Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome

unlisted address in Laurel Canyon and advised him that if, by some miracle, she gave him a thumbs-up, the rest would fall into place. Predictably, before Ben could say another word, he was left with a sharp click and a dial tone.  
    Dutifully thanking the would-be sci-fi writer for the use of his sanctuary, Ben wandered back out into the blustery haze. While talking himself into this dubious chance of a lifetime—which, as far as he knew, hinged on a ditsy rock star--he could swear he saw the phantom green pickup cruising past the next intersection.
    He also sensed that the wind gusts were shifting direction. On some whimsical wayward course independent of anyone’s calculations.      

   
    Chapter Five
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    When Angelique flounced onto her sun porch, practically naked save for a frilly pink-paisley skirt that barely covered the tops of her thighs, Ben knew he was supposed to react. Turn red, leer, cover his eyes, bolt from the premises—something. But he just stood there. All he saw was a body-builder Barbie. Even her breasts seemed manufactured, the result of so many reps on a Strive body-part enhancer, plus quarts of cousin Iris’ Protein/Power Cooler.
    â€œOoh,” said Angelique, feigning innocence. “You’re here.”
    â€œYup,” said Ben, trying to appear nonchalant and competent. “As requested, right on time.”    
    â€œOh, golly. How embarrassing.”
    â€œOh?”
    A fake pause, eying him, putting on her own act as well. “Guess I should slip on something a bit less revealing.”
    â€œWhatever you say.”
    â€œOkay. No peeking.”
    â€œYou bet.”
    Before easing back through the bamboo curtain, she gave him what he assumed was one of her patented glances: lowering her smoky eyes and pursing her pouty lips, belying the fact that her ingénue years were a distant memory.  She waited again for a more heated response. Still covering up a sense of unease, Ben could give her nothing but a wave of his hand.
    To any casual Hollywood observer, a slender sandy-haired thirty-something had just flunked the test. The shot of Angelique’s moves alongside a lasciviously responsive Ben surely would’ve boosted his cachet among his hapless associates alone. Those, that is, who were hobnobbing at today’s coffee klatch on Fairfax at the Farmer’s Market across from the Screen Writers Guild. Be that as it may, it wouldn’t dawn on his fellow hacks that something else was off-kilter on this loopy day. Doubtless, they’d be so taken in, they wouldn’t have noticed the scene while cruising up the Hollywood Hills and winding around Laurel Canyon. They wouldn’t have sensed that no other rock stars were wailing on their keyboards; no pool parties were vying for billing as most outrageous.  Moreover, under the overcast sky and fickle wind-gusts, all the hidden villas were silent. No motor bikes had caromed past Ben as he ascended. Even the weekend foragers, scouring through the wood ferns, needle grass and chaparral, hadn’t materialized out of the gullies and ravines. This was not Laurel Canyon as advertised.  No matter how he tried to remain focused, this was Ben’s special omen-generator working on overtime.
    Amplifying this notion, a shift into second and a sharp turn up Angelique’s hidden drive became a walled-in s-shaped slalom run. At the top, the turnaround was blocked by a silver Jag with Vegas plates, perfectly positioned to make the downward spiral, leaving Ben with the prospect of exiting backwards. After managing to crank up the hand brake as tightly as possible, he’d slid out and found the high wooden gate ajar, opening onto a long, narrow azure pool. At the far end he’d spotted a scrawny form lying on a chaise lounge like the discarded dregs of a failed debauch. The eyes were covered by opaque sun goggles resting on a beak of a nose, a huge orange