86'd

by Dan Fante

And amid a faint drifting evening mist

  I turned my face up to be kissed

  I know that tonight

  Your ghost will come to me again

  And for better or for worse

  You will haunt my dreams

  And chant my name

  But by morning I will wake the same

  And another day will pass

  Until under different skies

  The same ancient and crushing moon

  will begin its nightly rise.

  On our way back from the cemetery to the hotel, stopped at a traffic light, Che-Che leaned forward from the backseat and stroked my head. “You okay?” she whispered.

  There were tears streaming down my face. “No,” I said. “No, I’m not okay. That was a great lady. I’ll miss her. I’ll miss her a lot.”

  That night Che-Che got drunk while her Mom stayed locked in the bungalow next door with the blinds closed. I was waiting in the limo outside.

  Finally, about ten o’clock, she decided to go dancing, so I drove her to the gay clubs in Hollywood: Brown Eye and Chinchilla and Bay City Bistro. But our first stop was at the Chateau Marmont off Sunset so my client could purchase a quarter O-Z.

  Because Che-Che Sorache was Che-Che Sorache, wherever the tall girl went she drew a crowd. When she left Chinchilla she loaded two leather boys in the car with her. They were good dancers she said and I knew that she wanted the company and they wanted her drugs. But both seemed to be okay guys. They kissed and cuddled and snorted her dope while Che-Che sipped her black Russian.

  It was after one when I got her back to her bungalow. She was blasted and said that she didn’t want to be alone and demanded that I come in with her.

  We drank for another hour or so, me on the couch and her on the bed. She loved the Eagles so I got to hear their goddamn CD three or four times in a row.

  When she got up to go to the bathroom I put my coat and limo cap back on and prepared to leave.

  The door swung open and there was my beautiful client, naked and amazing, a big grin on her face. “You’re it, pisano,” she whispered. “Take your jacket off. You ain’t goin’ no place.”

  A sport fuck was just fine with me. Che-Che knew just what she wanted and the way she wanted it.

  When we were done and smoking and listening to the Eagles again, she began rubbing my belly then plucking at my pubic hair. “Did you like that, little Italian boy?” she cooed.

  “You’re kidding, right? It was great. You have a great body. You’re a bona fide fuck monster.”

  “Yeah, but no tits. I have no tits.”

  “C’mon, your tits are fine.”

  “No they’re not. But I still get plenty of work, so screw it. In a few years I’ll get Botox. Mid-thirties is when the face starts to go. Then, maybe then, I’ll do the tits too.”

  “Thatz crazy.”

  “Hey, in my business it’s the price of admission.” Now Che-Che’s expression was serious. “Sooo, is it okay if I ask you something? Something personal?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “That thing on your leg and the side of your cock? While I was down there gulping and choking I could feel it. A big ouch, right?”

  “Gulf War. Special Forces,” I said. “Machine gun fire.”

  “That’s crap, Bruno. C’mon.”

  “Give it a pass, okay?”

  “Whatever. You don’t have to be a smart ass.”

  “Okay,” I said. “It was stupid. A misunderstanding. But it is a battle scar. A Hollywood battle scar. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Sure. But hey, look baby, I gotta say this: you know this—you and me—was a one-time-only deal, right?” she whispered. “I mean, it was great and all but…you understand, right?”

  “C’mon, you’re kidding me,” I chuckled. “And here I was getting ready to slip a Corona cigar wrapper on your wedding finger.”

  “So it’s okay?

  “Will you make me another drink?”

  “Sure,” she smiled. “I’ll make you a doozie.”

  “Then consider us even. How’s that?”

  Then her expression changed again. “You know,” she said, “I’ve read your stories.”

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  “Nana copied the manuscript and sent it to me. She told me you were a damn decent writer. She wanted me to see what you’d written. The one I liked best was about the cabbie and a jerk doorman.”

  “Your grandmother was a fine lady. Full of surprises.”

  Now Che-Che was fighting tears. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s Nana. I loved her so much.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  She tried to collect herself. “So, you want to write full time? Is that your ambition?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’ve also just begun to realize that I don’t know anything. I’m pretty much a loose cannon these days. But I do know I’ll miss your nana.”

  “Look,” she went on, “if you owned that company you could write full-time. Yes or no?”

  “I don’t own the company. I have a partner.”

  “Right,” she said, looking okay again. Smiling. “Kong Koffman.”

  “You got it. The great Dong himself. Where’s that drink?”

  “What if I bought Kong out and gave you the company? We’d be sort of partners except it would be yours.”

  “C’mon. Get serious.”

  “Bruno, I made eleven million bucks last year. I need write-offs. I have investments in a dozen companies. I could buy it and lose all the money from the investment and it’d still be okay.”

  “Thanks but no thanks. I hate the limo business,” I said.

  “Think about it. It would make Nana very happy.”

  “Okay. I’ll think about it. Now, who do I have to screw next to get my drink?”

  Che-Che was smiling. “No one, baby. I’ll get it for you.”

  “And put the fucking Eagles back on again. I’ve had all the fun and good news I can handle for one night.”

  twenty-nine

  On my way back to Dav-Ko on Sunset Boulevard, after leaving Che-Che, I was feeling good. It was four a.m. and the streets were deserted. These days, out of self-protection, I made sure to throw away any bottles in the glove box or in my suit pocket while I was doing a limo run. So when I finished my pint of Seagram’s before leaving the side street outside the Beverly Hills Hotel bungalows, I slid the empty under the car where it came to rest against the curb. Then plugged in a Bob Seger CD. Still the Same. I’d just been in the sack with the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And she’d asked me! Jesus.

  At the stoplight on La Cienega Boulevard an old Toyota pulled up next to me. Two young Latino guys. They did what so many people in L.A. do at stoplights; they ogled the shiny stretch limo.

  When the light changed they took off down Sunset. Then, a few blocks further, when I was opposite the Continental Riot House, the Toyota reappeared out of nowhere, then swerved in front of me. The driver slammed on his breaks.

  The wreck was intentional and unavoidable. One of L.A.’s oldest gimme-gimme street scams to collect on an insurance company. I was going twenty-five miles an hour at the time but it didn’t matter. If I’d been doing fifty it would have been the same. I couldn’t stop. Ba-boom!

  Asshole Number Two, the passenger, immediately flung himself out the door of the ratty, stopped Toyota. He lay on the asphalt, moaning and rolling around and holding his neck. Asshole Number One opened his driver’s door a few seconds later, then staggered around to the front of his car, feigning incoherence. Then Number One collapsed too. I watched from my driver’s seat while he pulled out his trusty cell phone to punch in 9–1-1.

  My first instinct was to run. To shift Pearl into “R,” back up, then take off. There was very almost no damage to my car and this was an obvious setup. Why make it easy for the two scheming pricks? But that’d be a mistake. For sure one of them had taken down my plate number.

>   Instead, I was furious. The accident was technically my fault. I’d hit two scamming assholes who would claim injuries.

  I got out of Pearl and walked over to Number One, who had just stuffed his phone back in the pocket of his khakis.

  “Nice work, you sonofabitch,” I snarled. “I hope you’re bleeding. I hope your fucking neck is broken.”

  “Hey man, jou slamm tha big, bling-out chitbox into the back of my car. I’m injored.”

  I was standing over the guy. “How about if I stomp on your fucking leg and break it?” I yelled. “Then you can sue my insurance company for that too, motherfucker!”

  Now Number Two, who’d heard the arguing, was on his feet, suddenly fully healthy. The prick pulled a blade and stood there mad-doggin’ me. “Back off, prick,” he snarled in perfect English. “I’ll fucking cut you! Afuera! I said back off!”

  (In New York, as a cabbie, for a long time I’d been called by the nickname Batman, because it was my habit to carry a cutoff Louisville Slugger in the trunk of my taxi or under the front seat—the result of being involved in two uptown holdups. The habit had continued when I went to work for Dav-Ko.)

  Wordlessly, I turned and hurried to the passenger door of my car a few feet away. I opened it, then the glove box. Then I pressed the trunk release. The two assholes assumed they’d just scared me off.

  With my bat in my hand I walked back to deal with Number Two. I was pretty drunk and I knew it. But I felt no fear. Only rage. These shitbags deserved what they got.

  When they saw me coming back at them with my Slugger in my hand, they separated. Now Number One pulled a shank too—a letter opener kind of blade with a taped handle.

  “Who’s first,” I yelled. “Which one of you cocksuckers wants a piece of this?”

  “I’ll stick you, puta!” Number two screamed. “Get back. I’ll cut your fucking throat out!”

  My first swing at Number Two didn’t miss by much. Then I saw Number One circling behind me so I took a cut at him too, missing his head but sending him falling back on his ass to the pavement where my next blow caught the side of his leg.

  He scurried to his feet and backed away. They both did. Number One was screaming. “Jou krazee, maricón! The cops comin’! Dey gonna fuk u up!”

  I was. I was crazy. And I wanted to hurt them both.

  Now they stood ten feet away and every time I made a move toward them one or both of the pricks would bolt in a separate direction.

  A couple of minutes passed with me yelling and threatening and lunging at the punks with my bat on the empty street. Then, in the distance, I heard the siren and saw the lights of the black and white.

  Seeing the squad car speeding toward us, knowing they were now safe from me, the two cockroaches reverted to their original M.O. They knew the drill: They first tossed their knives down a street drain, then flung themselves back down to the asphalt again, continuing their jiveass scam. I had just enough time to fling my bat into a bush.

  I was escorted by a cop to the curb, where I blew a trusty .17 on the blue man’s Breathalyzer and was cuffed right away. My ranting explanation about the faked injuries of the two guys and the bogus accident was ignored. I was now a drunk driver. I was the criminal. The cops had their man. Case closed. I wisely left out the part about the knives and the bat. I wanted no part of risking an assault charge on top of the DUI.

  Justice is swift in L.A. for intoxicated motorists. A few minutes later a hauling truck arrived to transport my limo. I watched, squatting on the curb next to the patrol car with my hands cuffed behind my back, as the two rats were put on stretchers by the EMT guys. Number Two, as he was being loaded into the ambulance, made eye contact with me and grinned, then gave me the middle-finger salute. Then they were gone, sirens blaring.

  The next morning without sleep, with Jimmy’s voice filibustering in my head and reminding me of every detail of my stupidity, I met with attorney Busnazian. He was accompanied, I was told, by Che-Che. I’d phoned her from booking and given her Busnazian’s number to call for me. But I was in L.A. County max lockdown, so only my attorney was allowed in.

  Busnazian and I spoke through the thick plastic partition. But first I had to watch as he removed the jacket of his expensive-looking double-breasted brown suit jacket, then adjusted the diamond cufflinks on his pink shirt sleeves to make certain they were the requisite one inch above the end of his hands.

  “This is a difficult situation,” he said finally while opening his briefcase and dumping my paperwork on the counter. “I did my best to explain the implications of your arrest to your friend, Ms. Sorache, as we drove down here this morning. Might I say that she’s a most attractive advocate for your cause.”

  “Just tell me when I can get out?”

  “Your field sobriety test indicated that your blood alcohol was at least twice the legal limit.”

  “Okay, what does that mean? How long do I have to stay here?”

  My representative paused to examine the positioning in the knot of his light-blue tie in the reflection from the Plexiglas. “The charge is felony DUI,” he whispered for dramatic effect. “You were involved in an injury accident. In a word, you’re in deep shit, sir.”

  “That’s two words. Deep and shit. Look, it was a street scam, for chrissakes. A setup. The punks did it purposely. They caused the collision on purpose.”

  Now I was getting a whiff of his cologne over the top of the glass wall. Busnazian shook his bald head and glanced down at the papers in front of him. “Not according to the arrest report. You apparently rear-ended vehicle number two in the number-one lane heading east on Sunset Boulevard. We need to be particularly mindful of the facts in evidence. A: You were intoxicated. They were not. B: You collided with their vehicle from the rear.”

  “I don’t care. I want to plead not guilty.”

  “Unfortunately, you cannot dispute your guilt at this point.”

  “Fuck.”

  Busnazian flashed a twisted grin. “Fucked describes your situation with accuracy. Felony DUI carries an automatic and immediate driver’s license revocation. A jail term is also automatic. Your actual sentence will be determined at your hearing. That’s the only area where I can be of help. I’ve discussed a strategy with Ms. Sorache and she has endorsed the scenario that I have in mind.”

  “So now you’re buddies with Che-Che? Got yourself a new client, do you, Busnazian?”

  “That’s really not relevant to your situation.”

  “What else?” I said.

  “Well, there can be no release from custody from now until your hearing. No bail is possible.”

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “It smacks of irony, doesn’t it?”

  “And why is that?” I snapped back, really beginning to hate this pompous jerk.

  “You recently mentioned to me that you wanted to disassociate yourself form the limo industry. Apparently, unwittingly, you appear to have achieved that end.”

  “I don’t think it’s ironic, Busnazian. I think it sucks a big dick.”

  Busnazian’s face was expressionless. “As it happens, unfortunately, I am the bearer of additional unpleasant news.”

  “Swell. Let’s hear that too.”

  “Your employment at Dav-Ko is officially terminated. Your conviction has ipso facto violated the terms of your partnership agreement with Mr. Koffman. In a telephone conversation with him this morning I was clearly charged to convey that message.”

  “Thanks, Busnazian. Anything else?”

  “We’ve known each other quite a while now. Our attorney-client relationship has expanded over time. You may now call me by my first name. Dalton. I’ve asked Ms. Sorache to do so as well.”

  “Jesus! I’ve really gotta get out of Hollywood.”

  I had $4,100 in my checking account. That day I signed a power of attorney that Busnazian already had in his silky leather briefcase, so he could withdraw my money against his fee.

  thirty

  In the end I served fou
rteen days in jail. The original sentence was six months and then a six month rehab, and I was in County awaiting transfer to Wayside jail when I was released.

  It pays to have a good lawyer. But better said, it pays to know someone who can pay for a good lawyer. At my hearing Dalton Busnazian presented additional facts that one of his law clerks had discovered in the public record: The two greedy assholes whom I rear-ended had been involved in three of the same type accidents over the past two years. They were career victims and stupid enough not to change IDs between insurance claims.

  On the basis of that information the judge dismissed the felony DUI charge and reduced my crime to simple DUI. I was resentenced to time served and a six-month inpatient rehab to begin within thirty days.

  Busnazian picked me up and drove me to Dav-Ko, where I would be permitted, according to David Koffman’s note and Rosie Camacho’s instructions, to stay for “a day or two” until I packed my books and belongings and found another place to live. It was then that Dalton let me know Che-Che had paid my fine and the rest of the legal bills above the money I’d already given him. I’d tried to call her many times from jail without success.

  Up in my room at Dav-Ko while going through my mail and bills I found a padded brown shipping envelope with her name and New York City return address on the upper left corner. After tearing the package open by the tab I found a get well card inside in a white envelope. The message was handwritten: “Hang in, Bruno. Good luck. Don’t call me again. Che-Che.”

  In another sealed envelope there were thirty hundred-dollar bills. The golden kiss-off.

  It took a few dozen phone calls and a little time but I managed to find a temporary roommate deal through an apartment rental agency in Santa Monica: five hundred a month, first and last month’s rent payable immediately.