Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome Page B

managed to crawl back up to the cabin to wait it out. In any case, Frick would be too spooked to finger him; and Deke had the wallet and all in case Walt or the Outfit tried to stiff him. Or in case Deke wanted to stick it to the Outfit after not only tracking Frick down and recovering this incriminating stuff, but also maybe tracking down the whole scam from start to finish.
    What he’d lost in the bargain was the fun he’d always had. This new feeling-his-age crap sure as hell was getting him down. But, still and all, the chance of being on top of the game instead of winding up on the skids like guys everywhere was one hell of a sight better.  
    And so he eased back and let the sights come and go as the train rolled on: the gray sheen of the water approaching the Dalles and the Wishram station stop; the gouges of beige and deep chocolate brown across the way as if some giant had chipped out hunks of basalt. Pretty soon, the Columbia opened wide, the foothills of the Cascades glowed green, covered with thick Douglas fir and stands of skinny poplar. In the distance, the silvery Bridge of the Gods spanned over the Columbia so hikers could scamper across  the Pacific Trail into Oregon.
    But the sight of a bridge with no railings got Deke to feeling testy again. Losing a step, sure, but still as cocky as they come. Still the same rambler who, up till lately, hung loose around Cold Creek till Walt beeped him back down to Sin City or wherever.                                  
    Snapping out of it again, he noticed the seat next to him was empty. The lean woman might’ve said, “Nice talking to you.” He couldn’t really say.
    Trudging back to his berth, he noticed the paper and pulp mills cropping up outside his narrow window, then the rows of tract houses followed by ones with second-story wooden balconies. In short order, traffic lights popped out along with eighteen-wheel rigs, rectangular high-rises and the green 5-South-to-Portland sign. The commercial craft and pleasure boats that clogged the Willamette came into view and clinched the deal. Deke was going to have to get himself set.
    Less than twenty minutes later, he emerged from the cozy Portland train station and hailed a cab. While hanging onto the attaché case and making sure Frick’s billfold and smartphone were still secure in his travel bag, little spasms continued circling around his lower back. At this point he longed to meet up with Walt and have it out then and there. Smack up against something hard instead of more of this dos-a-dos.
    Â 
    Still antsy, he hopped a MAX downtown to Pioneer Square. The mix of fruity people on the glass-paneled light-rail system got to him immediately. It was Saturday, everybody’s day off. But did deadbeats in whacked-out T-shirts and sandals have to keep piling on, stop after stop? A few, okay, but there were bunches of them carrying green and white placards all starting with the word Save : “Save the Trees ... Save the Streams ... Save the Trails ...”
    He tried the breathing thing again and waited for the deadbeats to scramble off before he exited at the Square. Echoing his impatience, the MAX trundled on away from him, headed due west like some jangled kiddie trolley.
    Almost instantly, sunshine streamed down as the sky switched from gray to deep blue. An old lady yelled at the metal ticket machine, punching the rows of buttons, begging a senior all-day rail pass to drop in the slot. The ticket machine ignored her.  
    Moving away from the tracks, Deke tried to get his bearings. A file of brick steps led down to a piazza of pavers flanked by tall concrete shafts. Down below, a milling crowd suddenly looked up at a copper forecaster in the opposite corner that seemed to be going beserk: tolling bells, then whistling as pieces of jagged metal shot out from all directions. The tree