Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome

starting from storyboards like cartoon. From beginning you begin, on way to road to happy ending. For story, for family—you, me, Iris, Gillian. My hand to God.”
    â€œHold it. Let me get this straight. Are you telling me, starting tomorrow, I just walk in there, into the defunct Avalon Studios and wing it? And then I somehow get paid?”
    â€œYes, yes, yes. Bring estimate from garage, crayons, what-have-you-got,” said Leo rising to his full height. “Avalon Studios, first thing. Time is depending on tonight with Iris.”
    â€œOh, no,” said Ben, as Leo’s immediate plans came into focus. “Come on, Leo. Not the sexual gymnastics. I desperately need some sleep.”
    â€œSleep you will get. Tonight you go to movies, remember? Was all arranged.”
    It was true. In all the madness, Ben had forgotten. “How many rounds?  How many timeouts? How long till I can crawl into the back room and crash?”
    By this time everyone was looking up, including the four jaded women and the gold-buttoned mannequin. Unfazed, hovering over his audience, Leo announced, “Is not sex. Is world going round, is celebration, is ritual. And is over truly by eleven.”
    Ms. Brit turned around in her chair, looked Leo in the eye and muttered, “There is nothing so disheartening as a cheery Russian.”
    Still totally disregarding her, Leo said, “Dinner and movie, what could be better for you? No microwave. Drinks, food on me. Then, tomorrow you create with fever.”
    Ben could have corrected him and said “fervor” but why bother? Correcting C.J. Rodriguez’s English was at least fruitful.
    A smack on Ben’s back and Leo bolted out of sight. The mango infused seafood dish that followed managed to make a difference. That, coupled with the third margarita and the stylings of a jazz pianist who began tinkering with old Cole Porter melodies.
    A short while later and another margarita for good measure, Ben scuffed out of the Polo Lounge into the twilight afterglow and found himself grinning. Unaccustomed to a good meal and nothing more bracing than an occasional Heinekens, he was feeling no pain and had only an old Cary Grant flick remaining on the night’s agenda. At this point he had put everything on hold, including any thoughts as to Ray’s true identity: causing Angelique to become skittish; causing the maiden to turn back and run.   
    Just in case, he cast his gaze high and low. All was still, not a smidge of a warning sign.
    Again he reminded himself (with Angelique, Leo and Gillian seconding the motion), it was all out of his hands. You have your niche, you stick to it. Ever since he was a kid, it was always the same: Find something to do, Benjy, there’s a good boy . Got business to attend to . Real estate, out of your league . Everything in this factory town was compartmentalized. Especially business that had to be tended to , including Aunt June’s hawking of alluring property for well-heeled clients like Ms. Brit and company. Which went a long way to explain why Ben was so fragmented. Keenly aware that things were happening in Vegas and East L.A. but shutting his eyes. Cautious yet eager, lost yet hopeful.
    Reaching for some more reinforcement, he turned to the words of an old college professor:
    â€œIt’s simple physics, Mr. Prine. Think about it. Couple any endeavor with external fluctuations and there is no telling what will happen. And since external fluctuations are a given, any endeavor, especially in your field, is a random proposition.”
    Right, Ben told himself, reveling in the comfort of his margarita-saturated brain. Absolutely. It’s all a bunch of quarks--up, down and backwards ... moving here, moving there, moving everywhere. I mean, hey, there’s no telling.
    He spent the next few minutes repeating this new mantra. Shrugging everything off, being quite offhand about it.
    Then trying a lot harder; trying