Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome Read Free Book Online

up your palms and back away. What is going to happen to you? Ai, Chihuahua!”
    â€œI don’t know. That’s the whole point.”
    With the Chicanos crowding out the little kids and patting C.J. on his back, C.J.  announced that he promised his banda de locos, his crazy teen gang, some beginning surfing lessons and would be right back. “Better in the water than drive-by shootings, si? Then you tell me what it is you came for.”
    The teens followed C.J., still patting away. The little kids drifted off and returned to their parents and their boogie boards. One scrawny Chicano, no more than thirteen, lingered.
    As Ben rubbed his ribcage, the scrawny one cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Yo, gringo, yo extranjero. You know something?”
    Ben shook his head.
    The kid held up his baggy bathing suit with his left hand and shot a boney fist in the air. “You just lucky he took pity on you. You go to our barrio, we got real stuff for you. We pop your eye out and take your maldito money.”
    â€œForget it. Estoy bromeando. We were just kidding.”
    In response, the kid rattled off a barrage of freshly minted curses. Ben replied that apparently C.J.’s acts of civility as a role model weren’t paying any dividends, an observation that went completely over the kid’s head.                                                                                                                            
    Shuffling his feet, glancing back at his friends as they began calling his name, the boy shouted, “You can not tame us. You can not hide behind your Mercedes and your flojo beach houses. We rule. Los cobras rule!”
    â€œGreat tag line, kid,” Ben shouted as he ran back to his compadres, holding up his shorts with both hands.
    For a few minutes, C.J. was in the midst of the bunch, chiding the skinny kid, then simmering down and demonstrating how to paddle out to meet the waves. A few tried to emulate him but gradually lost interest, falling back on their own water sports, dunking each other with complete abandon.
    At this point, the odds of getting through, let alone hop-scotching to the next phase of his mission impossible, was getting more remote by the second. And for no apparent reason, the slight pummeling and the bony kid’s threats had unnerved him. Like another prompt of what was yet to come. He wished he could shut off these portents of doom, but it was just one of those days where there was nothing you could do.      
    Shortly, C.J. reappeared, shaking his head, dragging his surfboard, a thick white beach towel draped over his shoulder, a red sweat band around his forehead. With his shoulder-length hair now stiffening from the salt water, he looked like an extra in some B flick about Cochise and his renegade Apaches.
    Again for no reason, Ben thought about the pickup truck. He told himself he had to damn well cut this out and face the inevitable as C.J. moved to his side.   
    In silence, Ben walked C.J. back through the sea of cars to his metallic blue Mustang and waited while he secured the surfboard to the roof-rack and slipped on a loud Hawaiian shirt. Despite himself, Ben scanned the area for a closer view of the dusty truck. Perhaps it had stalled and was still around. But there was no sign of it.
    The pair of them still mute, Ben followed C.J. up to the boardwalk. Going against the shuffling throngs, they headed for the park, Ben continuing to trail a few steps behind.
    The stroll ended as C.J. flopped on a vacant bench on the rim of the expanse of grass that