Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome Read Free Book Online Page B

pocket, C.J. scribbled the number of the Farmer’s Daughter Motel on Fairfax and a name: Chula.
    â€œNight shift again?”
    â€œSi.”
    â€œShe’ll deliver a message and get back to me.”
    C.J. rubbed his knuckles on Ben’s forehead. “This time it comes to something or you are quits. Finito! Comprende?”
    â€œAbsolutely. You got it.”
    Breaking another awkward pause, Ben said, “Well well, a chance to connect with the fabled Chula. This is a coup.”
    â€œToo many words, carnal. Always too many stories, too many words.”
    â€œI know, I know.”
    C.J. moved on. Back to his banda de locos perhaps, or off on another escapade as an undercover Zorro.
    Chalking up this first task, Ben headed over the crosswalk going with the flow. He deliberately made his way down to the car park, keeping his fluttering notions to a minimum, making sure he didn’t get ahead of himself. Brushing by any number of parents, little kids and wavering boogie boards, he keyed on the familiar dullish red surface of the borrowed Prelude.
    Pulling out just as deliberately, he tooled onto Ocean Avenue, past Colorado, swerved onto the ramp and merged with the skewing muscle cars barreling down the Santa Monica Freeway; all the while wondering where he could find a phone in time to catch Gillian at her desk at Viacom.
    He pressed on and weaved in and out of the speed lanes, grateful that the clutch was no longer slipping. Finally holding steady in a center lane, he eased up on the gas and tried to take stock of his situation. But the grinding noise made by that old pickup crossed his mind again and kept clouding his thoughts. Which totally made no sense, save for the fact that this sign wasn’t abstract. It was somehow, by some stretch of the imagination, synchronistic.
    Focusing harder, he realized that since they had cancelled his cell phone service and there was no time to go all the way back to cousin Iris’ place, his best bet was the Hollywood Costume & Memorabilia store on La Cienega.  In a pinch, the manager, a wannabe sci-fi writer, would let him use his cubby hole behind the 1950s movie stills.  
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    Minutes later, Gillian kept barking into the receiver, pressing him for a definite answer. “Out with it, Benjamin. Did you hook up with el mysterioso? Is he on board, yes or no?”
    â€œYes,” said Ben. “But he is to remain anonymous. Available to me when in dire straits.”
    An almost inaudible “hmm?” and an interminable stillness before she finally said, “All right.  I’ll spin that to a ‘at your beck and call.’ Give me a few minutes, I’ll set something up.”
    â€œAn actual few minutes?”
    â€œOh, puh-lease. What’s your number?”
    After they both rang off, Ben occupied his time perusing the faded posters tacked on the walls, like the one for The Day the Earth Stood Still.   This was the oldie that featured a dignified alien who came down to earth to issue a warning about nuclear warfare. But was pleased to learn that everyone on this planet wanted peace and tranquility. A premise far removed from life as we’ve known it and any pop mayhem Gillian was pushing nowadays.
    True to her word this time, Gillian rang him right back. “You’re on. She’ll see you anytime between four and five.”
    â€œWho will see me?”
    After Gillian filled him in employing her usual cryptic style and was about to cut him off, Ben said, “Hold it. As much as I am champing at the bit, are you asking me to believe she will see me right now?  That it’s actually come down to me and a mystery sidekick?”
    â€œHighly competent back-up.”
    â€œRight. A grade-A Sancho Panza.”
    â€œI’m waiting, Benjy. Take it or leave it.”
    â€œFine. I will go in blind.”
    â€œAnd you will comply.”
    â€œAnd I will comply.”
    Satisfied, Gillian gave him the