Chapter 1

Los Angeles Herald Examiner – early edition: May 18, 1985 Beverly Hills, California

Three armed men robbed exclusive Peter DeMeo Jewelers yesterday, walking off with an estimated 20 million dollars in jewelry. The brazen 5pm heist is the largest robbery on record for Beverly Hills.

Police are reviewing videotape and interviewing staff in an effort to identify the thieves. No one was hurt during the robbery.

Management says the store will remain closed until a full inventory is completed.

 

 

Chapter 2

 Ten days earlier… Wednesday, May 8th

 Benji opened a fresh spiral notebook, wrote the words “FADE IN” in bold letters at the top of the page, and rolled a pair of eight-sided dice. “We’re trapped in a maze. Now what?”

“We come to a door,” suggested his best friend Ira.

The boys sat on the hall floor by Benji’s locker as students passed from third to fourth period class at East Hollywood Magnet School. Fourth period was a free period for Benji and Ira.

“The door is guarded by a…” Benji picked up one die and threw it, rolling a one. “… giant troll. What do you do?”

Ira pushed his glasses further up on his nose and ran his hand through his short, curly brown hair. “I say we cast a fumble spell.”

Benji rolled the dice again. “Unsuccessful! We’re attacked by ten trolls!”

Ira scrunched his round face into a frown and folded his arms. “Is playing Dungeons & Dragons any way to write a movie?”

“It’s an experiment, Ira,” Benji explained, sitting back against his locker. “Do you have a better idea?”

“No,” admitted Ira. “Mr. Jakeman said we could write an original short story. Wouldn’t that be easier?”

Benji rolled his eyes. “Seriously, Ira? We’re film makers. All he said was write something original and I asked if it could be a script and he said yes. And I asked if we could use the AV equipment to make a movie and he said if we did we’d get extra credit!”

Ira shrugged noncommittally.

“Look, if we do it this way, we get to play our RuneQuest characters, Flame and Milfador in our movie,” said Benji. “What do you think about the title Fierce Elves?”

Ira shook his head. “Doesn’t thrill me.”

“Me neither. We’ll figure something out.” Benji picked up the dice and was about to roll an action choice when two sets of sneakers appeared at his feet. Victor Hefley kicked at the sole of Benji’s own shoe, jostling the notebook off his knees.

“Oops!” Victor sniggered. “Didn’t see you down there.”

“What is wrong with you, dude?” scolded Jeff, Victor’s beefy sidekick.  “You gotta pay attention.”

Benji pressed his lips together and ignored the taunt. He took up his notebook and went back to his script.

Victor was tall and good looking in a classic high school movie star kind of way, with a chiseled, square chin, light brown hair and deep set, gray eyes. His looks were his only asset though, according to Benji. When it came to intelligence, Victor rolled a fairly low number. Jeff pretty much matched his friend in IQ but was shortchanged in the looks department.

Both boys were ninth graders. Benji, an eighth grader who had scored high on the placement exam, had the bad luck to advance to two of their classes, Math and Social Studies. Even now, with only six weeks of the school year left Benji hated walking into his ninth-grade classes. He was teased about his size and his smarts, and Victor and Jeff were the worst. They delighted in picking on him.

Now the boys loomed over Benji, chuckling.

He fixed his eyes on their big feet and slowly tilted his head to look up into their leering faces. It gave him a great idea for his movie.  Not Fierce Elves! he thought. The title should be something like Elves Among Trolls. He scrawled the title on the top of the page.

“What’re doing?” Jeff sneered. “Writing love poems?”

“Nope,” said Benji. “It’s a movie.”

“Like Planet of the Nerds?” quipped Victor, prompting a yuck from Jeff.

“You wouldn’t get it,” said Benji.

“Are you calling me dumb or something?”

“Yep.”

Victor grabbed Benji by the shirt and lifted him easily up onto his toes. Benji braced for a slam against his locker or worse when he heard a heavenly sound.

“Hello, Victor.” It was Maryjane Kovac from his science class. Benji had a desperate crush on her. He fell under her spell on the first day of class when she asked him to help her with an assignment. Everything about Maryjane was exotic and beautiful. Silver-blond hair framed her heart-shaped face. Her bangs came to the top of her cats-eye glasses that magnified her pale blue eyes.

Ann Carter, Maryjane’s best friend walked beside her. Ann was a cute, freckle-faced, bespectacled red-head with a reputation for being stuck-up. Nothing impressed Ann. She looked down her pert nose at just about everyone but Maryjane.

Maryjane flashed a big smile at Victor as she and Ann walked past. “No fighting in the halls.”

Both Victor and Benji froze in a pose a sculptor might title, The Bully and the Pipsqueak.

Then, “You wish!” said Victor, seeing how Benji looked at Maryjane. He dropped Benji instantly and followed the girls up the hall.

“What jerks,” said Ira, retrieving the dice and Benji’s notebook.

Benji heaved a great sigh and stared down the hall, transfixed.

“Forget it,” Ira advised his friend. “She’s doesn’t even know you exist.”

“She does so. We sit together in science,” Benji insisted. “She likes me.”

“She’s using you! You do the work and she gets an A. See how that works? And calling Victor stupid to his face!? Are you that much of a butthead?!”

“Well, he is,” said Benji.

“Doesn’t matter. You told me she likes Victor, right?” Ira gathered up his book-bag. “So, let it go, man. Ya gotta be realistic. Girls like that don’t… Hey!”

Benji was already halfway down the hall. Seeing Victor take the initiative, he resolved to do something – anything. He was done pining for the girl in secret.

Maryjane and Ann had stopped and were dallying at the end of the hall. Victor and Jeff appeared to be clumsily trying to engage them in small talk.

Jeff nudged Victor as Benji approached. “Don’t look now, but I think Benji has something to say.”

“Maryjane?” Benji proclaimed, louder than he meant to. His heart thudded in his chest.

Maryjane whirled around, and Benji, shorter than her by four inches was suddenly looking up her nose. She gasped. He was then riveted by the closeness of her full lips, opened in surprise. He could smell her powdery make-up and feel her startled breath on his face.

“D’you wanna go out?” he blurted.

Maryjane took a step back.

Ann gasped and the older boys howled.

“Oh, my god! MJ, Benji’s in love with you!” Jeff guffawed. “Go on – kiss him!” He gave her a small shove that bumped her up against Benji’s chest.

Now Benji backed away, his face hot. The roar in his ears from the blood rushing to his head drowned out their laughter. He just knew she was going to say ‘no.’ But Benji took a breath and managed to mask his total terror with a serious expression while he tried to decide how to react to her response. Potential scenes ran through his mind like jumbled movies in a fever-dream.

He saw himself in a western. No? Well, I just thought I’d ask. Sorry to bother you, ma’am.  Then he’d turn and walk away, never looking back – the lonesome hero, dignity intact.

But what if she not only said ‘No’ but more like ‘NO WAY! OH, MY GOD!? What did you just say to me!? AAAAAAHHHHHHG!’ and ran screaming from him like he was Frankenstein’s monster? He’d hold his arms outstretched, calling after her. Me love you! Me love you!! Hate bad! Love good!

Both alternatives took a few seconds to play out in his imagination. Then he returned to reality. There he stood at the end of the hall, facing Maryjane, with two goons laughing at him and Maryjane herself gawking, open-mouthed.

Ira skidded to a stop in time to hear Benji’s invitation and slapped a hand to his forehead.

Maryjane stammered. “W-what?”

“Do you want to go out?” Benji repeated. Ira grabbed him by the arm and tried to pull him away. “With us! Me and Ira. You and Ann?”

“What!?” Ann and Ira shouted.

Jeff and Victor fell into each other’s arms, incapacitated with laughter, gasping for air. “Haaaww!! HAWW!”

Maryjane regarded Victor and Jeff sourly, then turned back to Benji and eyed him coolly. He stood before her – resolute, waiting for an answer. A crooked smile appeared on Maryjane’s face. “Benji! Are you asking us out on a date? Me and Ann?”

Benji, unable to speak, nodded.

“Where would we go?” she asked coyly, casting a quick glance in Victor’s direction.

Victor and Jeff’s hilarity stopped cold. Their mouths flopped open.

Now it was Benji’s turn to stammer in disbelief. “W-wha-at?”

“Where would we go? Where would you take us?” Maryjane repeated. Her friends stood there, abashed. Maryjane, appearing to exult in their astonishment,  cast another look at Victor who gawped back at her as if she’d lost her mind.

Benji scrambled to come up with an idea. “We’d go for dinner. A week from next Friday. At…”  What was the most spectacular place he could think of? “At Devlin’s in Westwood.”

“Are you crazy!” Ira cried out. “Movie stars eat there!”

Benji gave Ira a sharp elbow in the side.

“I made reservations!” Benji bluffed. “Of course, I could cancel them, if you’d rather…you know, go someplace else.”

“He can’t afford it,” Hefley sneered. “Go ahead, MJ. Say yes. I dare you. He’s lying.”

Maryjane gave Victor the stink eye and said reproachfully, “At least he had the courage to ask, Victor!” She turned back to Benji. “How nice, Benji. Ann and I would love to go with you and Ira.”

Benji could not believe what he was hearing. His heart didn’t leap, it soared to the stratosphere. Fireworks exploded in his mind.

“You would?” Ira croaked.

Ann was equally stunned. “We would?”

“Yes. We would,” said Maryjane.

Aghast, Ann stared at Ira, stout, goggle-eyed, sweater-wearing, baggy-pants Ira.

Ira, seeing he was cast as Benji’s wingman, stepped up and said, “Wow! Sure!” He leaned over to Ann and whispered, “I heard Johnny Depp eats at Devlin’s all the time.”

Benji let Maryjane take his hand and write her phone number on the back of it with a Bic pen. Then he sauntered away down the hall, floating on air. Ira followed him happily, turning back only once to wave toodle-loo.

***

       “You’re not really going out with him?” objected Victor.

Maryjane thumped him on the chest.   “Don’t tell me what to do, Victor Hefley.” She changed tone and flirted, “I’m passing science because Benji’s my… desk-mate.”

Ann got up in her face. “Go out with them!? You have got to be kidding!”

“Of course, I’m kidding!” Maryjane tittered naughtily, then chuckled, and ended up letting out a full-blown laugh. “You should have seen your faces when I said yes!”

“Oooh, Benji’s in loovve!” crooned Jeff.

Maryjane turned to Victor and batted her eyes. “Is he the only one, Victor?” Victor fuming at Benji’s boldness and glaring down hall, didn’t register the hint.

“Victor?” Maryjane asked again.

Victor finally focused on her. “What?”

Maryjane let out an exasperated grunt.

Ann leaned against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief.  “Maryjane, how dare you scare me like that! Dinner with those nerds?”

“No!” said Victor, finally stirred from his stew. He punched his fist into his palm. “You totally should!”

“Wha-at?” Maryjane asked.

“You should go!” Victor said. “Let them take you out. We’ll meet you outside the restaurant before you go in and you’ll hang out with us instead. Me and Jeff!”

“On a date?” Maryjane asked eagerly.

“Yeah, sure! A date!” said Victor.

Maryjane beamed. “You mean you and Jeff would take us to Devlin’s? Really?”

Victor’s smile faltered. “We can go for …like a Fatburger or something.” Victor’s eyes gleamed with the thought of revenge. “Yeah. Even better. If he’s really planning on taking you to Devlin’s, going with us for ice cream instead would…”

“Totally burn him!” Jeff cried.

Maryjane pouted. “So, we don’t get to go to Devlin’s? It would be such a glamorous first date.” She gave Victor a longing look.

“No. Better!” Ann interjected excitedly. “Meet us outside afterwards! We’ll let them buy us dinner and then dump them.”

“Yeah!” Victor slapped a victorious high five with Jeff, then held his hand up for Ann who refused to slap it.

“After dinner Ann? That’s so cruel,” Maryjane complained.

Jeff rubbed his hands together in malevolent glee. “Mwah-ha-ha! Totally!”

Chapter 3

Wednesday, May 8th, Los Angeles airport

Jerry Nelson stood in the Los Angeles airport baggage claim area holding a sign that read SID POMMERANTZ. Sid, a scrawny, aging movie producer was a steady client of LimoScene, the company Jerry worked for. He handed Jerry his bag and walked with him out to the Cadillac limousine. Jerry, who had memorized the handful of films Sid had produced in the 1960s, rattled off their titles to Sid’s delight and mentioned he aspired to be in show business too.

“So, you’re an actor?” said Sid before stepping into the car.

Jerry nodded, trying not to stare at Sid’s awful toupee which sat atop his head and contrasted drastically with the graying fringe it was combed into.

Sid gave him a good looking over, like a butcher inspecting a side of beef. Jerry was in his twenties, with dark hair and a very elastic, expressive face that radiated good-natured exuberance.

“You got a good look, kid,” said Sid. “Character actor. Better than a leading man. You get older and still look interesting. That means you’ll always work. Take it from me.”

“I’m a writer too,” added Jerry. “Just doing this limo driving gig to, you know, pay the bills and meet the right people.”

“A writer too? Smart! Diversify, that’s what I did. Me? I write, produce and direct when I can. Why limit yourself? I started just like you, driving a cab in New York. Met my first partner driving him around. We hit it off and started our own production company. Keep it up, kid. You never know.”

Sid eased into the back and Jerry got into the driver’s seat.  Sid spread out on the rear seat and luxuriated in the spacious compartment. He crossed his spindly legs and unbuttoned his loud hound’s-tooth blazer. He pressed the intercom. “What kind of stuff do you write?”

This was Jerry’s chance. He started pitching his latest screenplay.  “It’s called Max High,” said Jerry. “Science fiction. It’s kinda like a classic teenage street gang meets Tron but younger. It’s the future. The earth is polluted and the atmosphere’s shot.”

Sid stared out the window, only half-listening. Jerry found it awkward talking over the intercom, so he slid down the glass partition window that separated the passenger compartment from the front to talk more directly.

“So, everyone lives in these giant continental enclosures surrounded by desert and radiation. We follow these kids in a futuristic school run by a huge corporation called InfoCorp. They’re encouraged by their teachers to form gangs of super smart kids and hack into InfoCorp’s data systems. In the future, data is like gold. The teachers’ job is to stop the kids at every turn. Kill them if necessary! Only the very smartest survive. Successful code breakers are then graduated and brought in to invent new security systems and become ruthless company men.  It’s not only the teachers against kids, it’s gang against gang. ‘Anything goes and nothing’s illegal so long as you win.’ That’s what school has become in the future.It’s also a love story…”

Sid asked, “You got a script?”

Jerry handed Sid his latest screenplay from the stack he kept in the front seat.

Jerry pulled off the highway and took the long way into Hollywood in order to give Sid a chance to read it through.

“You got an Escape From New York thing going with the lower levels of abandoned technology. Nice,” Sid offered.

“Thanks,” said Jerry.

“Y’know, kid,” said Sid, suavely smoothing the edge of his toupee with a gentle hand. “You remind me of a young fella I once gave a break to by the name of George Lucas.”

“You gave a break to George Lucas?” Jerry was incredulous. “The director of American Graffiti? Star Wars? Who produced Indiana Jones? That George Lucas?”

“The very same.” Sid smiled. “I judged a student film of his at USC. Didn’t get it, to tell ya the truth — very artsy — but I said to him keep at it, you never know who’s going to think it’s got potential. I told him I’d show it to my boss, Freddie Silverman, the head of CBS at the time.” Another swipe of his toupee. “He passed on it. What can I say? You’d be amazed at how many hit movies we passed on.”

Jerry nodded. “It’s a funny business.”

“It sure is. Lemme take this with me. I’ve got a meeting over at Mammoth studios this afternoon.”

“Seriously?” Jerry’s pulse rose.

“Absolutely. I’ll pitch this to the head of development, Elena Angelo.” Another swipe of the toupee. “I’m meeting with her on another matter.”

“Want me to wait for you after I drop you off?” Jerry looked at his watch. He had to get the limo back for the next pick-up, but he’d risk being late for a chance to meet a real studio executive who had the power to grant his most cherished wish.

“Nah.  This your phone number on the title sheet?”

“Yeah.”

“Good enough.”

***

Elena Angelo peered over her red-rimmed designer glasses at Sid. She was a sultry raven-haired beauty with dark eyes and a sly smile dressed in a smart business jacket, tight skirt and blouse. She fingered the string of pearls around her neck as she read the script. After ten pages, she smiled across the desk at Sid. Sid smiled back.

Elena’s office was the stereotypical executive suite reflecting the accomplishments of the studio and the tastes of someone atop the Hollywood food chain. The posters were all personally signed by illustrious and powerful stars and directors. “Thanks for the opportunity! with Love…” “You’re the best! See you at the Oscars!” etc.

“This is really good, Sid. Where’d you get an idea like this?” she asked.

“Oh, you know, Elena. I mean Ms. Angelo…” Sid began.

“Elena’s fine.”

“It’s been rattling around in here for a while.” He pointed to his temple.

Elena read the cover page of the script. It was handwritten and read “Max High” by Sid Pomerantz with his phone number below it. She flipped the page over. The white bond of the cover page was different than the paper below it. She smiled. It was a common joke among some old-time producers: “How do you re-write a screenplay? Tear the coversheet off and write your own name on it.”

“I’d like to option it, Sid. Five years exclusive rights.”

“Fifty thousand,” said Sid flatly.

“I was going to say thirty-five, but I’m not in the mood to haggle. Okay. You have a deal.” Elena rose and came around the desk for a handshake.

Sid launched himself into a standing position and shook hands. “You know you remind me of a young lady I once helped out of the mail-room at Twentieth Century Fox–” – his hand gently caressed the fringe of his toupee– “–a gal by the name of Sherrry Laaan-sing.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m in the same league as the chief executive of Paramount and first woman studio head.”

“What can I say, Ms. Ange- I mean, Elena?”

“Give Cheryl your card on the way out. Thank you, Sid. We’ll be in touch.”

She waited for Sid to saunter to the door and leave.

The second the door clicked shut, Elena tore off the cover page, crumpled it and tossed it in the wire waste bin by her desk. She picked up the phone.

“Cheryl, get me a table at the Ivy tomorrow for lunch and clear my calendar for the rest of today.”

She hung up and dialed again. “Hello, Charles. Are you free for lunch tomorrow? I’ve got something I think we can really sink our teeth into.”

She laughed. “Oh stop, you always turn everything into a joke.”

She laughed again and hung up the phone. Looking heavenward with a sigh, Elena relaxed into her executive chair and kicked her shoe into the air, thrilled with her new acquisition.

Chapter 4

Thursday, May 9^th, 12: 30 pm

The Ivy restaurant on Robertson Blvd. in West Hollywood was crowded. Elena was seated in the corner of the front patio at a two-top table practically on the sidewalk, wedged between the picket fence and a table of chatty Beverly Hills matrons one-upping one another on where they had spent their last vacation and where they were going to go next.  She pinched the stem of her glass and took a large sip, careful to wipe the lipstick off the rim. She peered over her stylish sunglasses at the menu, eyed the oyster assortment appetizer and ordered two.

“Elena!” a man’s voice called from down the street.

Charles was an attractive man of fifty with silver hair who reminded Elena of the movie star Cary Grant in his later years. He wore a very sharp, well-tailored gray suit and yellow tie and carried himself with an easy confidence, conveying that, like Cary Grant, he too was dapper, funny and charming.

“Hello, Elena.”  His smile matched hers watt for watt as he passed by on his way into the hostess station. Within minutes he was seated across from her.

“I’m so glad you could meet me on such short notice, Charles,” Elena said. “Did you have a chance to look over the material I sent you?”

“I did. You’re right. It’s very commercial. But I hear science fiction is very expensive to produce. Special effects cost a fortune, even if you produce it overseas where it’s cheaper,” he said.

“I know, I know, Charles, but this idea is so… potent. It’s got all the right elements. Science fiction, kids, romance, adventure – a message! And the marketing could have so many tie-ins, especially with computers becoming all the rage these days. I’ve got feelers out to some popular young actors. And maybe Alec Guinness from Star Wars for the scientist.”

Charles balked. “A-list kids and big stars…they cost a lot. That’s likely over half the budget right there.”

“Maybe someone less expensive for the outcast scientist?” she proposed.

Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It’s always hard finding enough money to produce a film. Even big studios like yours don’t fully finance films by themselves any more for fear of losing money. Big budget films are a risk.”

“But a hit can make a hundred times, a thousand times, what you spend on producing the movie, Charles,” Elena argued.

“It’s a gamble, for sure,” Charles agreed. “Speaking of which, how did your last movie turn out? Rick’s, wasn’t it? I read in Variety that it’s your entry at the Cannes film festival this weekend. Do you think it will recoup the ten million it cost you?”

Elena’s last blockbuster remake of the classic film Casablanca had tested poorly with preview audiences, which meant it had little chance of successfully earning back what it cost to make. If it didn’t earn its money back and then some, Elena knew the studio would never again risk trusting her with another big film. If Rick’s was a bomb, her tenure at Mammoth would be short-lived.  She had to bring in a monster hit this year.

She changed the subject. “But this one, Hacker High, is original. It’s potent. It has everything. It could be the next Star Wars!”

“How much money are you looking for?” Charles asked.

“At least twenty million. Maybe as much as fifty,” admitted Elena. She leaned in with all the charm she could muster. “I thought we could make it independently, you and I, as a co-production. We could have the studio standing by to market and distribute. You told me you know all about financing, didn’t you? And you love the film industry. This would be a golden opportunity for you, Charles. For us.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, the sun in his eyes prompting a squint. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, weighing the idea’s potential.

Elena noticed she was strangling the stem of her glass with her nervous grip. She released it and composed herself.

Their waiter brought the oysters and stood ready with an order pad and pen. Elena and Charles ordered the obligatory Cobb and lobster salad, the power lunch du jour at the Ivy.

With lunch ordered and oysters before them, they tucked into the meal. She held up her glass for a toast, “To Hacker High, the next Star Wars.” They clinked glasses.

Elena watched Charles sip his cocktail. He was very attractive.  She had met him a year ago last May, at the last Cannes International Film Festival on the French Riviera. It was at a screening of her well-received Hours of Desperation, Mammoth’s arty remake of the classic crime drama Desperate Hours. Elena had heard about a wealthy American playboy living in Cannes who was connected to casino investors and had a beautiful boat for hire. And she wanted the most sumptuous vessel in the harbor in which to wine and dine her show-business dignitaries. And that vessel, The Lady Eve, was owned by Mr. Charles Pace, bon vivant, and casino financier.  Elena had rented his yacht for the after party. Then, when Elena found out Charles was unattached, not gay, and possibly interested in investing in movies, she invited him to escort her to the party.

Afterwards, they spoke on the phone a few times over the year. It led to a pleasant flirtation. His last message told her he was in Los Angeles for an extended stay and would love to talk film sometime. What great timing for this script to fall into her lap.

She smiled at Charles and removed her glasses. “Well?”

“Personally, I’m only good for maybe eight or nine million,” he said.

Elena’s smile evaporated.

“I’m not saying I can’t find more,” he quickly added. “I’d have to get some interest from … certain parties.”

Elena’s expression didn’t change.

“Don’t look so sad, my dear,” Charles consoled her. “After all Star Wars cost only nine million back in the day. I’m intrigued. Really. Maybe I can get the Oxbridge Foundation interested. Truxton doesn’t know much about movies, but he’d feel good if he knew I was putting up some capital. It would give him confidence.”

Elena gasped. “You know Truxton Oxbridge? The billionaire?”

Charles grinned and nodded.

“Actually, I know his son. Truxton the Fourth. ‘Trucky’ we all called him. I manage his trust fund. We go way back. I was his senior advisor at Exeter College. Helped him get through. He was… how shall I put it? Socially awkward. Painfully so. His father was grateful for my guidance. When I opened my own firm, he gave me charge of the trust fund. I’ve guided Trucky’s fortunes ever since,” said Charles blithely. “I’m an investment counsellor, Elena, and I don’t usually like to name drop but his father is my biggest client. Don’t let it get around. He relies on my discretion.”

The reports of Elene’s last box office numbers were below expectation and the poor reception of her entry at this year’s film festival had the studio in the red.  The grapevine murmured that it might be time for a new head of development.

Now, a weight lifted from Elena’s shoulders. With her newly acquired Hacker High, she had a chance to change all that. She was filled with a new confidence.

“Come to Cannes with me, this weekend, Charles,” she said.  “I want to show you off.”

Chapter 5

Thursday, May 9^th

“Benjamin! It’s 6:30!” Lorraine Loper called up from the bottom of the stairs.  “Cliff can drop you off at school if you hurry!”

Benji grimaced.

“C’mon, champ! Wakey, wakey!” hollered Cliff, Benji’s stepdad to Benji. Then he said to Benji’s mom, “Get in that kitchen, babe, ‘n rustle us up some breakfast, would ya?”

Benji heard the customary slap on his mom’s rump and her shriek of“Oh, Cliff! Stop it!”

Benji sighed. Cliff fancied himself a ‘ladies’ man’ and Benji resented the crude way he treated his mom.

“Daylight’s burnin’, little man! Hustle!” Cliff hollered again up the stairway.

Benji hurled off his covers and jumped into his jeans that lay in a neat crumple at the side of the bed. He hated being called ‘little man’.  So, he was short! Why make it a nick-name? He had started calling Cliff ‘big fella’ but that ended with slap from his stepdad, who told him to have some respect. Yeah, right. he thought.

“Coming!” he shouted through the door.

It made Benji mad that his mom had to settle for Cliff. “Give him a chance.” she told him. “He works hard and pays the bills.”

When he got downstairs, Cliff was already at the kitchen table, buried in the morning newspaper while wolfing down waffles. He had on his Wooley’s Trucking cap and matching embroidered denim jacket. Cliff was embroidered on the front pocket. Some of his long, sandy brown hair poked out of the gap by the plastic strap that sized the hat to Cliff’s head. Cliff sipped his coffee and said, without looking up, “Morning, sleeping beauty.”

Benji didn’t answer. He plopped himself down in the captain’s chair opposite the man. Benji’s mom handed him a plate of waffles and went back to the stove.

“I’m meeting Ira at the bus stop. No need to drop me off, Cliff.”

“Sure, champ,” Cliff replied. “Okay with you, lover?”

Benji cringed.

Cliff was so different from his real dad. Richard Loper was a short, wiry man with a conservative crew-cut and wore a white shirt and tie, almost like a uniform. He was a hardworking salesman for a big company before he struck out on his own, setting up and running his own insurance company.  That’s when things had gone bad.

Benji’s mom had constantly worried about money and complained Benji’s dad was always spending more than they had. “It’s the cost of doing business. You have to look like a million to make a million,” and “Relax, it’s only money” were his father’s favorite sayings. But Benji’s mom counted pennies and disliked living beyond their means. One day, when Benji, when came home from school, his mother told him his dad was gone and was never coming back. He’d been arrested for embezzlement. That meant stealing funds from your own company. Dad had spent all their savings and left them broke.

That was it. Just like that. His father was gone. No goodbye. Nothing.

It was a bad year for Benji and his mom. She declared bankruptcy and managed to save the house but had to get a job at a restaurant to support them. She had refused to let Benji communicate with his dad. A year later she had met and married Cliff.

Benji resolved to make the best of things. He’d also made a conscious decision to be more self-reliant. The lesson being, you can’t really count on anyone.

Benji threw himself into school work and did well that year. He got such good grades he was moved to the East Hollywood magnet school where he could learn at his own pace and focus on subjects he liked. He was cheerful and friendly but he chose never to speak about his family to anyone.

Until he’d met Ira, that is. After he and Ira became best friends, he introduced Ira to his mom and Cliff but still, he never talked about his real dad. Best friend or not, that kind of information was strictly on a need-to-know basis.

Cliff got up from his chair and backed it across the linoleum floor with a loud rat-tat-tat. “G’bye lover. I’ll be back in a week.”

He strode over and took Benji’s mom around the waist for a goodbye kiss that made Benji put down his waffle, grab his book bag and bolt. “Gotta go!”

“You be good to your mom, little man!” Cliff called after him.

“I will!” Benji shouted as the screen door to the back porchh slammed shut.

He jumped the steps and hit the ground running. He headed down the alley behind the small fenced-in back yards lined with garbage pails and hurried towards Fountain Avenue in Silver Lake, an older residential and commercial area in central Los Angeles. He was eager to talk to Ira about their double date at Devlin’s.

On his thirteenth birthday, a red envelope had arrived addressed to him marked Personal & Confidential. Inside was a card from his dad and seven one-hundred-dollar bills. Dad’s note said that he had earned this money honestly while in prison, had no need of it, and wanted Benji to spend it on something that would make him happy. The letter ended with the words “I Love You. I let you down. I’m sorry. Dad.’
The P.S. asked Benji to promise not to tell his mom about the card or where he got the money. Benji had no problem keeping that promise. That information would only hurt his mom and complicate his plans.

Those seven-hundred-dollar bills were now tightly folded and tucked into his front pocket, and would pay for the one thing that would make him happy: An evening with Maryjane and a fabulous dinner with his best friend Ira and Maryjane’s best friend – all on him.

Benji reached the end of the alley, rounded the corner and was promptly yanked from behind and spun around. “What’s your hurry, Benj?”

It was Victor and Jeff.