Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome

speaking for a while. Walt shoved more mixed nuts in his mouth, guzzled another ale and kept wiping his walrus mustache with the back of his hand.
    â€œOh,” said Walt, “one more thing. Been in touch with our screw-up point man. He’s putting a good face on it, like it’s nothin’. Even asked for you special. The suit was his idea. Goes with your style, he said. Now ain’t that a kick in the head?”
    â€œCome on,” Walt said in the icy stillness. “What the hell’s it gonna be? Look, I’m easing you in and out. All you have to do is go along till you plug the hole. You’ll be on a leash but still have plenty of slack.”
    â€œAnd what if the hole can’t be plugged?”
    â€œI don’t think I heard that.”
    No sooner had Walt raised his bushy eyebrows for emphasis, when the clown-girl was back with a whirl. She wheeled in her serving cart, whisked everything off the coffee table, plunked down their order and snatched off the silver covers, revealing the steaming plates of rib-eyed steaks and side dishes.
    â€œWhoops,” she said. “Forgot the extra ales. They are icy cold, set to go with frosty mugs this time. Be right back.”   
    She exited as fast as her bandy legs could carry her. Walt set to work slicing up his meat into tiny bite-sized cubes. Deke guessed it was some kind of ulcer, what you got for being a testy bastard all these years. It was no secret that Walt had no friends or love life to speak of. Not ever.
    â€œHere’s to home cookin’,” said Walt, taking a careful bite of steak and chewing it slowly.
    The girl returned and set the frosty mugs and open bottles of ale on the side table.
    â€œWhoops,” she said, “Whoops again. Did I do this wrong? Can you manage? I should’ve got some tablecloths, huh? And the coffee table is kinda low and—”
    â€œIt’s dandy,” said Walt. “Just give us some time and space, okay, hon?”
    The girl didn’t like Walt’s “hon” or his wayward hand patting her backside. But she registered a forced smile anyways. “You sure? It’s no trouble. I could—”
    â€œLeave us now, hon,” said Walt, beckoning to Deke to fill him a frosty mug to the brim. “We’ll be fine.”
    The girl looked at Deke for a cue. Deke nodded. She scooted off as Deke poured the thick ale while Walt gave the girl a horny grin.
    â€œHere’s to cuttin’ our losses,” said Walt.  
    Deke continued to give Walt nothing. As he saw it, his only choice was to keep playing along till he was ready to make his move. Which figured to be some time between tomorrow and the day after.
    Walt wiped the foam off his mustache. Then he squinted, knitting the furrows on his mottled forehead, making the folds by his pug nose even more pronounced. “If it ain’t askin’ too much, I’d appreciate some kinda response. At least let on how you feel about headin’ for the last roundup.”
    For an answer, Deke snatched a serrated blade and tore into his steak.      

   
    Chapter Ten
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    For a pittance, you could take in an old flick at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery on any given Monday evening. As this crazy Labor Day drew to a close, Ben looked upon this outing as a continuing escape hatch as he drifted among the other film buffs setting up their folding beach chairs and blankets. Here he could kick back and enjoy one of his favorites projected on the wall of Rudolph Valentino’s mausoleum, with the tops of spindly palms lazing over the shadowy images. It was Ben’s cup of tea. An homage to movieland’s past. A fitting way to comfort those nearby stars of yesteryear, gone but close by and not forgotten.
    However, despite the lingering buzz from the margaritas and the promise of mindless diversion, the low-key anxiety threatened to slip in again. As he eased behind a