Chump Change

by Dan Fante

  I looked at her unattractive naked body. No tits, only round, little pink nipples protruding from her rib cage. No hips, and the ass of an eight-year-old Little League right fielder. As a hooker, her only appeal was her sense of humor. I shook my head no. “What I need,” I said, “is aspirin. And something for my stomach and more wine. A lot more.”

  “Ya-you’re sa-sick, Ba-Bruno ba-baby. Ga-ga-go home and get some rest.”

  “The wine and the other stuff will fix me.”

  “Ya-ya-you la-la-love tha-that wa-wine, da-don’t you?”

  My head was screaming loudly and needed to be shut off. Pure hate toxin had started pumping into my brain like the ocean gushing through the crushed hull of a sinking ship. That was the problem. More wine was the only way to numb it. There was no rush, no pleasure, only oblivion and the need for more. Sometimes a Mad Dog run could last two or three days, sometimes weeks. When you’re fucking the female gorilla, it’s not you that decides when it’s time to stop.

  Now, my mind out of THE DOG, self-judgement stabbed at me and ripped at my guts until it would be impossible for me to exist in my thoughts. Without the wine, my head remembered only evil…A pimp junkie had stolen my money. I had allowed myself to get fucked by an absurd, handicapped child. My cowardice in leaving my family at the hospital the night before and not facing my father’s death was completely selfish and without conscience. I’d stolen my brother Fabrezio’s car. I was a degenerate, with an insatiable capacity for perversion. Incapable of change. I could do anything except not drink.

  My head was too loud. Had Amy not been in the car with me, had I been alone at that moment, I might have aimed the front fenders of the station wagon into the path of an oncoming bus. Anything to silence the noise. She said that I loved wine, what I said back was, “It takes the bumps out of the road.”

  “Fa-find a sa-sa-seven-eleven st-st-store. uh-uh-uh-I’ll ga-go in and ga-get ya-your ma-ma-medication. Ba-but fa-first pa-pull over sa-so ya-your da-dog ka-kan ta-take a da-da-da-dump.”

  I looked at Rocco. She was right.

  After you take Sunset west a while, Hollywood ends abruptly, crashing into Beverly Hills. Concrete sidewalks and glass office buildings suddenly recast themselves into estates with manicured front yards.

  Hedges and bushes are sculpted into frightening animal shapes of big birds and seven-foot high long-necked geese. Here and there, alien-looking gardeners pull lawn mowers and yard tools out of thirty-thousand dollar, four-wheel drive utility trucks. These are the only visible humans around, except for the scattered joggers who bounce along the street wearing earphones, trudging through the Beverly Hills pastures like creeping cars on a freeway.

  I made a left to get off of Sunset, then pulled down on a side street to a medium-sized mansion with a big front lawn. The grass strip between the street and the sidewalk was twenty feet wide, so that my father’s dog wouldn’t be shitting on private property. Amy wanted to walk Rocco, so I stayed in the car, smoking and sipping from the last of my wine and attempting to not panic.

  Rocco, leashless, crapped near the car on the green, matted grass, while two runners, a middle-aged couple, bounced past towing a handsome red-haired Retriever on a rope. I watched them coming up the street wearing headphones with matching jogging ensembles.

  I’d forgotten that Jonathan Dante’s old dog still had a killer instinct. My headache and the stupidness from the wine had distorted my reasoning, and Rocco looked tired and beaten, with half his teeth missing, dragging a bad rear leg as he walked. He seemed a threat to no one. But he was still a Bull Terrier.

  He managed a sudden lunge to the right as the group of runners passed, grabbing the Retriever securely by the throat.

  Amy stood, scared shitless and naked with my unzipped army coat wrapped around her tiny body, unable to move.

  Then the lady jogger panicked and let go of her dog’s leash, and the animals worked their way to the middle of the street with cars screeching to a halt. Rocco’s jaws remained fastened in a death grip on the other animal’s neck.

  I knew that he would soon kill the Retriever. I could think of only one maneuver to separate the dogs: Once, years before in New York in Central Park, to impress a girl poet before a first date, I’d grabbed the rear legs of her Bulldog, Winston, when he’d set himself in combat with a spaniel. By accident, I managed to dangle the dog upright by his back legs, holding them apart, until the other owner got his animal to safety. That night, with the help of a bottle of tequila, I got my dick sucked by Winston’s owner.

  I had to try it again. As quickly as I could, I got out of Fabrezio’s station wagon and made my way to the scene of the action. Already, the loss of blood from the Retriever had transformed Rocco’s white hair to a dirty, soaked, red-brown paste. While the husband jogger regained a hold on his dog’s leash and pulled in one direction, I managed to grab Rocco by the back legs and heft him high off the blacktopped street, hoping he’d drop the Retriever. It didn’t work. The fucker refused to release his deathgrip on the other dog’s throat. Then, while his body was still in mid-air, I tried twisting him like a wet rag. It hurt Rocco and made him wince and yowl, but still he wouldn’t let go. The other animal’s blood was on my face and clothes. More spectators gathered, terrorized by the sight of the white shark-shaped dog, intent on murdering the defenseless Retriever. Amy did her best to fade back into the crowd and keep my army coat closed.

  Everybody was on the wounded dog’s side, me included. My skull throbbed and I felt myself on the verge of puking, starting to pass out. I was getting used to having him around, but at that moment, I hated the dog too.

  Finally, panicked, I did the only thing that I could think of doing—I bit down hard on Rocco’s ear, deeply, until I tasted blood. It shocked him, and he yelped loudly and released his prey. The man jogger was then able to pull his mauled pet to safety.

  I sat on the curb, sick and exhausted, restraining Rocco with both of my arms around his chest. The other dog, out of danger but in shock, had broken loose and fled down the street in an act of self-preservation. In the distance, I watched his owners chasing him around a corner.

  It was time to take Rocco and go, but I was too nauseous to move. I assumed that the Retriever’s jogger-owners would be back eventually to have a discussion about legal matters and vet bills. In Beverly Hills, potential litigation rarely goes uninvestigated. And I was pretty sure that somebody had called the police.

  The gathered spectators, gardeners, a nanny, a few people that looked like residents, and the stopped motorists, were all leaving. I looked around for Amy and spotted her down the block getting into the back seat of my brother’s car. A Mercedes convertible had pulled in while the dogs were blocking the street during the fight, and it was now parked in front of the wagon.

  In a few minutes, I was okay enough to attempt to load Rocco into the car. Getting up, I hauled him along the street toward the passenger side of the station wagon, using my belt as a leash. He resisted all the way, probably hoping for a rematch with the beaten Retriever.

  When we got near the wagon, a man wearing a cowboy hat and a business suit stood up from the Benz and imposed himself between me and the car. “I hope you’re not planning on leaving,” he said. “There’s unfinished business here to attend to.” His accent was mid-western, Chicago. He wasn’t a cowboy, but he did wear boots and he was a full head taller than me and fifty pounds fatter.

  “My dog is hurt,” I said back, lying. “He needs a vet.” I could now see that he had positioned his car at an angle with his rear bumper against the front bumper of my car, intentionally blocking us in. There was a cable TV truck behind the station wagon so we were jammed in tightly unless he moved his car.

  “Your pink-eyed monster tore the crap out of that Retriever. His injuries looked serious. We’re staying put until the owners of the dog come back and decide what they want to do.”

  He was too big to deal with head-on, so I walked around him, with Rocco in tow, motioning to Amy to
open the car door. Then I scuffled the dog on board the back seat with her.

  When I got to the driver’s door, a safe distance from the cowboy, I yelled, “I’m leaving. Move your fucking car now and don’t fuck with me!” Then I got in and pressed the lock button down. He sneered his disdain, then walked to his convertible and reached in through the passenger window, pulling out a car phone on a long cord. Then he looked at me smugly and began dialing.

  I figured that I had nothing left to lose, so I started the car and flipped the gear shift lever into “D” drive range and floored it. The force of the torque from the 460 motor easily crushed the right rear tire of his convertible against the curb and I heard it pop like a loud balloon. Panicked, and waving his arms for me to stop, the guy saw the rear end of his Benz slide over the curb and come to rest on the grass, three feet in off the street.

  I was still somewhat sandwiched in, but I had more room to maneuver now, so I banged the wagon into reverse and skidded back a couple of feet. My head felt relaxed and pleased, as I slapped the tranny back into “D” and slammed it hard again into the back of the convertible. This time, his trunk buckled and his car got pushed another foot or two forward. He wisely stood back, out of the path of my brother’s lurching, skidding station wagon.

  After my third pass, another of his tires popped, but Amy was screaming and trying to get out of the car, so I stopped to see if I had enough room to maneuver the wagon back out into the street. I did. It was okay to pull away.

  I knew that there was damage, but everything in the station wagon seemed to be working good and the motor was running as strong as ever. When we were down Sunset a few blocks into Hollywood, I looked back at Amy and the dog. “Sorry,” I said, “I guess I’m having a bad day.”

  11

  I CONTINUED DRIVING EAST AWAY FROM BEVERLY HILLS, until we got to Western Avenue, then I turned south. It was still morning rush hour and the hot wind blew dust and palm branches and garbage around the streets. Amy was sullen and crouched against the rear door. Her feet were pulled up under my army coat and the only part of her body visible was her head. The dog was exhausted and moaning with each breath and noiselessly farting. Lethally. Cookie-wine farts.

  I kept the windows down as we passed the nude mud-wrestling place and the porno shops, then crossed Santa Monica Boulevard. She hadn’t talked at all. Finally, I said, “Where am I taking you? Where do I drop you off?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Amy,” I said, “my head’s coming off. Talk to me or get the fuck out of the car.”

  “Pa-pa-pull over at the na-next corner, ba-by that store,” she said. “I’ll ga-get out tha-tha-tha-there.”

  It was a mini-mart/liquor store. I turned in and parked in a lined spot away from the entrance, then shut off the motor.

  She glared at me. “Wha-what you da-did ba-back there wa-was insane. It ska-scared the pa-pa-piss uh-out of ma-ma-ma-me.”

  “I said I was sorry. I have no tolerance for self-righteousness.”

  Then I had another thought. “And I hate people who wear cowboy hats.”

  Amy got out of the car and came around to my driver’s door. She was smiling, saying goodbye. “Wa-Want ma-me to ga-get ya-ya-ya-ya-you ssssssomething for ya-your sta-sta-stomach before I ga-go?”

  I couldn’t turn her down because I didn’t want to get out of the car unless I had to. With difficulty, I reached a shaking hand into my left pants’ pocket and worked a fistful of bills up into the light.

  She was impatient and snatched the money. “La-let me da-do that,” she whispered, “ya-you’re a fa-fa-fa-fuckin’ ka-case.”

  Quickly, she flattened the bills out, counted them, then gave me a total. I had two hundred and seventy dollars in twenties and tens, the last of my cash from New York, not counting the credit card. She handed the money back. “Wha-what do ya-you wa-want from inside?”

  “More wine,” I said, “Mogen David,” handing her a twenty. “Two bottles, and aspirin. And Pepto for the stomach.”

  “Ya-you think ya-you’ve ga-got a big da-dick, da-don’t ya-you? Sometimes ya-you act la-like you’re a ba-ba-big sha-shot?”

  “I do?”

  Ya-you think ya-your da-dick is ba-ba-bigger than Ta-Tom Sa-Sa-Sellnock’s?”

  “Who’s Tom Sellnock?”

  She smiled again. “Da-da-don’t worry Ba-Bruno, I na-knew you wa-were wha-wha-whacked-out and ca-crazy and wha-wha-wha-when I fa-first sa-saw ya-you. Ya-you have ca-crazy eyes.”

  Hers were big. Light brown. They softened her face. “Wa-want ma-ma-me to sta-stay with ya-you today? Ha-ha-hang out? Wa-wa-we’ll ga-ga-get the wa-wine and ga-go to ya-your pa-pa-place.”

  “I don’t have a place. I’ve only been back in L.A. for two days.”

  “Fa-from where?”

  “New York. New York City.”

  I wa-was tha-there wa-once. Ah-I la-liked it.”

  “My father died at Cedars last night. I was born here.”

  “La-let’s ga-get a ra-room. A mah-mah-mah-motel. Ya-you’ve ga-got money.”

  “How much will it cost for you.”

  “Ah-ah-I’m ma-moving ta-ta-today and picking up ma-my st-stuff from fa-fa-fuckin’ Ma-Ma-MC-Ba-Beth’s ah-ah-apartment. Tha-tha-that’s it. I pa-promise. Ha-he’s ta-two blocks fa-fa-fa-from ha-here.”

  We got one of the bottles of wine free because Amy knew the day manager behind the counter. We continued down Western Avenue to Romaine and turned east. After a block, we pulled over in front of a pre-Hollywood Twenties Craftsman House with stone pillars supporting the porch. It had heavy concrete steps and was set far back off the street, falling apart. Amy instructed, “Ta-take off your sh-sha-shirt and ga-give it to ma-me.” I did and she slipped the army jacket off her shoulders and pulled my buttoned shirt over her little body. When she stood on the sidewalk it came to just above her knees. Shoeless, she tiptoed up the walkway to the front door and let herself in the front door with a hide-a-key from behind a planter.

  The heat made me shivver and I took a blast of the Mad Dog. I felt it go down and the bolt of cold relief exploded within me. I knew the throbbing would be relieved soon. So would the thinking.

  While she was gone, I tried smoking a cigarette, but it made me retch, so I ate aspirin and had another drink and listened to the news on the radio. Rocco was asleep and motionless on the floor, yelping in his dreams. The news-guy said there were shootings in a beach city close by, and an automatic weapon had ended a dispute over a Christmas gift certificate at a shopping mall. It made me hope that Amy’s noise in the house wasn’t waking McBeth, who might be asleep in a bed next to a crack dealer named Bubba, with an unfavorable disposition toward honkies.

  I looked up when I heard the screen door on the porch quietly slap shut. Amy tiptoed down the concrete steps carrying two large supermarket bags filled with clothes. She got to the car and set them on the hood, then leaned in through the window, “I’ve ga-got wa-one ma-more thing to da-do,”she whispered, jingling a set of car keys and pointing to a Toyota convertible parked in the driveway. “Tha-that’s McBeth’s ra-rented ka-car. He ma-made a ja-john ra-rent it for him and na-now he wa-won’t re-re-re-return it.”

  I watched as she scampered over to the car. It was red and impressive. She chirped the alarm off, then got in and lifted the tails of my shirt around her naked hips, and squatted on the driver’s seat. She peed directly on the sheepskin upholstery.

  When she was done, she got out and closed the door and chirped the alarm back on. Then she pranced back to the porch and shoved the keys through the mail slot in the door. Getting in the car beside me, she grabbed the Mad Dog bottle from between my legs and took a major slam. “Let’s ba-boogie,” she said.

  The Starburst Motel is on La Brea Avenue near Sunset Boulevard. The marquee on top of the entrance in front advertises HBO-TV and kitchenettes, and there’s a man-made sign taped to the outside of the Manager’s Office window, “DAILY SPECIAL $29.95.” Amy wanted a room with a kitchen, so I pulled in front a
nd stopped by the office. Since my shakes were gone, I knew I was okay to go inside to the guy by myself.

  As it turned out, if we wanted a room with a kitchen and HBO, it was thirty-nine dollars a day, ten dollars more for the kitchen. He had two rooms like that, and pets were no problem. One had a window and one was around back. Both rooms had air conditioning and were available. I looked at both and told Amy what I’d seen. It was an important deal to her and she guaranteed me that I could fist-fuck her if we’d take the nice room, the one with the window. What decided it for me was that the room was near the ice machine, which I considered an important feature.

  It was two bucks more for a reason the guy mumbled in Urdu or Farsi. I took it for forty-one and paid an additional ten dollars for a key deposit, and then some more for tax and an additional eight dollars pet deposit fee. Sixty-three bucks total, when he got done adding.

  I took care of it up front by putting seven days in advance on the credit card which had cleared telephone approval. I did it because I was concerned that, any minute, the card would be cancelled and a new one reissued in my wife’s name only.

  Later in the early afternoon, when we were moved in with all the food and stuff from the station wagon and the air conditioner was pumping away the Santa Ana heat, and we were part way down the jug of Mad Dog and my brain was still working good, I discovered that Amy didn’t stutter when she was drunk. As she put away more Mad Dog, her speech was less affected. Booze disconnected her stutterer.

  She loved being able to talk, which, I now understood, was why she loved drinking. Without the stutter, there were books and buildings full of words that she wanted to say. They were sprayed in bunches around the motel room, like machine-gun fire in a James Bond movie.

  I had to be told everything: her I.Q. was in the upper one-thirties. She was from Muncie, Indiana. She had received the fourth-best rating on the intelligence tests at her high school. (Celeste Depue edged her out for third by one point, but Celeste’s mother was a dyke gym teacher at a girls’ high school and Celeste was a twat that nobody liked, so not winning third prize wasn’t a big deal.)