Free Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome

rear plates.
    All the while, he thought he heard an odd sound coming from under the tarp. But he quickly put it out of his mind. He also dismissed the fact that at first she was headed up the drive and now she was gone. He told himself all this discombobulating would have to go on the back burner.  No one’s mind, no matter how facile, could possibly take it all in.
    Trying his damnedest to make the best of it, he drove off repeating an old mantra:
    â€œThis time. By God this time I am truly on the verge.”

   
    Chapter Seven
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    Hours later he repeated the mantra. After all, here he was ensconced at a choice patio table at the Polo Lounge. Shafts of a vermilion sunset were glinting through the over-arching Brazilian pepper tree, the hot winds had dissipated, the temperature was around a comfortable seventy degrees and Leo was about to enter and foot the bill. In short, no matter how maddening Leo could be, it was not inconceivable that Ben did indeed have a foot in the door.   
    It was now ten after six. Ben’s waiter, who resembled a proto mannequin, came by again sporting a white double-breasted jacket with gold buttons, ducked under a branch and deftly missed the jutting wires that held the pepper tree in place. Without missing a beat, he replaced Ben’s frozen margarita with a second. The drink was Ben’s attempt to slow down his thinking and keep plying his mind with a positive spin.
    However, try as he may, one notion kept slipping in.  No one can back down a serpentine driveway, smack into a phantom old Chevy pickup and just slough it off as another pointer. If nothing else, it certainly called for a second drink.
    Sipping a bit faster, wondering what was keeping Leo, he checked out the scattering of wrought-iron chairs, sea-green pillows and bamboo umbrella stands. Gazing here and there, he noted a few recognizable high profile players and watched them chatting away, tossing out industry tidbits in and around the pink stucco alcoves.
    Killing more time, he zeroed in closer by and began to eavesdrop. It seems the four women at the table directly behind him were beside themselves. They had been shopping all over Rodeo Drive the past few days and had even swung by Beverly Drive for the diamond sale at Fourteen Carats. Presently, they were at a total loss. The woman with the clipped British accent suggested they re-engage the croupier from that Vegas gaming table while their husbands scouted locations in “some ungodly patch of Baja.” Unfortunately, no one was keen on the idea. The Brit kept exclaiming, “What to do, ladies? What to do?”
    Ben chuckled at this mindless diversion as the second margarita began to kick in. So many out of work, so many on the brink, and now these ladies suffering the slings and arrows of impending boredom.
    But back to his own situation.  Perhaps he actually could tap Leo for an advance, resolve the little fender-bender in some amicable way and, in turn, find a secluded haven inside the Avalon Studios and the land of the second chance. Then rationalize the omens and put them irrevocably aside.
    Halfway through this margarita daydream, Leo burst into view. Barreling through the glass entry, he jostled past the gold-buttoned mannequin who teetered in his wake. After making a grand plea for forgiveness to no one in particular, Leo smoothed the remaining gray hairs along his temples. In the fading sunlight, Leo’s bald dome seemed shinier than usual, as if bronzed and glazed for a festive occasion.
    Shambling like the proverbial Russia bear, he spotted Ben right off, stepped down onto the patio and made a beeline. After giving Ben a ferocious hug, he reached back and yanked up a wrought iron chair with no regard for the lady Brit who was using it as an arm rest. By some miracle, she kept her balance and gave Leo a flinty look.
    â€œIs beautiful, Ben,” said Leo, ignoring Ms. Brit, drawing his chair closer. “You,