86'd

by Dan Fante

  fifteen

  The towering white-haired figure that stood in the hospital doorway blocking out most of the light was part man, part water buffalo. David Koffman had flown to L.A. from New York to help Joshua run the company while I would spend several days at Hollywood Presbyterian.

  In bed, in my ward room while he stood there wearing his newest Panama hat, which made him nearly seven feet tall, I gave David my account of the accident—about being in my underpants trying to attach the section of chrome molding back on to the front bumper of Pearl when the tube of Krazy Glue burst open against my shorts.

  The lie sounded only semi-convincing and it didn’t account for Portia’s abrupt departure, but the look of pain in my face and my apparent discomfort were real and Koffman was genuinely sympathetic and upset for me. His sombrero came off and he set it down. It covered the lower half of my bed.

  When the opening was right I reminded him of something that I’d only realized myself the week before: Our company had just passed its six-month mark in business. I was now a full 25 percent partner.

  “Were you drinking when the accident happened?” he asked quietly.

  I blew up: “No, for chrissake, it was six a.m. in the morning! I was getting the car ready for an airport run. Remember, we had a deal about my drinking. I really resent that kind of question.”

  David apologized. He could see what I was going through. And Portia’s quitting, I added, was an unfortunate coincidence—icing on the cake to a really fucked day. Nothing more.

  The meds I was on were starting to make me feel a little giddy and I went on to tell him about my run-in with Frank Tropper a few weeks before, and his dealing drugs, and explained that Portia had been put on probation as a result. This, of course, was a lie, but her resignation the morning of the incident was now beginning to fit in nicely with the stream of bullshit I was concocting. “Bottom line, we’re better off without her,” I said. My new partner had no choice but to nod his head in agreement.

  Then two of our drivers, Marty Humphrey and Cal Berwick arrived to pay their respects, both of them dressed in cop shades and black driving gloves. It surprised me when Koffman approved of the new thug look and he even suggested that we might consider advertising our driving staff as chauffeur-bodyguards.

  I was on a roll so I blurted out that the idea was absurd, that advertising that nonsense would open the door to legal licenses and hiring restrictions that could make the task of hiring decent drivers even more difficult. The white-haired giant in the plantation owner outfit seated near me nodded his head in agreement.

  The next day Dr. Rilke, the guy who did my surgery, came into the room to give me his evaluation. He was freshly tanned from a long weekend. It came to me that this was the first time in three years I’d gone this long without a drink—or a hard-on.

  Rilke, who had body odor and seemed perpetually distracted, checked my chart then put it down. He peeled away my bandages, poked me and pressed and squeezed, then offered his assessment of my red and oozing crotch. “You’re progressing well.” The guy needed deodorant—a class he must’ve ditched in med school.

  “What else?” I asked, turning my head away to cop a gulp of fresh air.

  “Well, you’ll experience epidermal numbness on your penis and testicles. But that’s to be expected as well.”

  “Permanent numbness?” I asked.

  Rilke was folding my bandages back down and taping them closed. “Doubtful,” he said. “Just give it all time to heal.”

  “Hey, good news.”

  Now done with taping my body, Dr. B.O. pulled up a chair and sat down. He made some notes on my chart. “There is another factor that comes into play: the psychological component.”

  “Which means what? Don’t tell me that I may never get a hard-on again?”

  “That’s not my area but anxiety after this type of injury can become a factor. If you’d like I can refer you to someone. We have people on staff here.”

  “Not interested. Thanks.”

  “Then, if I were you, I’d give myself as much time as necessary. Don’t rush things.” He looked at my chart again. “You’re unmarried, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “Avoid sexual contact for a few weeks.”

  Portia’s face suddenly popped into my brain and I felt myself wince. “That won’t be a problem,” I said.

  The twitchy doctor adjusted his glasses. “There another issue we need to discuss,” he said. “Something I’d think long and hard about if I were you.”

  “Okay. What? Tell me.”

  “Your blood test showed significant liver deterioration and we had to administer anticonvulsives. You’re a heavy drinker, correct?”

  “That’s genetic,” I said. “It runs in my family—my father and brother.”

  Rilke was whispering. “I’m not talking about genetics, Mr. Dante. Your problem is substance abuse. When you were admitted you had a blood alcohol level of .16 and there was evidence of cocaine and traces of the chemical compounds found in Xanax and Vicodin.”

  “Like I said that stuff runs in the family. From time to time I deal with anger and depression. The pills help.”

  “There’s a newer compound out called Lexapro that’s been quite successful in treating those symptoms. Patients in recovery have reported excellent results. You should look into it.”

  “Thanks anyway. I’ll pass,” I said.

  The next day was release day. A new Filipino nurse came in to check my meds and change the dressing. She was tiny and in her early twenties with a pretty dark face and eye makeup. Her long black hair wrapped in a bun. Her badge name tag read “Esperanza.”

  Esperanza removed my sheet and blanket from the bed, then pulled off my blue hospital shirt. Then she peeled away my bandages and began a sponge bath starting with my back and chest. When she got to my crotch area and began softly dabbing my cock and scrotum with the warm cloth I knew I’d be okay. Bingo!

  sixteen

  Dav-Ko’s senior partner apparently wanted to keep tabs on the day-to-day operation of the company so he decided to stay on in Hollywood for another week or two and help run things. He’d unlocked his private suite upstairs and taken up residence. A steady stream of his gay pals invaded the duplex. The smell of hors d’oeuvres and gourmet dinners began flooding the building.

  Resting in my room I spent the next two days writing a story about a paralyzed guy in the hospital who has an affair with his cute night-shift nurse but has no sensation whatever in his lower body, and watching old episodes of The Twilight Zone on DVD.

  Even before I was up and around Koffman put an ad in the Los Angeles Times for a new day dispatcher. We got lucky and hired sixty-year-old Rosie Camacho the Monday after the ad ran. Rosie was a retired L.A. city bus route manager with twenty-five years on the job. Both of us liked her and it was an easy decision after the first interview. Her experience and her congenial phone manner made it a done deal.

  Then it became a twofer package deal because Rosie had a grown son named Benito who had just recently started up his own lube and oil storefront business, close by on Western Avenue.

  The day after she began work Rosie came back from a lunch with him and mentioned the nice coincidence of her son’s little company being only ten minutes away. David Koffman met with Benny that afternoon and put him on the payroll as our moonlight mechanic.

  These days Dav-Ko was almost constantly busy. I was better now and in the afternoon and evening when Koffman was out making business calls or on the rounds of the West Hollywood clubs, I came downstairs to help dispatch. We never turned down a limo order and frequently our stretches were double-booked and Rosie needed help to call our list of affiliate companies to farm out our overflow.

  Then, suddenly, my chickens came home to roost. I was helping Rosie learn how to do future cash bookings in the computer when Koffman returned from a lunch appointment and stomped into the office. He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out our company checkbook, then as
ked me to step into the chauffeur’s room with him. His face was stone; expressionless. I could tell something was up. Something ungood.

  Marty Humphrey was watching a baseball game on the wall TV and waiting to do an airport run—the Dodgers were playing at San Diego. Koffman switched off the game and asked him to leave. The he barked the order: “Bruno, step in here with me. We have business to discuss.”

  Once I was inside David closed the door then flipped the lock down for privacy. He dropped his big body heavily into a chair then folded open the check ledger. The shit was about to hit the fan. I could feel it.

  “Sit,” he snarled.

  I stayed standing. “Sure, what’s this about” I said.

  “I had lunch with Portia today.”

  My attempt to appear blasé failed badly. In the back of my mind I was aware of the possibility that Koffman might try to contact the vengeful bitch but I was hoping I might get lucky and also hoping that if he did talk to her that she wouldn’t spill her guts on every sordid detail. But now, standing in front of David Koffman, I was pretty sure the jig was up—my ass was in flames. “Oh,” I said. “So, how’s she doing?”

  Taking a pen from his breast pocket I watched as Koffman printed my name on the top two checks in the ledger. “I’m writing this first one out to you for five thousand dollars,” he sneered. “I feel that’s a more than reasonable value of your 25 percent share in Dav-Ko.”

  “Wait a minute. What’s up? Let’s talk this through,” I said.

  “No discussion. No more deception. I’ve been an unthinking fool. But no more. I’m dissolving our agreement and our partnership as of today.”

  He ripped the first check from the book then kept on writing. “This next one,” he said, “is a week’s severance pay. One thousand dollars.”

  “C’mon, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Do not screw with me, Bruno. You know precisely what this is about.”

  “Do I get a chance to talk? This is still a partnership, right?”

  “You’re unstable—an alcoholic and probably a drug addict too. Christ, bullet holes in the walls of your room! That’s plain insanity. On top of that you’ve abused your fiduciary responsibility to this company. There’s no adequate excuse for what you’ve done and no explanation for it is required.”

  I sat down. “Look, what did Portia tell you? You owe me that much.”

  The tall man folded the checkbook closed then used his ballpoint pen as a scepter, pointing its silver Gucci tip toward my head. “I was told things that, in confidence, I will not repeat here. But essentially, in substance, you’re a train wreck. And I agree with Portia’s view that you should be in therapy or some sort of recovery program. But, after today, that’s your problem. Your choice. I’m washing my hands of the entire matter.”

  “The gun thing was an accident, David. I’m not crazy. I made a mistake.”

  He handed me the check for a thousand dollars then folded the big one, the one for five grand, into his shirt pocket, then patted it. “You’ll get this one when you sign the release my attorney is drafting. Another ten days at the most.”

  “Look,” I said, “my brother died. I had a hard time dealing with it. I fucked up. I started drinking again. That’s the truth. But I’m okay now. I’m back on my feet.”

  Big David frowned. “No sale, sir.”

  “So I’m out on my ass. What about hearing the flip side?”

  “Frankly, for me, there isn’t one.”

  “That’s just swell, David. I sober up and try to pull my shit together and then I get blindsided—and you get my quarter share in the company. That’s a lousy deal and I don’t deserve it.”

  The tall man glared at me in silence, then snarled, “You have until tomorrow afternoon to pack your things and vacate your room,” he hissed.

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it. I have nothing else to say. The matter’s settled.”

  That night I only slept an hour. Being off booze and pills was brutal and Jimmy was at me nonstop.

  I was up early the next morning driving the alleys of Hollywood searching for boxes to help me pack up and move. After filling my Pontiac with collapsed cardboard I stopped at Ace Hardware on Sunset and bought a roll of clear tape that had a built-in cutter.

  Back in my room I packed my clothes and began to unhook my computer and printer. There on my writing table was a stack of stories, now fifteen in total. Over a hundred and seventy printed pages of work. Good writing. Good stories. No matter what came next down the pike after Dav-Ko, I had these. My life wasn’t a total shit sandwich. These stories were the upside. I was also now an experienced L.A. chauffeur with a major company. I’d be able to get work. The hell with Dav-Ko. I’d start over. I knew the drill.

  Then I began doing the hard part—boxing up my books. There were several hundred.

  An hour later I had four full boxes on the floor. Novels, poetry, and plays, all sorted and ready to go on a shelf wherever I landed next.

  I heard a knock at my door. Figuring it was my ex-boss coming to check on my packing progress, I yelled, “I’m busy. Come back later.”

  The door opened and he stood there framed in the doorway, a granite statue outside a public library. “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “My stuff will be out of your company by this afternoon,” I said. “I reserved a U-Haul. I’m picking it up in an hour or so. And frankly, David, I’ve had my life shoved up my ass by a boss for the last time. So let’s just save anymore replay for down the road, some other time. Okay?”

  He stepped closer. “You should know that I had a conversation with Frank Tropper this morning. I’ve been waiting for his return call since I had my meeting with you.”

  “Swell.”

  “After we spoke I decided to dig deeper just to satisfy myself. I hope you realize that I didn’t take this matter lightly.”

  “But you fired me anyway.”

  “I did what I thought was best under the circumstances. Getting drunk and shooting off a pistol in this building was simply the act of a madman.”

  “Have a nice fucking day, Mr. Koffman.”

  “There’s more to discuss.”

  “I’ve just been evicted. I’m busy here.”

  “Do you want to know what happened on my call with Tropper?”

  I’d begun stuffing books in a new box. “Sure, David. Sure,” I said.

  “First, a question: Why is it that you never mentioned he was having an affair with Portia?”

  “You said you didn’t want to hear anything from me.”

  “I mean at the time you fired Frank. Weeks ago. Tell me what happened there.”

  “I don’t know. The guy’s a snake. Dealing drugs out of a limousine. I squashed a snake. Case closed.”

  “That incident was important. Portia never mentioned her relationship with Frank. She omitted any discussion of that can of worms.”

  I sat down on a box of books. “Portia’s an angry, poisonous whackjob. Take my word for it,” I said.

  “Go on. What happened?”

  “Now it’s important,” I said, slinging the words at him. “Now you want to know. Forget it.”

  “You have my full attention. What happened?”

  “Okay, sure. Fuck it,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Precisely.”

  “After I found out she was his part-time backup pole smoker I made her tell me what they’d been up to. I’d suspected for weeks that she’d been playing favorites and pushing all the company’s cash work his way but I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, so I had let that part slide. After I fired the jerk and he could do no more damage, I thought it over and decided that Portia deserved another shot. My reasoning was what-the-hell, people are human. Shit happens. She made a mistake.”

  Big Koffman sat down on the box of books next to me. “I thought as much,” he sighed.

  “So that’s it. Anything else?” I asked.

  “Well, I may live to regret this, but I’v
e decided to reverse myself and give you the same chance you gave Portia. With strict conditions.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Setting aside the insanity of your shooting spree, you’ve done a good job, basically. I don’t want to overlook that.”

  “Okay, so what conditions, David?”

  Buffalo Bill flipped a chunk of his gray hair back over his shoulder then folded his arms across his chest. “You are no longer a partner. You are now an employee and you will immediately return the one thousand dollar check I gave you.”

  “No problem. I can do that.”

  “And you are now on strict probation. If you can stay sober—completely sober—then we’ll take it from there. You will attend three AA meetings per week and get the signature of the secretary at each meeting. Then, in ninety days, after I’m satisfied that you really want to make this work, we’ll discuss reinstating our partnership.”

  The worm had just turned. But, instead of me having to do more groveling and slithering and backpedaling, I now felt myself getting pissed off. “No deal,” I said. “Not that way.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I worked my ass off for this company and for that twenty-five percent. Screw that. Our partnership stays as it is or I move on.”

  Big David scratched his head. “Okay, I agree,” he said. “I’ll meet you halfway. But the ninety days probation stays in effect and your attendance at AA meetings is mandatory.”

  “Deal,” I said. “Fair enough.”

  We both stood up. David Koffman put his arms around me and gave me his best lovey-dovey partner hug.

  seventeen

  Later that afternoon I got the number of AA and called the main office in L.A. and was given the address of a night meeting in Culver City.

  The guy’s name was Harvey. He was all business and got right to the point and let me choose one from the long list of cities he’d read out. I didn’t want to go to any more in Hollywood. Hollywood is a snotpile. But I was willing to try. I would do whatever I could not to lose the limo job.