57 -- the cafeteria

 

  

"No!" Bobo said too sharply, the volume of his voice rising above the chatter of the crowd, turning heads towards them from the other tables-- each startled out of the same two a.m. bleary-eyed expression. "I'm not going to do it!"

 Dan shushed him. The grey and wrinkled faces looked hostile, their gazes locked in a perpetual generation war. Not just against the hippies who had invaded and taken over their town, but the changes in the world that had evaporated a whole life style. The Ontra Cafeteria was old Hollywood, movie capital Hollywood, and these poor fools came here to relive it, barring the doors and closing their ears against rock music and screaming police car sirens.

 He envied them sometimes, and came here often to sit in the corner and watch them-- the old generals of the film industry acting out their lives like parts, pretending life had never changed. He also came here for the relief against Big Brother's police net and the electronic ears listening at every other establishment along the boulevard.

 Here, they were safe from that. What reason would the cops have and what would they hear? The sound of the belled machines and click of issuing meal tickets? Or perhaps the turning pages of newspapers and Variety magazines, and the whispered chatter of old actors parading from table to table as if still in their prime. Dan had listened often to the tales they told, the scandals and scorn of old Hollywood, the successes and failures of people remembered only here.

 Maybe his listening said something about himself, about his being cast out from the Wall Street world. He was certainly no movie buff. But the authenticity of it thrilled him in a way he couldn't quite explain.

 But neither Dan or Bobo were welcomed guests and their interruption brought anger to the grey faces, the stares resenting the intrusion of street costumes to their set. Too flamboyant. Not in touch with the scenes these people sought to portray.

 "You'll do what I say," Dan said in a low, barely controlled voice, his rage written across his face in red, wrinkled skin. His patience running out with his former partner. "You don't have any more choices. First, you and me are going to take a stroll over to the Selma to see what's happening there, then you're going to take me to the other stash."

 "And if I don't?"

 Dan grinned, lips drawn back like a snarl. "Then, I'll give you over to Billy Night Rider and let him do what he wants."

 Bobo's pink face paled. "You wouldn't do that!" he said. "You're not that cruel."

 "To save my own hide, I would and will," Dan said. "And it isn't as if you haven't given me cause. Now finish your coffee and..."

 Something odd moved from the other end of the room, an out-of-place smear of darkness caught in the corner of Dan's eye like shade-- moving along the food counters and cafe tables with the stark deliberation of a hunter. He turned his head slowly, but could get no clear look, the lights too dim there. But he made out the Spanish hat.

 "Hey, what's with you?" Bobo asked, noting Dan's sudden stiffness.

 "Take it easy, boy," Dan said, pushing the words out through clenched teeth. "But your friend is back."

 "What?" Bobo said and went to turn, but Dan's hand grabbed hold of his arm, keeping him facing in on the table.

 "Shush!"

 "Where?" asked Bobo.

 Dan's finger flickered up from his fist indicating the direction. Bobo leaned forward and slyly glanced over, stiffening as he did.

 "That son of a bitch!" he said, blood rushing to his pudgy face as anger did to his eyes. "What the fuck does he want now? He's got his dope."

 "Why don't we find out?" Dan asked.

 Both men pushed up from the table at once, not quickly enough to alarm their observer, but swiftly, separating immediately. Dan went straight towards the front door, Bobo towards part of the counter farthest from the figure. Then, as if by prearranged signal, both turned at once and moved in on the floating Spanish hat.

 The figure started, hat twisting one way then the next in a series of confused and impotent motions allowing Bobo and Dan precious added steps. The sudden and startling movement alarmed people seated at the tables as well, the break in the slow, deliberate step making them look up.

 None of this was in the script, Dan thought sadly, and no one here made unscripted scenes. He eased the pistol from his belt, moving closer, letting the figure under the hat see it.

 "Move an inch, mother fucker," Dan hissed, "And I'll blow your fucking head off."

 The words, despite his best effort to utter them softly, carried into the room, sending a chill of alarm across the grey-headed faces. The stranger's head rose, light falling on the face beneath the hall.

 "Chris?" Dan said, the shock putting him off guard. She leaped at him, but not before Bobo bounced on her, taking her down to the floor.

 "Let off me!" the woman howled and kicked, yet couldn't free herself of Bobo's military grip on her neck.

 "I'll break it if you don't stop fighting me," Bobo said, and looked up sharply at Dan. "You know this bitch?"

 "She's Mike's ex-wife. She came into town with us."

 "Then why's she bothering us?" Bobo asked.

 "Ask her," Dan grumbled. "I'm as confused at you are."

 "Well?" Bobo asked, yanking back on the woman's neck.

 She grunted and growled. "All right. All right. I was looking for Mike."

 "Sure you were, baby," Bobo said, snapping hard on her neck.

 "No, really!" she protested. "I saw you all earlier in the van and tried to catch up with you. Then the van went one way and you two the other. I never figured he would stick with the van, it being so obvious and all."

 "Which doesn't explain what you were doing following me before," Bobo said, his pudgy face taunt and his eyes lit with rage.

 "Take it easy there, boy," Dan said. "You don't want to kill her."

 "Before?" Chris grunted. "What are you talking about?"

 He tightened his grip. "To the Selma Hotel, bitch. Don't play stupid with me. I saw you."

 "Dan," Chris moaned. "Get this son of bitch off my back. He's obviously mistaken me for someone else."

 "Maybe I have, maybe I haven't," Bobo said. "But I'm not letting up an inch till I know for sure. That was a friend of mine you killed and my dope you stole."

 "Our dope," Dan put in.

 "I didn't kill anybody and didn't steal any dope," Chris said. "Now get off me before we all wind up at the Wilcox station in a cell."

 "She's got a point," Dan said, glancing around. The old actors had risen from their seats and backed away from them with horrified fascination, as if some scene from a classic film murder went on before their eyes. "Someone's bound to have called the fuzz."

 "Okay," Bobo said, rising, dragging Chris up by the hair. "Then let's go find some place where we can ring the truth out of her."

 But already the sirens sounded, rising like a wail from the street outside, blue and red police lights stroking the glass face of the restaurant.

 "Too late," Dan mumbled, feeling a bit giddy about everything, as if he had ingested mushrooms or smoked a powerful joint-- disconnected with the world and the people in it. Life had suddenly shifted into insanity, and an odd terrible carelessness came over him. Nothing seemed to matter. Not the cops charging towards the doors or even the men from Denver hunting him.

 He had placed so much hope in that drive to Denver, as if he could reverse the fortunes of his disease with single deal. He had spoken to no one about those dreams, but money bought a lot of things, and the more money spent the more dreams could come true. Like paying off his ex-wife, like making peace with her. L.A. wasn't that much different from New York. Maybe she would come out and try again...

 "Dan, damn it!" Bobo said, shaking him. "Are you listening to me?"

 "Yeah, of course."

 "Then let's get out. There must be a back door somewhere." Bobo grabbed one of the cafeteria workers with his free hand. "You got another exit?" he asked.

 The worker pointed weakly towards the kitchen. Bobo tossed him away, then dragged Chris in that direction. Dan pulled up the rear with his pistol drawn, shuffling backwards as he watched the front door. He felt like a goddamn bank robber. Maybe Dillinger. Only they weren't pulling out of the place with much more than the price of a meal.

 The kitchen was dark and dirty and crowded with trays of sitting food. The help scattered before them, knocking things over as they ran.

 The back door, as Bobo called it, didn't go outside, but connected with a long hallway, part of the theater complex next door. Here the crowds thickened, moving with props and costumes to a midnight performance for a taped TV special. Cables for the cameras ran down one side like large tentacles, as tech people, make-up specialists, and bit part actors stepped over and around them.

 Dan shoved his pistol back into his belt. No one seemed to notice three more strange faces among the maddening movement, though some disturbance sounded from the open kitchen door as they charged away from it.

 "Which way out?" Bobo asked, grabbing one of the attendants rushing by. The man shrugged and pointed. Dan, Bobo and Chris barged in that direction, through a set of propped-open double doors into the scalding lights of a stage. Camera-men dollied back and around, like children on tricycles. Actors moved and talked, as the open side of the stage showed the blank face of an empty studio audience. The odd hour part of some retake for later editing.

 "Hey!" someone yelled. But Bobo plunged ahead into the brightness, dragging his captive with him. Behind them, at the door through which they'd just come, blue uniforms appeared in mass, bumping into each other as they came to an abrupt halt like Keystone comedy act.

 The cameras whirred around them as actors leaped aside, losing the thread of their thoughts. Voices beyond the lights moaned, canned laughter rising uproariously from hidden speakers as if it all was part of the show. On the far side, Bobo plunged through another door and down a series of steps, passed shocked faces of the support staff.

 "Just where the hell are we going?" Dan asked, when they paused, the three of them breathless. His side ached, and he felt the urge to join in the audience laughter, the giddiness spreading in him like a growing high.

 "Out," Bobo said and shoved open the metal door under the red exit sign. Warm, moist air greeted them with the stagnant atmosphere of light night-early morning L.A. They had come out onto a short and narrow street stuffed with trash cans and abandoned props. It was one of the many block-long side streets that provided services to buildings fronting Hollywood or Vine. The round Capital Records building loomed over the roofs like a mindless robot, its bright face blinking on and off.

 "Where to now?" Dan asked. Behind them, inside the building, sounds of pursuit rose, searching for them in the corners and under the rugs. He felt foolish running any more. He wanted to stop and let it all wash over him, putting an end to running and hiding. The anger that had sustained him since Denver had faded, leaving a wearier version of his old practical self.

 The simple life was all he wanted. To wander. To Grub. To make love. No more. Wealth was for suckers, like Bobo, Billy Night Rider, Gil, and their ilk. It destroyed people, ruining their lives for honest experience. Look what it had done to Lance.

 "We have to get off the street," Bobo said, still clutching Chris. She looked less hostile, as if the prospect of meeting the police pleased her less than Bobo's rough treatment.

 "You've got to get off the street, not me, buster!" she said, twisting free from his grip with a quick motion of her own. He tried to retake her, but a bowie knife appeared out from under her cloak. "Back off or you'll pick your liver up from the gutter. I don't like being manhandled. Dig?"

 "Will both of you quit it," Dan said, finding himself scared again, as the temporary giddiness passed, blood rising up with the basic instinct for survival. "Put the knife away, Chris. Bobo's upset. His friend is dead and our shipment of dope is missing."

 "Well, I didn't do it," she snapped, making no move to replace the blade. "Now why don't you two go your own way. I've got to go find Mike. Do you mind telling me where he went?"

 "He's in the middle of something," Dan said, knowing that Mike would not want Chris in the popping up there.

 "Damn you," she snarled. "I'll find him myself."

 She turned towards the lights of Vine. Bobo moved to follow, but Dan stopped him. "Let her go."

 "But she is the one, Dan," Bobo said. "I swear it."

 "Or someone dressed like her. The town's full of costumes tonight, remember? That Goddamn Mexican celebration has everyone in town looking alike. Let just get out of here before the cops figure out where we've gone."

 Bobo looked confused, shaking himself like an old dog trying to shed the rain.

 "What about your friend's place?" Dan suggested. "Over at the Selma. You said you left the dope with him. It might be a good place to look for clues."

 "Maybe," Bobo said.

 "And then we can go pick up the dope Denver gave you."

 "How many goddamn times do I have to tell you, Dan. I don't have that dope any more."

 "I'll settle for the cash."

 "I don't have that either," Bobo mumbled. But his face looked flushed under the blinking lights and he wouldn't look Dan in the eye. And for the first time, Dan was able to read the lie there, as if the whole nightmare had ripped off the last of the man's masks.

 "Come on," Dan said, taking his arm.

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