicate gold bracelet.

  As soon as she replaced the receiver, Ben greeted her with a polite,” Que pasa?”

  There was no reply. Just a sweet smile.

  Trying once more, Ben said, “Que tranza?” but the smile only widened.

  Ben tried another tack. “This town is amazing. I just ate at a Hawaiian Mexican bistro. Had a Polynesian tortilla wrap. To date, I’ve sampled every Angelino dish except the real thing, like Pescado a la Veracruz, Sopecitos de Camaron or mole rosa de taxco. I mention these only because Carlos Jose, better known to we lucky few as C.J.—Pepe to the uninitiated--lists them among his favorites.”

  The wide smile lingered a while longer. Finally, she patted Ben’s hand as if he were a lost child with a separation complex and said, “It’s okay. You must be Ben.”

  “How did you guess?”


  “All those words.”

  “Sorry, just a little anxious. I will do my best to pull back a tad.”

  Doing so, he soon learned that she was a Montessori teacher. At the moment she was spelling her cousins Josie and Liliana so they could visit boyfriends and relatives in Mexico City. All in all, she seemed to have what one of Aunt June’s housekeepers called a venga lo que venga, a come-what-may attitude toward everything. Ben couldn’t help being jealous.

  The phone rang again. Chula handled it quietly and quickly, and jotted something down amid the stacks of glossy tourist leaflets. Hanging up, she smiled that smile of hers and said, “I heard about that little boxing match yesterday.”

  “Oh well. You never know what gets into C.J.”

  “Nevertheless, you should never question his mom’s virtue, especially in front of his boys from the barrio. They’re so susceptible and you know how Mexican men feel about their mothers.”

  “Look, the truth is I only want to pass on a few concerns to C.J. Okay? Do you mind?”

  He had tried pulling back. He had tried on a come-what-may. Now he was getting testy. He never got testy. Maybe it was all this talk about mothers and families. Maybe it was the unfinished business with the maiden. Maybe it was all the pressures that were getting to him. At any rate, he politely gave her a capsule version of the accident and asked if there were any criminal ramifications or whether it was strictly civil. She jotted the question down.

  “Okay, but here’s the tricky part.” He told her about C.J.’s call last night concerning some nutty accountant which had to be a practical joke and had nothing to do with him. He also mentioned what little he could make of Leo’s money-finagling practices. He hadn’t planned to do any of this. With all the running around, it just came out.

  Chula put down her pen and sat on the padded stool behind the counter gazing at him in wonder.

  “Right,” said Ben, grabbing a sample menu from a tourist trap and scribbling on the back. “Just in passing—you see, C.J. ran into Leo at the gym. I mean, just for fun, I’ll list a couple of kinda iffy details.”