Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome Read Free Book Online Page A

fronted the paved walkway. He leaned his head back catching the shade provided by the towering date palms. Moments later, breaking the silence, he said, “I ever tell you ‘bout my father?”
    Sitting next to him, Ben said, “Nope.”
    â€œHe was the one in the cantina, not my mother. One arm. A cornet player ... silver, you know? with a sweet tone fantastico.”
    Another silence.                                                                                                             
    â€œSo, amigo?  And your father?”
    Ben shrugged.
    â€œYour mother? You say nothing. Like you come from outer space.”
    Ben shrugged again.
    â€œAn orphan? Plus still no woman to make love with, plus—”
    â€œNever mind. That is not my immediate problem.”
    â€œThen what is it on your mind?”
    Two overly endowed women wiggled by, clad in leather thongs designed to reveal as much skin as possible. A petite blond followed in their wake wearing a hot-pink tutu and matching halter, meandering like a lost bareback rider.
    A guy strolling by with stringy hair, a cascade of silver earrings circling his left ear and a ratty backpack, shook Ben out of it. He checked his watch again and stood up. He noted the makeshift tents peeking out here and there from the far side of the rows of palms. The homeless were out there, panhandling, girding their loins and securing their shelters in case the wind gusts kept it up for another night. Clearly indicating that, given this economy and to hell with the stupid signs and portents, Ben was this close to joining them.
    â€œQue tranza?” said C.J. looking up. “You going to talk to me? Si or no?”
    As succinctly as possible, Ben mentioned Gillian’s proposal, causing C.J. to spring up. “What are you saying to me? What are you asking?”
    â€œA token gesture.”
    â€œIn English, por favor.”
    â€œA phone number. Just in case.”
    â€œIn case you what?”
    â€œGet in over my head ... some facts or police procedures I need to know.”
    â€œPor que?”
    â€œTo give me some leverage. To impress the producers.  Otherwise--oh, forget it. Forget I asked.”
    Before he took two steps away, C.J. was on top of him, spinning him around. “You that bad off? What they done to you?”
    â€œBlown the whistle, called my bluff. It’s now or never, that’s the deal.”
    Shaking his shaggy head, C.J. said, “I tell you, somewhere they do good pictures, you know? Find these people. Enough of this merde.”
    Ben didn’t respond. How could he? As a hack jobbed-in from time to time to do patchwork on throwaway ventures, this was make or break. But how could he explain that? Every time he’d broached the subject, C.J. had rolled his eyes and come up with the same advice. So what was the use?
    Picking up on Ben’s deep funk, C.J. quit trying. Reverting to his swaggering norm, he snapped his fingers, slapped his fist into his palm and did it again for good measure. Pressing a finger into Ben’s chest, he said, “No fancy-lens camera at crime scenes or your distraido brain where it does not belong.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œLevantate!”
    â€œI’ll do that. I will look sharp and stay on top of my every move.”
    â€œExactamente. You swear?”
    Ben swore, claiming he was so alert today, his head was splitting.  
    Still pushing it, C.J. said, “And you go nowhere near a police station. What you get from me comes from the sky. En secreto. Get it?”
    â€œGot it.”
    â€œGood.”
    Plucking a blank card from his shirt