by Dan Fante
Chapter Twenty-four
LAS VEGAS IS a big cum stain, an upholstered sewer. Even as a drunk I hated it. It gets bigger and uglier by the hour, a shiny, oozing, radioactive oil spill, contaminating the Nevada desert. Jimmi got the weekend off from her peddling job, and we took Timothy with us. The trip was her idea. A girl friend named Laylonee, a strip-bar dancer, had relocated from L.A. two years before and was getting married. Not yet twenty-eight, it was her fourth shot at the deal.
Our seven o’clock plane from LAX landed at McCaren Airport in less than an hour.
Laylonee was stumbling, whacked on downs, Nembutal or valium. She and Mickey-o, the fiancé, a muscle-bound dufus, met the three of us at the gate. Standing talking, it felt like the perfect Las Vegas greeting. Jimmi’s friend looked ridiculous and beautiful with her huge water-balloon tits, stoned, teetering in high heels. A damaged Showgirl Barbie. Boyfriend Mickey-o’s idea of saying ‘hi’ was a syncopated grunt.
Making our way from the terminal to the parking lot, we resembled a Martian acrobatic troop. I held the kid’s hand as people would notice us then stop in their tracks. Mickey-o was the problem—two feet wider than any other human in the airport. Even Timothy couldn’t restrain his staring. The guy was an ox, no more than five feet tall, a squashed, miniature Thor, who seemed to have hopped down from one of the concrete pedestals in front of Caesar’s Palace. His three-color elastic jumpsuit looked like it was painted on over his weightlifter body. The only unexposed body part on Mickey-o was his dick.
The bridegroom and bride-to-be lived in the Executive Suites Condos, a three-bedroom furnished by-the-week apartment deal behind the Las Vegas strip. Mickey-o stowed our stuff in the back of Laylonee’s Range Rover, got behind the wheel, then swung us out into the bumper to bumper traffic.
I could feel Jimmi’s anger in the seat beside me. Her girlfriend, who had demanded she be at the wedding, was completely zoned, too high to carry on a conversation. The roles of the two were obvious; he was her stooge, caretaker, and gofer. It turned out that all the wedding preparations and bridesmaids and the chapel had been left up to Mickey-o.
When we got to the apartment, Laylonee disappeared into the bedroom with a bottle of Cold Duck, turned the TV on, and closed the door. Her bouncer shuffled out to run last-minute errands. I assumed it would be up to Jimmi and me and the kid to walk or depend on cabs.
Right away, as I was setting our stuff on the bed, Jimmi talked about leaving. The deal was bullshit. But I voted to stay on because of Timothy. The boy loved magic, and Doc Franklin from work had called ahead for me to a friend at the casino who got us tickets to see Sigfried and Roy’s illusion show. Finally, reluctantly, she agreed. And while Timothy played Zelda 64 on the TV in the patio, we started unpacking.
Half an hour later the woman in my life stood in the bathroom doorway wrapped in a towel, radiant, amazingly sexy, drying herself. ‘Man,’ she snarled, still pissed off and unable to change her mood, ‘thaz me. In tha fuckin’ bedroom, buzzed out of my shit, watchin’ “Law & Order” reruns; getting married in twelve fuckin’ hours to an orangutan steroid goon.’
‘That’s not you. You’re with me.’
Her hands went to her stomach, rubbing it through the towel. ‘Right. Stuck with another kid. Just for a change, the short end of the stick.’
‘Your choice, Jimmi.’
‘Thaz ka-ka, man! Bullshit! You got a skill, a trade. Long as they make phones and printers need ink, and Eddy hot-shit Kammegian keeps paying off with bags full of silver dollars, your ass is covered. What I got?’
‘We’ve talked about this.’
‘Laylonee makes a thousand dollars a night in the dark, rubbin’ her pussy up and down on some trick’s dirty Levis. I got zip, man.’
I found my wallet in my pants on a chair. ‘Okay, I said,’ throwing it on the bed, ‘go buy a yourself a bag of valium; you’ll have just what she has.’
‘You kno wham sayin’. What happens if you’re gone? I got nothin’. A chickenshit peddling job selling toys for Mister Jewels. Thaz my fucking career path.’ Grabbing her stomach. ‘Not even medical insurance for this kid.’
Up to now, I had been afraid to say what had been gnawing at my heart. ‘Okay, let’s get married.’
‘C’mon, man. Get serious!’
‘We’re in Las Vegas; it takes two hours. All we need is a license and a chapel.’
What I saw next made me choke. Jimmi let her towel drop to the floor. ‘You’d do that?’
‘My job covers medical if we’re married. It’s no less absurd than a weightlifter and a lap dancer.’
She was smiling. Affected. ‘Thaz crazy shit, Bruno. You know me. You know how I feel. I tole you.’
‘I’ll take my chances.’
She was in front of me rubbing her brown nipples, pinching them with her fingers. ‘Thanks, baby. Thatz nice. Real nice. It means a lot.’
When I tried to touch her, she backed away. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘jus watch. Stand there and jus watch.’
She wet her fingers and began to masturbate, one foot on the bed, looking at me, holding my eyes with hers. Rubbing slowly at first, then faster and harder. ‘Seeee baby,’ she breathed, ‘this is for you. I’m doin’ it for you.’
I unzipped my pants. ‘Can I do it too? With you?’
‘Do it,’ she hissed, working her hand around and around in a circle against her cunt. ‘Do it with me…do it…do it.’
After she orgasmed, I still wasn’t done. She pushed me down on the bed. While she looked on, I began stroking myself. She pressed my other hand to her tits, then wet her fingers deep in her pussy, brought them up, and pushed them into my mouth. Licking the hand, I continued pumping. She wet the fingers again and wiped them across my lips. ‘Taste my pussy, baby. Taste it. You’re my man. Taste it. Do you love my pussy?’
I came like a rocket.
As we were getting dressed, there was a knock at the door. Then banging. ‘Timothy, mijo,’ Jimmi called, ‘just a minute. We’ll be right out.’
It swung open. Laylonee stood before us in the doorway, fully made up, black heels, wearing a tight top and form-fitting spandex. She had now gone the other way, and she was wired, a one-eighty from where she had been an hour before, popping her fingers to the rock ‘n roll in her head. ‘Hey sugar,’ she giggled at Jimmi, ‘your honey baby girl’s getting married tomorrow. It’s time to par-tee.’
The intrusion pissed me off. I was about to shave, my shirt still half on. ‘Sorry,’ I snapped, stepping toward her, ‘we’ve got tickets to a show.’
Two blank bullets stared back through me.
Laylonee hurried past me to Jimmi and began pulling her by the arms. Giggling again. ‘Sure, okay, okay, no big deal. Five minutes. Five seconds. C’mon pregnant lady, at least come’n look at my dress. Cost me three grand. C’mon, c’mon.’
Jimmi followed her, reluctantly, being tugged across the carpet.
Five minutes became half an hour. Finally, shaved and irritated by the delay, I went out to the living room. The kid was still busy on the patio battling his video game. ‘Hey,’ I called, ‘we have to go pretty soon. Where’s your mom?’
He didn’t look up. ‘They’re gone, Bruno.’
‘What?’ I said, not getting it, then noticing Laylonee’s open bedroom door.
‘A few minutes ago. Mom required me to tell you. She said for us to go out by ourselves. She’ll be back later.’
‘Where did they go? Did she say?’
‘You know my mother, Bruno. You know how she is.’
‘Fucking cocksucker!’
Still not looking up from the game. ‘Bruno…’
‘What!’
‘I’m a juvenile. That language is unacceptable in front of a child.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’
She wasn’t at the wedding the next day at noon, and Laylonee hadn’t seen her since some time in the middle of the night. Mickey-o had arrived to pick them both up at a penthouse in the Belagio Hotel. Jimmi
wouldn’t leave. She was having fun and decided to stay on at the party.
At three o’clock that afternoon, I was alone in their apartment with Timothy when the phone rang. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi Bruno, babee.’
‘Hi.’
‘How was Sigfried and Roy? How’s Timothy?’
I could hear the cocaine in her voice. ‘Hey, fuck you, Jimmi!’
‘…Yo, chill man. Whaz your fuckin’ problem?’
‘For one thing, you abandoned your kid.’
Silence. Spooky nothingness. Finally, I heard her light a cigarette. ‘Okay, look, take Timothy back to L.A. with you. I’m flying in tonight. Maybe later. Okay?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m asking for a favor, Bruno. A simple fuckin’ goddamn favor.’
‘What’s going on, Jimmi?’
No answer. Her end of the phone had clicked dead.
Chapter Twenty-five
IN L.A., ON the way back from the airport with Timothy, I stopped by my P.O. box at the Venice post office. There, amongst the crap and junk mail and bills, was a letter without a window. Boudoir Magazine’s red logo was on the upper corner. I held it against the light, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the envelope.
Outside, in my Chrysler, I handed the letter to Timothy and explained what it was. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘you do it. You’re a lucky kid. Open it for me.’
‘That’s a ludicrous superstition, Bruno.’
‘Just open it, please.’
Timothy yanked the envelope apart. There were two pieces of paper inside. One appeared to be a blank questionnaire. It fell to his lap. He picked the form up, examined it, and passed it to me. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘A good sign. Keep going.’
He unfolded the letter. ‘Shall I read it out loud?’
‘Good idea. That or stab me with a knife.’
‘It says, “Dear Mister Dante. We would be pleased to publish your story Compatibility in our December issue of Boudoir Magazine. Enclosed is our tax form to be completed. Kindly fill it out and send it back. Upon receipt of the form, we will forward our check in the amount $1,750.00. Best wishes, Carla Gould, Senior Story Editor.”’
‘Thanks, Timothy,’ I said. ‘That’s all it says?’
He passed me the letter. ‘Congratulations, Bruno. You’re a magazine writer.’
I held it in my hands and examined its texture. I could see and feel the bits of fiber. It was laser printed on good stock. An impressive document. I studied the logo again and the signature on the bottom. Carla Gould. Carla Gould. Neat, tight, blue circles. Carla Gould. Unpretentious. Trustworthy. Carla Gould.
The boy was watching my reaction. ‘Hey Bruno, you’re crying. I assume you’re happy.’
I touched my eyes and felt the tears. ‘Yeah Timothy, I am. I’m very happy.’
When we got home, there was one message on the answering machine, but it wasn’t from Jimmi. Doc Franklin from work had called late Friday night, hoping I was still in town, sounding panicked, trying to find out if I had Kammegian’s new cell phone number. When I dialed back to give it to him, there was no answer and no machine to record a message. Strange stuff, I thought, for someone like Doc who made his living using the telephone to not have a machine picking up his calls.
Sunday morning she still hadn’t come back or telephoned from Vegas. I hadn’t slept at all.
At eight o’clock, eating breakfast, Timothy could see that I was crazy. After I tried Laylonee’s number and woke Mickey-o up and argued with him to find out there was no news, the boy began studying me with worried eyes. He had been through this deal before.
When I sat back down, he said he wanted to talk. He had come to a semi-decision, narrowed it down, and wanted my input. Who did I prefer, Tiger Woods or Mark McGwire?
I said that of course I preferred baseball. Mark McGwire.
Timothy looked unconvinced. He was now six years old, he said, and it was time to get started making preparations. Did I know that Tiger Woods began his career as a golfer at three years old? Did I know that he was an expert putter by the time he was seven?
The diversion was fine with me. With nothing to do but wait anyway, we hashed it through and determined that the best course of action was hands-on research. We got dressed and drove to The Sports Chalet in Marina del Rey.
Once in the store, it turned out to be no contest. McGwire won hands down. For Timothy, seeing the golf balls, then lousing up several attempts at putting them correctly, was the determining factor. We bought him two new bats, a box of baseballs, and a new, autographed Mark McGwire glove. On our way back home, parking in the garage, I returned to the subject of his mom and what he wanted to do. The boy shook his head. It was no big deal. He was used to it.
Monday morning and still no Jimmi. Because of the kid, I had no choice but to report late for work. I knew it would mean taking heat from Eddy Kammegian for my tardiness, but the boy had to be dropped off at his YMCA day camp. It didn’t open until after six o’clock. On the street in front of my apartment, we loaded his bats and his mit and his backpack into my Chrysler, and we were on our way.
Once I had let him out, it was ten minutes across Lincoln to the Orbit Computer Products parking lot.
Pulling in on the gravel driveway, I got a jolt; everybody was outside. The entire staff. A stream of yellow police tape criss-crossed the fancy doorway of Orbit Computer Products. Two cops stood barring the entrance.
A big guy in a suit, someone I had never seen before, was holding court, standing on one of the smokers’ benches against the building. I locked my car and walked across the gravel.
When Frankie Freebase saw me join the crowd, he pulled me aside. ‘Hey Dante,’ he whispered, ‘I hope you cashed your fucking paycheck on Friday.’
‘What’s up?’ I shot back, trying to ignore him and hear what was being said, checking the faces of the others in the crowd for answers.
‘Up!’ Freebase sneered, now a foot from my nose, ‘the fucking Boniventure hotel is up! Mount Whitney is up! Eddy-glorious-fucking-kami-kazi-Kammegian’s time is up! Him and your buddy, the Doctor of Love—that lying fucking douchebag cocksucker! His time is up too. They’re out on bail and you and me and all of us are out of a job. Standing here listening to some jerkoff with our dicks in our hands. That’s what’s up!’
‘Okay. Why? What happened?’
‘C’mon asshole, you’n me should talk. Let’s go. I’ll buy you breakfast. This putz cop has been rambling on for half the morning about the telemarketing task force and interstate phone fraud, and the fucking Free Trade Act. Like it all fucking matters now. Like any of it means dogshit now.’
I pushed him away. ‘I’m staying. I work here.’
Frankie grabbed my arm. ‘Kammegian called me Friday night from the Twin Towers lock up. I spoke to him myself. You wanna know what happened? What went down? Come with me!’
We got in Frankie Freebase’s new Porsche and drove to Denny’s Coffee Shop on Lincoln Boulevard, three minutes away.
I was still mostly sleepless and stunned, trying to make sense out of what I had just seen.
Freebase ordered a hot fudge sundae. He told the waitress he was having eggs after that. ‘Whaddya havin’, hotshot?’
‘Coffee.’
‘Coffee for the hotshot,’ he said to the waitress. ‘On me.’
I blew my nose in a napkin, still stupid from lack of sleep.
‘You want a job, Dante? I’m opening my own boiler room. First National Copier Products. I been makin’ calls all weekend. Good name, right? Catchy. By next Monday, I’ll have a lease and the phones’ll be up. My own joint. Fuckin’ guaranteed!’
‘What happened to Eddy and Doc?’
‘Are you still sober? You look like shit. If you’re back on the juice, forget the offer.’
‘What happened, goddamn it?’
‘Bribery, my man. Kickbacks and fucking payoffs. Federal indictments. Kammegian and Doctor Dickless and his best rectal bud
dy, Miltie Butler, at American Farmers Insurance. All busted. I got it from the horse’s mouth.’
‘C’mon! Eddy had nothing to do with that. You know him.’
‘Orbit’s been rakin’ in five hundred thousand dollars a year from American Farmers. Ever think Kammegian mighta been lookin’ the other way? Question, smart guy: How come Milt Butler was paying the highest prices in the fucking industry?’
‘I don’t know. Doc’s a good salesman.’
‘Right. Sure. Blow me. Eight weeks ago the fuckin’ bean counters on the fifty-sixth floor at AFI mandate Butler to cut back on his monster fucking supply orders. Right?’
‘Okay.’
‘Then, surprise surprise, on the last day of the fuckin’ Paris contest, Doctor dogshit strolls in with a seventy-nine thousand dollar order. Wake up, asshole! Two and two don’t make fuckin’ seven.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t believe it.’
‘I been bustin’ my hump and gettin’ short-sticked for the last three years. Those cocksuckers got what was comin’ to ‘em.’
‘Eddy Kammegian wasn’t involved. I’m sure of it.’
‘You’re like a kid, Dante. A mooch. You want a hero: go rent a Stallone movie. Best any of us ever gets is sober. Kammegian forgot that. He’s no better than you and me. Just sicker and more fucking powerful and way more out of control. That motherfucker ain’t Jesus, man. And I, Frankie Freebase, am sittin’ here lookin’ you in the fuckin’ face and tellin’ you that Eddy-horse-neck-Kammegian didn’t want to fuckin’ know. But, like I said, it don’t matter. Either way, Orbit is fah-mished, kaput, a fuckin’ history book.’
My coffee came, and the hot fudge sundae, and Frankie’s eggs for dessert.