Tinseltown Riff Page 19

  Out of nowhere came a hand gun, small and silvery. Then, like a drill instructor, the cowboy pulled the magazine out of the bottom of the grip. “See the red dot? You slap in the clip, flip off the safety and you’re set.”

  He cocked the hammer.

  “What is this?” said Ben.

  “Watch. With the hammer back, you get a lighter trigger pull. If the first shot don’t do it, you’re in automatic and the bullets fly.”

  He pulled the magazine out of the bottom of the grip and waved it in front of Molly’s face. “Ready?”

  “Wait,” said Ben, “I’m trying to tell you something.”

  Still speechless, Molly transferred all her energy to her shifting feet.

  “Too late,” said the Cowboy.

  “Stop,” said Ben. “What are you, out of your mind?”

  The cowboy smacked the clip in place.

  Before Ben had a chance to say, “I’ll tell you, I’ll show you,” Molly broke for the front door.

  The cowboy lunged and caught the back of her hair, spun her around and sent her crashing against the coffee table. Reflexively, Ben raised the tote bag as the cowboy leaned over, grabbed her arm and twisted it. As she screamed, Ben smacked the cans across the side of the cowboy’s head. Ben’s curses now as hysterical as Molly’s cries and the cowboy’s furtive ducking until one of Ben’s blows struck him in the back. The cowboy moaned and released Molly’s arm as Ben struck again and again. The cowboy lurched forward, banged against the upended coffee table, shoved it aside and began clutching his lower spine. Groping wildly, Ben stripped the gun from the cowboy’s fingers and jabbed the muzzle in the exact same spot.

  “Out, out, out of here!” Ben yelled, jabbing him again. “Safety’s off. Next I pull the hammer back, right?”

  The cowboy weaved forward, threw open the front door, stepped out into the night air and straggled past the shadows of the ficus trees as Ben stayed close behind.

  “In the car,” Ben said. “And you better make it fast before I let you have it.”

  It was all a bluff, tossing out a line from an old Warner Brothers flick. Ben had no intention of pulling the trigger, even firing a warning shot. Only hoping the cowboy would think Ben had completely gone berserk and truly was in cahoots with Pepe the bandit. Praying the cowboy would crawl into the car and take off before realizing Ben had no idea what he was doing.

  And somehow it actually happened. The cowboy slid behind the wheel, gunned the motor and backed up, tires squealing and screeching. More squealing and screeching as the car jockeyed around, sped up the tech alley, careened right and kept going. Perhaps seeking immediate relief for his aching back, perhaps contemplating his next move, perhaps just about anything. Ben had no thoughts about Lester and the front barricade, not even the possibility that the cowboy might run Lester over like he’d done with the Chicano kids. Ben had only thoughts for Molly.

  Flipping the safety on, Ben raced back to the bungalow, latched the front door, jerked the Venetian blinds shut, clicked off the lights and knelt by Molly’s side.

  Bleary-eyed, she gazed up at him and feebly began pounding on his arm. “Where did he come from? Tell me, tell me.”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. Sorry as hell.”

  Fending Molly off, Ben placed the hand gun on the floor and slid it away; within grabbing distance if it came to that but with the muzzle pointed the other way.

  Clutching the front of Ben’s shirt, Molly said, “I have to know. Why me? How did this happen?”

  She asked a dozen more questions Ben had no answers for. Then, hanging onto him, she muttered, “Granny got to the Greyhound station and had cold feet, did you know that? Sleazo mom never made it past the airline reservation counter. But I got here. This was my time, man. This was my time!”

  She let go of him, wept quietly and snuggled against his shoulder. He put his arm around her but all he could muster was, “I know, I know.”

  When her sobs diminished into whimpers, he squinted into the darkness, looking for the blue light of the cowboy’s cell phone. Knowing he should call Lester, or Chula to get C.J. down here, or the station--even if the dispatcher scoffed at a nuisance call from an abandoned old Hollywood studio.

  He finally spotted the faint glow of the cell by the broken leg of the coffee table. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t disturb Molly, leastways not now. He hoped the charge would hold out a little while longer. He hoped the cowboy wouldn’t recover and come storming back.

  At any rate, here they were, in the dark beneath some cheesy movie posters, fans whirring, hand gun close by.

  After a time, Molly began to sing, like an inconsolable little girl trying to lull herself to sleep:

  I’m the queen of the Silver Dollar ... I rule a smoky kingdom ... a wine glass is my scepter ... and a barstool is my throne ...

  The lyrics didn’t make much sense. Ben said, “I know,” again. Then, “It’s okay.” As the song faded, he hung on to her tight to keep himself from shaking to pieces.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Okay, Ben,” said Molly, edging over toward him, “who did you just call?”

  “Chula, his girlfriend. She’ll get hold of him.”

  “And who’s he again?”

  “A friend, an undercover cop.”

  “Oh sure, I’ll bet.”

  “It’s true.”

  It was now after eleven. They were in the dark by the fake tombstones on the ground floor of Studio Three, well back of the entrance. The one thing they’d agreed on was the need to vacate the bungalow. Remaining there like sitting ducks was just asking for it. Especially if the cowboy didn’t hightail it to the emergency room. Or collapse onto a motel bed with a bag of ice on his frazzled back.

  “And who’s this Pepe,” Molly went on, “and his crew we’re supposed to be in cahoots with? Where does he come in?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do you know anything in this town?”

  “Exactly. How do we know this Chula isn’t really mixed up with--?”

  “Look, what do you want? Lester didn’t answer and we’ve got to get you out of here. Come on, Molly. What’s it going to be?”

  Stalling again, Molly ran her fingers across the spiky wrought iron fence that rimmed the graveyard till she located the rusty gate. And there she lingered. “But what about the sacks? What about the pigeons?”

  “I told you. You take off and lay low. I sit tight till C.J. gets here. I hand the stuff over and fill him in. Tell him you didn’t realize what you were doing, words like that.”

  “How do I know? How do I know what you’ll do?”

  “Great,” said Ben, traipsing over to her. “I’ll show you where I hid the sacks and we’ll load them in your truck. We’ll even load the pigeons.”

  “But--?”

  “Exactly. What’s C.J. going to think if he spots us? And what’ll the cowboy do if he gets here first?”

  Getting more and more frustrated with her, Ben began tossing out anything that came to him.

  “Okay then, when C.J. gets here, I’ll tell him nothing happened, I made it all up. In the meantime--if you can still keep your eyes open, that is--you’ll have already zipped back to Laurel Canyon. Sure, great idea, take the cell phone. It’s probably good for at least one more call. At this hour, it’s only polite to give Ray and Angelique some advance notice. And then all three of you can come to grips with who has been double-crossing whom.”

  Ben brushed by her, passed the police station interior, reached inside and found the desk sergeant’s counter. He retrieved the cell phone, hand gun and the binoculars he’d snatched from the shopping basket. Slipping the strap around his neck, he stumbled around and returned to her side. She shook her head as he switched on the cell and held up the glowing monitor.

  “Here,” Ben said, “see, it still works. You’re all set. Take the gun too, take everything. Hurry, before you start listening to reason.”

  “Wha
t is this?” said Molly.

  “Nothing much, just tearing my hair out.”

  “Listen, you, just ‘cause you saved my life maybe, and I let you hold me and all, doesn’t mean you’re calling the shots. So back off, will you? I can’t hear myself think.”

  Telling her he’d just about had it with this squabbling, he almost dropped the gun as he moved over to the ramp opposite the entrance and shoved the cell phone in his back pocket.

  Fine,” he said, placing the gun gingerly by the metal railing. “And if the cowboy does get here first and I can’t hold him off, be sure to share your thoughts.”

  After another one of her blank stares at the ceiling, she shuffled over to him and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. “God, I am so beat.”

  “Obviously.”

  Stifling a yawn, she took a few steps up the ramp.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for the No-Doz I dropped up there. I am so wasted and so hyper. I mean, if I don’t take something or find some place to crash ...”

  “I don’t believe this. What does it take to strike brain?”

  “Thanks,” Molly said, tramping back down and away from him. “All right, anything, anything.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, I give. Anything to get away from you.”

  “Great,” said Ben, moving toward the entrance. “Then we play it my way.”

  “Not so fast. You’re saying Aunt June’s place is vacant and safe.”

  “How many times, Molly? How many times?”

  “And this C.J. can be counted on?”

  “Yes!”

  A little more stalling before Molly finally went along.

  Giving her no time to backtrack, Ben grabbed the gun, pressed the metal bar and opened one of the double doors. There was no sign of any activity whatsoever.

  “Right,” Ben said, reaching in his shirt pocket. “Can you follow these directions?”

  “I am not that far gone. Where are the keys again?”

  “Under an adobe brick in a crayon box behind the Madagascars. The two gold ones will get you through the front; the remote under the second brick will open the garage and close it. Be careful skirting the cactus.”

  “Aunt June is away till Saturday and the neighbors won’t spot me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. The house is sideways and the neighbors are in hiding. You will sleep undisturbed around the clock.”

  “And you?”

  “Never mind. I am armed and considered dangerous.”

  “What about your cousin’s place?”

  “After this? Are you kidding? Now will you please move those feet?”

  “All right, I’m going.”

  Ben held the hand gun low by his side, just like in the movies, just like he’d done as a little kid. They went over the drill, which was also pure Hollywood but, in the state they were in, it didn’t matter. Ben would slip out into the night, scan the immediate area, wave and cover as Molly darted to each checkpoint. If the coast was clear, Ben would scurry across and join her. If not, she would split and Ben would hang back to delay any intruder till C.J. arrived.

  On Ben’s signal, as if they were two playmates, the maneuvers began. Rushing across the tech alley; then down to the ficus trees fronting the locked café, the far edge of the bungalow next to the fringe of the Western town; then to a spot behind the saloon dance hall and dumpsters and the back of the livery stable. Next, it was in and around the tangle of vinca and manzanita, clumps of sagebrush and thickets of chaparral and scrub oak.

  The only drawback was the darkness. Gone was the bright moonlight which had given way to a gauzy overcast. Though the cloud cover made their darting figures harder to spot, once they hit the tinder-dry foliage and long shadows made by the blocky wooden structures, it was even harder to spot each other.

  Disregarding Ben as if she were home free, Molly cut through the narrow break in the chaparral, reached the stands of eucalyptus that masked the back fence, worked the slide bolt and was gone down the strip of gravel on the other side.

  After losing his way in a thatch of chest-high deer grass, by the time Ben followed suit, the pitiful whine of the pickup’s reverse gear was almost upon him.

  Raising his hands, he rushed onto the gravel strip. Molly hit the breaks as he spun around and checked out the side street. A quick glance revealed only the file of low-lying apartment buildings in the throes of renovation.

  Ben ran back to Molly’s side and found her slumped over the wheel, the motor still chugging. “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “Are you going to make it?”

  Molly shook herself erect. “Sure thing. Just resting my eyes.”

  “I don’t know. If you fall asleep at the wheel—”

  “I won’t. Will you kindly get off my back?”

  After checking out the side street again, he reminded her to use the couch. And leave no sign that anything remotely female had infiltrated the premises.

  In turn, Molly stretched, widened her eyes and gripped the steering wheel hard. “Don’t hold me to anything I said or did. We’ll settle up first thing.”

  “Nice. Okay, just head west, hang a left at the first intersection and keep going till Olympic. Then hang a right and you’re golden.”

  There was no kiss, no pat on the arm, not even a thank you. Ben checked out the street one last time, gave Molly a high sign and the next thing he knew she was gone.

  He traipsed back to the rear gate, aware of the smell of damp concrete and eucalyptus, the sound of aluminum shards and loose gravel underfoot, and a faint trace of moonlight glinting off the muzzle of the gun. In all the rush, he’d almost forgotten he was carrying a loaded weapon.

  He released the slide bolt, made his way through the break and paused by a stand of scrub oaks. What now? Hopefully intercepting C.J. and handing over the stuff. Afterwards, finding a place to spend the night. Perhaps the motel where Chula ran the desk.

  Some wistful part of him cut in and pictured dull quiet things, like the Farmers Daughter activity across from the motel: the fabricated waterfall, the trolley car and little shops at the Grove ... sipping Kenya AA in the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf hangout. The images dovetailed into more wishful thinking, like telling his cronies he might have some irons in the fire. And they, as usual, informing him whether any of these projects might fly.

  The illusions were immediately replaced by the certainty Gillian would have him on top of everybody’s persona non grata list. Gone was the clarion call You’re on your way up, soaring to great heights. Gone was the daydream of a gathering around the campfire at trails end. Even in her daze, Molly had noted the words You’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street. In that case you’ll head straight out of town. Advice he’d given to the conference wannabes at the outset. But too-smart Ben was so desperate to hang on, he never knew when to get off.

  With the realities staring him in the face, he reckoned Molly was probably safe for now. Of more immediate concern was a fluttering sound. Perhaps coming from the nearby street, as though someone had shut off their motor and was coasting in neutral.

  Tensing up, he tried to reassure himself that the attempt to reach C.J. was not in vain. If Chula had taken him seriously, she must have relayed the message and C.J. would be on his way. All that was left was a hop, skip and a jump. Then a short wait in the shadows by Soundstage One within shouting distance of the front gate.

  Then it dawned on him. It was too easy. As if he and Molly were a couple of kids playing hide-and-seek. Why hadn’t he wondered why the cowboy gave in so easily? Was this guy really afraid Ben would fire the gun? And if the cowboy’s back was really shot, how had he managed to maneuver his car so deftly and, again, why? Was it because he was lying in wait to see who came and left? Probably. Moreover, a receding empty truck bed meant the goods were still here. And Ben was still here—the one who, under duress, revealed that Molly didn’t know where the sacks were. The very same Ben Prine who’d left Mol
ly unguarded while he scurried away and only a few minutes later returned. Therefore, as any fool could see, this Ben character had hidden the trove close by and was simply waiting for “Pepe” to make the handoff. Which, any way you looked at it, was absolutely true.

  A crunching sound coming from the gravel strip cut through the silence. Stopped. Grew louder. Stopped again and was supplanted by a clink of the slide bolt.

  Ben shifted to his right, crouched low and scurried through the patch of deer grass to the edge of the corral.

  Then, for a time, nothing stirred. Apart from the faint traffic noise north at Melrose and an occasional whoosh closer by to the east on Van Ness, his was the only movement. As far as he could tell, that is.

  He was about to circle around and drift forward toward his rendezvous with C.J., when he heard a clang. It came from the vicinity of the dilapidated dance hall behind the saloon up ahead.

  Then a second clang. If it was who he thought it was, the cowboy was back in action rummaging through the dumpsters, searching every conceivable hiding-place. If so, a retreat to the back gate would prove fruitless. The cowboy could simply beat him to it and cut him off. If Ben continued to circle around the corral, past the livery stable and take off once he hit the bungalow, the cowboy was in position to shoot up and intercept him at the café.

  Another clang. A glint of moonlight held for a second and gave way again to the thickening cloud cover.

  Ben reached into his shirt pocket for the cell phone but then thought better of it. No matter how low he pitched his voice, it was so quiet he was bound to be heard. Besides, the longer he kept hanging out in the open like this, the more vulnerable he became.

  He opted for the little room in the recesses of the hay loft. If the cowboy squeezed the barn doors open and looked inside, what would he see? The closed back shutters blocked off any hope of moon-glow, and there was no electricity, no switches, no other source of light. All the cowboy could make out was the dim outline of the posts and hanging tack in the foreground. And maybe the oil drum, hanging motor and shell of the Model T in the far right corner. And maybe even the buckboard deep in the opposite corner. But sacks of rotting grain were lodged in a covered pit behind the buckboard and Molly’s sacks were below that. The little room was way too far back, up and over and, ostensibly, non-existent. Judging from the hell-bent way the cowboy was scouring the back lot, he was not about to linger over anything.