Tinseltown Riff Page 14

  Deke left her and walked past the gate.

  “And what’s with the slick briefcase?” Angelique called after him. “You get a present and I get knocked around? Terrific!”

  She jumped out of the pool, trailed after him and pulled him back. She claimed she was the brains behind this new venture and insisted on his cell phone number. With nothing to lose, Deke gave her the number and resumed his retreat down the winding drive. Scanning the possibilities, and as near as he could figure, the deal came down to what Walt called “financial resources hittin’ a snag.”

  Appreciating the long cool shadows toning everything down, Deke knew there was only one thing for it: getting there first, laying his hands on those resources. And leave them all to yak themselves to death.

  He slid behind the wheel of the beige Ford rental, made sure there was nobody coming by, and unlatched the case. Predictably, the “insurance” courtesy of Ray was in a leather pouch. He slid out the silvery Walther PPK/S: light, slim, the best palm pistol bar none. He checked the safeties, injected one of the three 8-shot clips and tossed the piece from hand to hand. It had been a long while.

  Flipping through the notepads, pens and all, he unzipped one of the hidden binders and spotted the belt slide. In this one particular instance, Ray had thought of everything.

  Just before heading back to the Prado, Deke pulled out the pink calling card from his jacket pocket. Unlike Ray’s usual bullshit, the scrawled message on the back was clear: “Check out this address. Find Angelique’s double.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  At a loss, Ben stepped back from the easel. As a rule, when people would ask him what he did for a living, he would say he was, more or less, a screenwriter: an idea man, if you will; a fix-it guy, a quick sketch artist. When that didn’t do the trick, he would simply add that he was a team player, on call, ready to help out for the next project--TV show, commercial or whatever.

  But here he was as late afternoon wore down, on his own, staring at the first page of a set of formatted panels. Each panel poised over an empty slot for captions. Nine blank panels over nine blank slots per page, waiting to be sketched, noted and clipped together like an oversized comic book for Gillian’s perusal. Only Ben didn’t have a clue how to begin.

  Ordinarily, by this time it would look like a rough set of camera shots. Still images that suggested moving images: an establishing long shot, say, then a close-up of a girl; then a montage leading the eye on and on as other figures came into the background; the expression on the girl’s face changing; a medium shot of the girl running past, entering a barn, disappearing into the shadows until, following the brief captions, you just had to turn the page. And so it goes, hopefully, through the whole sequence.

  But ordinarily this would only come about after a bunch of sessions with other writers, producers, production company spies, and some showrunner (if it was TV) put his or her two-cents in. Ben would then add his ideas to whoever came up with this project in the first place. And he was then told: “Hey, Ben, crank out a thumbnail sketch of what we got so far and let’s see if it flies.”

  In short, Ben had never been in this position before. In short, everything about it was strange.

  Frustrated beyond belief, Ben grabbed a soft-lead pencil and kneaded eraser and sketched in the back of a female figure in overalls ascending a steep, curving drive. A stick figure of a male holding up a calling card came into view above her, along with the hood of a Jaguar in the background. Panel three found the girl clutching the card and backing away. In the next panel, through an opening in a gate a near-naked figure lay a short distance away by a pool. Panel five: a close-up of a ratty-looking male wearing goggles. Another close-up accenting the girl in bib overall’s wide eyes and cupid-bow lips. Then aerial views in panels seven and eight as she turns and runs down the drive, ending with a medium shot of the back of a pickup driving away.

  It wasn’t great, it wasn’t that promising but at least it was a start.

  At another impasse, realizing he had to come up with a grabber before Gillian popped in, he snatched the binoculars out of the grocery basket, walked out of the writer’s bungalow and looked around. He took in the long shadows glancing off the ficus trees and the café veranda and, turning around, eyed the hitching posts all the way down to the pitch of the livery stable roof. The temperature was cooling down, twilight coming on, and he was in that pressure zone where anything was grist for the mill.

  He thought again of the maiden. True, her sleeping bag was gone, along with the food wrappers and Styrofoam cups. But he could swear he heard the drone of the old truck motor and the grinding of gears. Which could mean she’d circled past Lester’s gate looking for a back entrance. Or already knew there was one and was just making sure. Possibly come to settle accounts with Ben, that is, if you took to heart her message on Iris’ machine. Or came to hole up again tonight, or to keep hiding from Ray or someone.

  “Simmer down,” Ben said to himself as he wheeled around and strolled over to the side of the café. “You are reaching, spinning your wheels.”

  With nothing better to do, no further imagery coming to mind, he passed the café and worked his way up, through the moonwalk and the wide-leafed banana plants. Climbing atop the rickety remnants of a space pod, he balanced himself, adjusted the focus on the binoculars and peered all around. No back gate, no opening that he could see.

  He kept going till he came upon the secluded Swiss chalet cottages, with their fairytale balconies fabricated for Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford. Or was it Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald? He couldn’t remember. Besides, it was locked-up tight like most everything else and he was still stuck with nine frames of a storyboard going nowhere with no reason to turn the page.

  Returning to the bungalow, he switched off the overhead fans, cranked open the windows as wide as they would go and looked about.

  Then he started berating himself. Nobody worked like this, hoping someone would show up and fuel his tale. As any of his cronies would tell you, when in doubt, do the tried and true: do a spin on a spin. Or appropriate anything he’d gleaned this morning from MTV or the stupid soap. Why fight it? In a pinch, who needs originality?

  But the only lasting impression from that cursory stint at the gym was how much the maiden resembled the young Angelique. A factor Angelique had vaguely hinted at; a factor Gillian wanted shoehorned into the mix. Besides, why would a young woman who looked like Angelique be so drawn to this studio if there was no connection? Was it only to confront Ben directly and demand payback?

  Though keenly aware he was mixing fact with fiction, and for want of a better option, Ben stuck with the maiden’s possible storyboard plight.

  Which still got him nowhere without a link to this back lot.

  But if he had one last ditch ploy it was always, In a pinch, there’s got to be something close at hand—open your eyes, use it.

  Scanning the bungalow’s interior, all there was were a few potted palms spent and drooping. The scarred Formica-top desk in the far corner was equally forlorn. The rattan couch occupying the center with its flowery seat cushions and the throw pillow on the coffee table only reminded him of the maiden and her need for some place to crash.

  At the same time, the cover of Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go sticking up from the shopping basket seemed to be baiting him. Telling him to get off it and keep moving. As in, “See the rainbow paths leading to the top? Pick one, you simp, any one and get on with it.”

  So it was back to the easel, another sheet, page two and he was at it again.

  Second scene: the maiden sneaking into the studio ... into the bungalow ... past the alcove; a jog forward and a shift into the kitchenette ... returning, checking out the fans overhead ... the crank-out windows and jalousies facing the stunted orange trees.

  Next sequence: locking herself in ... wolfing down doughnuts and coffee ... curling up at the foot of the couch ... then sneaking out again and taking off ...

  But whe
re? And why? Playing hide-and-go-seek for what reason? What’s really at stake here?

  Ben drew another blank.

  He left the bungalow, turning the other way this time, past the hitching posts, raised planked sidewalks and the facades of a saloon, boarding house and general store. He hesitated by the barn doors of the livery stable, cut back around through the coarse chaparral and made his way behind the building. He reached up and yanked on a rope attached to a pulley overhead in an attempt to scale a dumpster to gain a better vantage point. But he no sooner started to clamber and hoist himself up when the rope snapped, the huge shutters overhead smashed against the screened windows, sealing them shut.

  Picking himself up and brushing himself off, he realized that if she truly was skulking about, if this boneheaded move didn’t spook her, nothing would.

  Minutes passed. But just when he’d given up on movement for movement’s sake, he heard the deep drone of an old engine, a shift of gears accompanied by a grating sound like something rolling over sandpaper. Then quiet, save for a clank and a rustling not more than a hundred yards away.

  He reminded himself that Gillian could be by any minute and he’d have to wing it once again. But this time he’d have to produce. The storyboard so far was worth zilch without a juicy springboard.

  At the moment there was only the faint whoosh of traffic up on Melrose and the occasional sound of cars zipping by Lester’s stand on Van Ness. Dying to know where she was and what she was up to, he circled around the dumpster beyond the back of the stable.

  Here in the waning light the foliage was tinder dry. He worked through the manzanita sagebrush, thickets of chaparral shrub and craggy scrub oak and clumps of deer grass till he came upon a wall of eucalyptus. Poking around, he discovered the eucalyptus served to mask the steel mesh enclosure that rimmed the property. He slipped through a narrow break and a tangle of vinca vines till he reached a metal gate.

  He disengaged the slide bolt and stepped out into an alleyway. As near as he could make out, he’d come upon a revamped low-rise apartment complex. There were shiny window fittings, the smell of wet concrete and stucco, and crushed shards of aluminum at his feet. Contractor’s vans had apparently squeezed by earlier, making their way to the rear. He followed the crunched trail, turned the corner and there it was.

  The truck bed was empty except for the ropes that held the tattered tarp. The cab was vacant. Below the California license plate was a yellow and green bumper sticker advertising last year’s artichoke festival.

  He hurried back, re-bolted the gate and, avoiding all the prickly scrub, circled the other way round past the empty corral, cut over and hesitated at the barn doors. Someone had eased them open a crack.

  One glance, he told himself. Peek in and hightail it back to work.

  Peering hard into the darkening recess thanks to his dumb move with the rope and shutters, he spotted the wooden ladder. This time it was propped up against the landing by the hay loft. He could barely make out her form without widening the opening but he could hear her tugging and dragging things. Possibly some sacks, it was hard to tell. Letting out a weary sigh, she seemed to have slumped down somewhere up on the loft. No longer a maiden in Ben’s overblown imagination, but a willowy girl definitely up to God-knows-what.

  In that same moment, the put-put of a go-cart announced that Ben’s spying stint had abruptly come to an end. For now, his only hope was to placate Gillian and get rid of her while the girl rested. And then deal with the girl and finally come to terms with this fantasy/reality riff.

  By the time he made it back to the work room, Gillian was already eyeing the storyboard sheets. She shifted position as Ben caught his breath. Her after-hours outfit consisted of mauve lounging pajamas; the lacquer in her chestnut-brown do had given way somewhat as had the cosmetics daubing her face. She wore sandals this time, lowering her height, forcing her to raise her head a bit to maintain a condescending pose of authority.

  “All right, Benjy,” said Gillian, settling her gaze on the first sequence and tossing the others onto the couch, “I think I see where you’re going with this. By the way, where were you just now? Never mind, don’t tell me.”

  “You were saying?”

  “You’ve got two identical looking figures, one about to enter the other’s lair plus a lurid figure in the background.”

  “And the other guy?”

  “What other guy?”

  “Never mind.” It was amazing that even when he put himself into a frame he was indistinguishable.

  “Thus,” Gillian said, “we quickly establish the seamy world the player is entering. By the way, where is this? Any problem getting footage?”

  It never occurred to Ben that Gillian had never driven up the serpentine drive. But what difference did it make?

  “No worries,” said Ben. “Getting that opening footage is a given.”

  “Excellent. We can also intercut those crime-scene shots as a teaser. Good move on my part, as it turns out.”

  “On your part? You mean it was your idea to send me out on those alleged photo ops?”

  “What did you think, it was Leo’s? Oh puh-lease. He packages, he finagles, but creatively? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Ah yes. The first test to see, if push came to shove, it would be worth scraping the bottom of the barrel with me.”

  Ignoring him, she moved behind the couch and continued to mull things over. “And we can toss in more serviceable visuals to jazz up the backdrop.”

  As Gillian continued to pace, intermittently running her fingers through her hair, loosening the lacquer binding, Ben moved over to the windows and peered through the slats in the jalousies. There was no reason why the girl would come by, what with the go-cart parked outside and Gillian carrying on, but he looked out anyway.

  “Okay,” said Gillian, moving on. “No dialogue, got her off and running. Of course, you’ve got to pencil in a few captions to satisfy the mentally challenged execs I’ll be dealing with. Let’s just say at this juncture—”

  “I’ve made a start,” said Ben, still amazed she’d injected a “seamy world” into his doodling around.

  “Then why have you stopped? Why are you flitting about?”

  “Flitting happens to be a well known creative device.”

  “Don’t hand me that. Stick with me, Benjamin.”

  But Ben didn’t want to stick with her. All he wanted was to get back to the stable. But Gillian wouldn’t let up. She loosened her hair some more until a strip of it fell over her ear. She clip-clopped away and tapped her fingertips together. It finally dawned on him that Gillian was the one at the party on Malibu who kept pushing it, saying, “You’d love it, wouldn’t you? All you girls would love your very own escapades. Love to get your hands on it soon as possible.” Gillian was the one clamoring for an outlet, some way to escape from the mindless hours leasing TV relics. Some quick leap to V.P. of a cutting edge entertainment. And what could be quicker or better than a hot video game? It wasn’t just Starshine that needed an instant jumpstart. It was darn near everybody.

  Widening the gap in the jalousie slats, Ben said, “I read you, Gillian. I’m on it. One nasty joy ride coming up.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Gillian, poking at the opening panels with a glossy fingernail, “where is Pepe’s imprint? Where are the hard-core portents I asked you to serve up?”

  “Only a phone call away when needed, remember?”

  “Cut the tap dance, Benjy. When was the last time you conferred with your pal? ”

  “A little while ago, if you must know.” It wasn’t a total lie. He’d asked Chula to ask C.J. to look into certain matters. Plus he really was making progress. To keep the ball rolling, he had to brush Gillian off, but she wouldn’t budge.

  “So tell me, Mr. Prine,” said Gillian, as though seeing right through him, “how did you contact him? There’s no phone here and you let your cell phone service expire over a week ago. So I assume, since my check at the conference took car
e of your car repairs, you are flush with the coin Leo slipped you under the table. So humor me and display the el-cheapo cell you must have picked up under a cheapo pay-as-you-go plan.”

  Realizing she had him there and he couldn’t very tell her about the stupid accident, all he could say was, “Something came up and, given this first work day after the long weekend, plus the tasks and short notice you guys gave me, I simply ran out of time.”

  “Brilliant. So how were you planning on feeding this thing? How, may I ask, are you going to stay in touch with your go-between?”

  “Well, missy, there’s Lester’s phone. And before I can re-confer, I had to wait for your feedback. Not to mention this is the locale of the primary set pieces. And there is no way I can continue to check them out and utilize them before I check back in with my interlocutor. Comprende? I am thinking, thinking, and you are wasting precious time.”

  After another quizzical look from Gillian, Ben added, “Give me a break, will you? It’s only seven-fifteen.”

  The quizzical look lingered.

  “Fine. Take me to the gate. Just know that our Pepe is not simply on call. Not with all the vice and nefarious goings-on that can’t be spoken of lest we spook the tourists.”

  Ben had no idea what he was talking about. All he’d gleaned about C.J.’s undercover work were inklings here and there. At the moment all he wanted was to dispatch Gillian and get back to the girl, provided, after all this chit-chat, she hadn’t bolted again.

  He gave Gillian a nudge but she stood her ground.

  “Look, lady, you liked my opening. Hard-core options you want, hard-core options you shall have.”

  “The truth, Benjamin. Why do I suddenly get the impression you’ve got two things going here?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? I am on it. It is percolating. Truly, honestly, deeply.”

  Gillian snatched the opening thumbnail sketches. “Nevertheless, I’m keeping these as collateral.”