Tinseltown Riff Page 22

“So do it.”

  “So first I must read these words again. So first I need some caffeine or something.”

  He was gone only a few minutes. He returned complaining that he couldn’t find a coffee machine anywhere. “Too many pieces,” C.J. went on. “Not for your mind, a man who lives out of one suitcase, mixed up with Leo Orlov, crazy movie deals and smoking barns. My feet are on the ground, you know?”

  Continuing to talk himself into it, C.J. tapped on Ben’s notes as hard as he’d rapped on the closet. “All this maldito crap would have to be documented ... verified.”

  He stalled a while longer tapping on the closet door to a cumbia beat, stuck his head in the closet and retrieved the cell phone. “Hey, we got to get you some clothes, man. Somebody got to get you some clothes.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Wait. This Ray, this could-be el jefe. He would want the sacks back you say? And this muchacha Molly. She can corroborate? She is not raro, not extrano, not a daydreamer like you?”

  “Leave her out of it.”

  “Why? Because you are crazy for her and can not see straight?”

  “I said, leave her be.”

  C.J. shook his head, added the newspaper to the collection and said, “I want you to swear esto es verdad.”

  For what it was worth, Ben raised his hand to the ceiling and swore it was all true.

  “Remember, this is talvez. Maybe. The biggest maybe even you can imagine.”

  With that exit line, C.J. cut through the fluttering partition.

  Left alone with only the static of wheeling gurneys and muffled voices in the corridor, Ben knew by telling C.J. to forget about Molly, C.J. might very well do just the opposite--flush Molly out, ask her to corroborate, even detain her. Giving Ben at least half a chance to see her again.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  It was the third visit that morning to the holding cell that set C.J. in motion. This time the cowboy was up and about--bracing his back and rubbing his chest and ribs while, at the same time, giving C.J. a hard, cold look.

  “About time,” said the cowboy. “Okay, let’s get it on.”

  “Oh?” said C.J., peering through the bars, talking over the usual mockery and swearing from the other four inmates. “You ready to talk?”

  As if they were fellow conspirators, the cowboy shuffled forward till they were inches apart. “Cut the crap, Pepe. You had no business bein’ there last night. Except to beat me to the goods.”

  “Oh?” C.J., repeated, taking his lead from the cowboy, staying just as cool. “And you had legitimate business there?”

  “Ask Ray Shine. Ask the producer’s woman.”

  “What producer?”

  “I said cut the crap. Your cop buddies are itchin’ for a statement. And that’s what they’re gonna get. Unless.”

  “Unless what?”

  The cowboy coughed a few times into the back of his hand and said, “Unless you come through, honcho. Otherwise you and your little Hispanic creeps are all goin’ down.”

  C.J. felt the muscles tighten around the back of his neck but kept on with the charade. “And that is what you think?”

  “That’s what I know.”

  “And you feel nothing? Not for what you did to them?”

  The cowboy smirked, broke into a hacking laugh, dug his hands into his Levi jacket and came up empty. “I thought we were talkin’ business.”

  “Ah, si. And what, my friend, do you offer?”

  “Hook you up with the Outfit. Get you a share of the finder’s fee. Plus you avoid a hassle for what you pulled last night. And you get to keep your cover.”

  “And this is it?”

  “Look, I’m gonna walk. My way, you get some coin and don’t have to watch your back. Options. I’m givin’ you options.”

  Pretending to think it over, C.J. finally said, “I don’t know. This is very difficult. Very difficult proposition.”

  “Easy. You assaulted me. I’m not gonna press charges. Any way you look at it, you’re better off.”

  “And the barn, the smoke, the fire. What happened to this Ben and this girl?”

  “Who knows? Who gives a goddamn?”

  “I see. I will have to think about it.”

  “You will not think about it, wet back. You will spring me. I’ve rested up and I want out of this cage.”

  It was hard to resist reaching through the bars and grabbing this sadistic gringo by the neck. But C.J. burned some of the anger off by turning on his heels and taking the adjacent flight of stairs in half the time.

  His supervisor was a standard-issue hard-nose. He had once been a Marine recruitment poster boy and was featured leading a crack drill team in the opening credits of a major motion picture. As expected, he’d kept the short haircut and trim body. In this same way, his speech was clipped, his suit neatly pressed, shoes shined, tie bright but not flashy. He insisted on being called Mac in deference to his glory days as a signal-caller at USC. And, again as might be expected, his main concern was image. Keeping a low profile, insisting the Hollywood Division hold the line so that nothing worrisome spooked the tourists. That recent ABC special on violence and the LAPD was about another world miles to the east. And his division’s clean bill of health had better stay that way. Due to continuing Federal oversight, every move Mac’s officers made was monitored.

  “Well?” said Mac, sitting upright in his ice blue, air-conditioned office, all ten fingertips touching indicating rapt attention. “Did you play it the way I said? No Spanish, no emotion?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “This time he spoke to me.”

  “You see? What did I tell you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. My understanding, Rodriguez, is that you people are brought up to be polite. It’s only the loose cannons, the uneducated macho types that go off half-cocked.”

  C.J. shrugged. It was the fastest way to get past Mac’s ignorance.

  Palms down in his regulation-Corps pose, Mac went on. “Right. Now let me give you a heads-up. See if you can get something on this guy, you follow? In case somebody from the media gets wind of a muscular Latino beating up some civilian last night. That way we can spin it and run this character out of town. Or, if you get on to something, we can set up a file with eventual certificates of merit all around. But that would mean we’d have to increase the caseloads.”

  Fingertips touching again, Mac carried on. It took C.J. a good fifteen minutes to get a word in edgewise. To finally relay his exchange with the cowboy and the leads C.J. obtained from the smoke inhalation victim who wished to remain anonymous.

  Before agreeing or disagreeing, Mac went into another song and dance. “All told, best play, Rodriguez, is keep the status quo. Five-and-dime burglaries and identity thefts you don’t hear about. It’s just entertainment, celebrity sightings —nothing sticking out or lingering. It’s all hype, like that picture in the paper today.”

  For some reason Mac didn’t get the connection between the newspaper photo and the smoke inhalation victim, which was just as well. C.J. just kept nodding, waiting him out. What he got was not what he wanted but better than nothing. He had half a shift to look into things. But he was not to holster his Smith and Wesson service weapon onto his ankle, blow his cover, or so much as ruffle a hair on this Ray from Vegas’ head. Think of it as a fishing expedition, nothing more.

  “But always keep in mind,” Mac added, tapping his index finger on the stainless steel desk, “you are still on loan. I can always ship you back.”

  C.J. wanted to say that would be fine. He wanted to say he only accepted this posting because Chula couldn’t take the gang wars and constant danger. The compromise was, he would not give up on his boys and would make sure they didn’t shave their heads and die in a shootout before they were sixteen. He wanted to say all this, but kept it to himself.

  “Also keep in mind,” Mac said, coming to a close, “truth is, I’d hate to lose you. You’re a great type. You
keep fit and are one beautiful surfer.”

  Brushing off the compliments, C.J. said, “So what you are saying is, I have five hours to get somewhere but you are not counting on it. If the cowboy walks and makes no waves, that is fine with you. If he walks and does make waves, it is my ass.”

  “Something like that.” Mac leaned back in his adjustable leather chair, hands clasped behind his neck. “Except, if it does turn out there was a weapon in the oil drum. If so, and other things turn up and we sit on our heels, then it’s my ass. So be thorough while you’re making no waves.”

  Mac rose from his chair and ushered C.J. out of his office. “Say, I hear you drilled the guy with a combo of jabs and a wicked right cross. What about a demo some time? Set up a ring, a decent opponent and afterwards, drinks all around.”

  C.J. let that one pass.

  As an afterthought, Mac said, “Now you sure you got this all straight?”

  “I must play it smart.”

  “Attaboy, Rodriguez. You got it.”

  C.J. hightailed it out of the station, donned his midnight-blue shirt-jacket with the mesh pockets, got what he needed out of his glove department and went to work. For the first time in a long time, he started his shift on the loose. His easygoing Korean partner would have go it alone: snapping pictures of the former Grauman’s Chinese and the handprints of the stars of yesterday; posing as a long lost tourist begging to have his money belt stolen and relieved of his passport. Poor Chan Ho Choo would miss fooling around with his flashy Mexican sidekick; the one with the wild hair who was even better at seeming lost and unable to speak a word of English.

  Trying his luck as he tooled down Sunset into the stop-and-go, C.J. undid the flap on his top pocket, pulled out the cowboy’s cell phone and hit the second speed dial. The early afternoon sun glinted through the brownish haze as he pulled his visor lower and waited through the beeps for somebody to pick up.

  “Yeah?” the nasal voice droned over the howl of alternative rock in the background. “That you? What’s the frickin’ story here?”

  “I got what you want,” C.J. said over the noise. “I am coming by.”

  “Who is this? What happened to--?”

  “You say no, I will turn around.”

  Hearing nothing, C.J. hung up and took a right heading up Laurel Canyon Boulevard. Thinking it was true; this cowboy, this cabron culero who ran over his boys and sent Ben to the E.R. could walk. Why? Because he, C.J. Rodriguez, did take his sweet time answering Ben’s call for help. Because it was late and he and Chula were about to make love. Also, Ben could be imagining like always. And even if what he was saying—this cowboy had done things and driven away—Ben should file a complaint. It was only after he remembered he made Ben swear never to mention anything to do with a movie studio. So to call him, Ben must have been desesperado.

  With this idea that would not go away, he’d gunned his supercharged six-speed Mustang and drove off. And only when he’d found no one manning the gate and smoke rising that he banged his horn. He’d arrived too late, yes, but just in time to give this cowboy some of what was coming to him. Now, the least he could do was to finish it, to make things right. Make it right for Ben, like he asked, and for C.J.’s own banda de locos, his Los Cobras clique. Make it right all way round.

  Turning west onto Wonderland Avenue, C.J. settled on a simple plan. Connect enough dots to keep the cowboy under custody. Also see what spills over and how far this thing goes.

  Snapping up the cell phone again, he hit the first number. It brought nothing, only an answering machine. The second and third try produced the same. On the fourth try, a low gravelly voice picked up, the kind you hear watching old gringo Westerns.

  “What the hell, Deacon?”

  C.J. drove on saying nothing.

  “Come on, I got caller ID, I know it’s you. You blew it, right? And find yourself between the ol’ rock and a hard place.”

  Trying to imitate the cowboy’s dry voice without giving himself away, C.J. faked a cough and said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell you what. Since you crossed me, I’ve half a mind to feed you to that accountant whose leg you busted. Oh, yeah, I found out all about that. And he’s got pneumonia to boot. So, you call this number again and I’ll put him on to you. Give anyone and everyone an anonymous tip where to find your sorry ass. You wanted to go it alone, well, pard, you got it. You are alone.”

  A sharp click and the old rancher was gone. C.J. pulled over, snatched out his mini-recorder, dictated some notes and squeezed back into the traffic. If nothing else, the cowboy now had a first name. And more than that. The accountant was not just another loco nuisance caller. He was the cowboy’s victim numero three.

  After a few minutes wait, this skinny Ray with the beak, blue goggles and silver pajamas, returned through the metal-mesh curtain. He was clutching a wire cutter and a handful of stainless steel strings. These he tossed by the dented Fender Stratocaster on the gaming table.

  “Unzip that jacket thing all the way,” said Ray, speaking through his nose. “How do I know you’re not hiding a wire? The way things are shaking out, you could be working for anybody.”

  Going along to get things rolling, C.J. unzipped his shirt jacket, flung it open to reveal his bare skin and zipped it back halfway.

  “That’s just for openers, man. You need to know something,” Ray said as he unwound the old strings off the posts. “And that something is this. True players are those who no one sees coming. But the downside is, they can screw you over faster than anybody.”

  “Like this Deacon fellow, this cowboy.”

  Ray didn’t answer. He yanked at a thick string that wouldn’t budge from the machine head, snipped it and tugged with the snub nose of the cutters.

  C.J. drifted back to the aluminum cart in the near corner, pulled out the carafe and poured himself a cup of strong, hot coffee. While drinking it down, he realized there was no way he was going to bandy words with a toucan-nosed hustler with Vegas plates. Especially one who could abuse a white satin-lacquer Stratocaster. Simple truth, C.J. did not have fast enough English. He could not even bandy words with that mensa Angelique. He could still see her through the sliding glass door, hunched over on the bamboo-screened porch, scribbling. Wearing that puta lace bathrobe that covered up nothing; a lit cigarette dangling from her lipstick mouth. His only chance was to shake up this Ray, force a slip of the tongue and be gone.

  “I see now,” said C.J., setting down his cup, “this was a mistake. You are a person who breaks guitars and loses things. You are a poor judge of people who hired this Deacon.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Ray, flinging bits of guitar strings on the white Terrazzo floor. “If you weren’t stuck in your barrio, if you hit the Vegas Strip and mentioned my name, mentioned Ray Shine, you’d eat those words. What I am saying is this. Ask anybody. Check the new slots at Bellagio, the pings and clinks that sound like cash falling. Check out the special effects that pull ‘em in deeper and deeper, from quarters to dollars, dollars to five dollars, ba-da-bing ba-da-bing. My idea. The shadow-dancing hotties. The bimbos in the sinking pirate ship outside the fabulous—”

  “Which has mierda to do with this business.” Moving directly across from Ray at the edge of the gaming table, C.J. said, “This is about what I got and you want. This is about gran momento distribution.”

  “This is about a shakedown, you mean.” Chewing on his tongue, Ray tried to thread the new strings, lining the first one through the chrome bridge to the headstock, through the hole in the machine head, looping it back underneath and tight against the post.

  “Oye, cabron, you want to talk or play with your strings?”

  “If I see some proof you took Deke out, plus got your hands on what I’m frickin’ missing here.”

  C.J. pulled the Velcro-bound flap of his lower left jacket pocket, produced Deke’s cell phone and slapped it on the plush-green felt table.

  “Yeah, so, all right,” said Ray, swearing at himself for wrapping the string
over itself and jamming the machine head. “So okay, that’s how you got my number.”

  “That is correct. Now my turn.” Taking a guess, C.J. said, “Why do you send this Deacon with a gun?”

  Twisting one of the knobs so hard his pinched face turned red, Ray said, “Listen, whatever he did to your Mexican losers is on his head. What he did at the frickin’ studio last night is on his head. My play, my only play is the front. I had it in place. I had it in place good.”

  “You mean some maldito movie thing.”

  Ripping the string out of the post and starting over, Ray said, “Hold it. Whose shot is this? Let’s see a sample or we got no business and I got no use for you or any of you Chicanos.”

  Still holding his temper and assuming Ray Shine had never laid eyes on the shipment, C.J. casually lifted the flap of a middle pocket, dug inside and rolled out a few fat pink-and-white capsules. Ray peeped under his blue goggles, examined them carefully, slipped them in a drawer under the side padding and said, “Yeah, pink and white, it figures. So all right, so now we’re talking.”

  “Now I am talking. I want to know if you know how this is done.”

  “Right,” said Ray, securing the string correctly this time, plugging the guitar into a set of Super Reverb amps and trying to tune it. “You want the name of the lab in Toronto too? And how about how the goods travel down the coast? Which leaves me where? Buried in the tar pits under La Brea, that’s where.”

  Making a twanging sound that would hurt anyone’s eardrums and twisting away, Ray strained to find an A, fingering a fret on the lowest string.

  Yanking out the drawer and retrieving the capsules, C.J. yelled, “Then forget it. Es una perdida mi tiempo!”

  Ray dropped the guitar. “What did you say?”

  Hurrying toward the sliding glass door, C.J. yelled, “A waste of my stinking time!”

  Ray scurried in front of C.J. C.J. picked him up by his bony elbows, swung him around in the air and set him down on the gaming table as if he were a pesky child.

  “Wait,” said Ray, sliding back to the floor, tugging on the back of C.J.’s shirt jacket. “You don’t get what is riding on this. Nerds horning-in strictly legal, palaces zotzed with a wrecking ball, everything on shaky ground.”