by Fante, Dan
“I ordered dinner at this restaurant in Santa Monica, and a plain tonic water with lime. The waitress brought me a gin and tonic by mistake.”
“And you drank it?”
“No. I took a sip and swallowed it but I didn’t drink the rest.”
“That ain’t no slip, JD. You didn’t order the G&T to get drunk, did you?”
“Hell no!”
“Just get to a meeting. You’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Call me in the morning, JD. It’ll all be okay.”
Then Bob hung up.
THE HOOKERS NEAR Rose Avenue are mostly black because that area of Venice is near Ghost Town, where all the crack and meth dealers operate.
The girl I stopped to pick up was on the short side. She had beefy thighs with a close-cropped afro, big knockers, and fake gold hoop earrings. She looked to be an ethnic mix of black and something else. Asian—maybe Chinese.
I lowered the power window on the passenger side of the Corolla and she leaned in. “Hi babe, half and half is fifty,” she whispered.
“Get in,” I said. “You get a hundred more if you’ll lick my asshole first.”
“Uu-huh, you a spender. I likes spenders. Deal. My name’s Dawn. What’s yours, honey?”
“I’m JD. And I’m in love already.”
ON MY WAY back through Santa Monica toward Malibu, an hour later, I swung off Lincoln onto Colorado Boulevard, then turned onto Ninth Street. I was feeling okay again after talking with Anderson, and the sex with chubby Dawn had been the tie-breaker.
As I was crossing Broadway, headed up Ninth, another car, what looked like a black four-door Beemer, almost sideswiped my Corolla demo. The other driver hadn’t even paused for the stop sign and might have clipped me if I hadn’t jerked my wheel the other way. L.A. has crazy drivers.
My plan, now that I had a nicer ride, was to leave Mom’s Honda parked on Ninth Street until my day off on Wednesday, then drive her into town with me to pick up her beast and return it to her garage. The goddamn People’s Republic of Santa Monica is well known for its brutal alternate-side street-cleaning tickets, so if you are parked on the wrong curb on street-cleaning day, you’re screwed. The ticket is seventy-nine bucks. So I wanted to be sure the Honda was parked legally and okay.
As I drove down the block I saw flames thirty yards away. A car was on fire.
NINE
When I got closer to the flames, I could see that it was Mom’s red Honda, my car. The hood and roof were ablaze.
I parked a safe distance away, got out, then approached the Honda. There was an acrid smell. Several solid streams of flame covered the hood and roof and the front bumper was burning too. Apparently, some jerk had squirted lighter fluid or something similar on the beast, then lit it up—some kind of idiot-style, high school prank.
The rear section of the Honda had only one strip of flame on it, so my first thought was to get my gun. I’m a guy who has been charged with felony drunk driving and I know that, in California, I will instantly go back to the slam if I’m caught with an unregistered piece.
I opened Mom’s trunk, grabbed the gun, tucked it into the back of my pants, then pulled out a couple of grimy car towels I stored there to dry the Honda off after I’d washed it.
I threw the towels on the car’s trunk and roof. Half a minute later some of the flames were extinguished.
Who the hell would want to torch my fucking car? Why? Maybe it was that fat prick Fernando, carrying a grudge and still PO’d after I’d got that big sale. If it was Fernando, he’d find out very soon that he’d been screwing with the wrong guy. I’d really clean his clock this time. No one else came to mind except the crazy vengeful bitch in the Porsche in Malibu. Could it have been her? Was that possible? Then I remembered: She’d seen me at the stoplight on the Coast Highway but she’d been at least twenty-five yards away and too far from my car to have read my license plate. I dismissed the idea.
IT WASN’T YET midnight and one or two lights began to come on from the houses along the street. A door opened and a guy in a bathrobe walked out on his carport. He stood with his hands on his hips, watching the flames on my car. Then he called to me: “What’s going on?”
“My car’s on fire, for chrissakes,” I yelled back. “Don’t just stand there with your dick in your hand, get some water or something! Have you got a hose?”
“Right,” he said, acting semi-dazed from TV, like my car on fire was a goddamn reality show. Then he cinched his bathrobe closed and walked to the corner of his house and began to unravel his garden hose.
The driver’s-side window of Mom’s car had been bashed in and the door was ajar. I flopped open one of my towels from the roof and, using it to protect my hand, pulled the door all the way open. Then I stood on the rocker panel and threw the other towel over the flames on the roof.
Half of the fire was smothered, but the grille section and the hood were still burning and there were intense flames coming from inside the engine compartment—smoke was beginning to billow out from under the hood.
The homeowner with the hose was behind me. “Hey, step back,” he yelled. “I’ll spray it down. Just get back!”
I stepped up onto the curb and stood next to him. He was blasting the hood and the grille with water just as we heard a loud popping sound and the engine compartment burst into flames.
“Hey, that’s not good,” Bathrobe yelled.
“You’re right,” I said. “C’mon, we’d better back off.”
We were twenty feet away when Mom’s car exploded. The blast and flames immediately ignited the car in front of the Honda—a Chrysler minivan. In seconds it was blazing, too, with its alarm howling.
HALF AN HOUR later, while the cops and firemen were mopping up, one of the blues who had already taken my driver’s license and other ID was filling out a report. “Okay,” he said, walking up to me with his cop notebook open, “tell me exactly what happened here?”
“I don’t know,” I shot back. “I was walking to my car and I saw it burning. I guess somebody torched it. Maybe it was a prank or something.”
“A prank?” Blue barked. “Destroying private property and endangering the lives of the residents on this block is no prank, sir. It’s arson. We’re lucky someone wasn’t killed.”
“Whatever,” I said, “call it what you want.”
“Did you see anyone? Did you observe anyone leaving the area?”
“No. But I did see a car going around the corner at the other end of the block. He didn’t stop for the stop sign. It looked like he was in a hurry.”
Blue looked at me. “He? You said, ‘he.’ ”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t see who was driving. I just assume it was a he. It was a dark four-door. Maybe blue. A Beemer, I think.”
“Was the vehicle a newer car or was it older?”
“I don’t know. Newer, I guess. It was shiny.”
He held up my driver’s license and Social Security card. “I already checked this out,” he said. “Apparently, you’re driving on a restricted operator’s permit. You had a DUI.”
“So what?” I said. “My car was torched. What’s a restricted license got to do with a goddamn burning car?”
“Calm down, sir. I’m trying to determine the circumstances, what led up to the fire. Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”
“That’s none of your business. I wasn’t driving so that’s got nothing to do with anything. But no, I wasn’t drinking! I don’t drink.”
Blue sneered. “I think we have a problem here, Mr. Fiorella. In the trunk of your car we discovered a shopping bag containing five empty pint vodka bottles. Can you explain that?”
“They were in the trunk, officer,” I snarled. “They’re garbage. Undumped garbage.”
Blue moved to the front seat of his cruiser, then returned with his plastic Breath
alyzer unit.
He was stone-faced. “I suspect you of driving while intoxicated. I am now instructing you to blow into this unit.”
I wanted to punch blue hard in the face. I wanted to watch blood run down from his nose into his cop mustache. I wanted to hurt blue badly. Instead, I stuffed the idea. “I said I wasn’t driving.”
“Blow into the machine, Mr. Fiorella. I won’t ask you again.”
When I was done blowing, Blue looked at the digital readout on the gauge. “You are legally sober,” he said in an even tone.
“No shit.”
“Sir, it’s Monday night. Not exactly a workday, as per your vehicle license driving restrictions. You were on your way to your car, I assume, to drive it, or were just getting out after driving it, in possible noncompliance with those restrictions. There are gaps in the account of what you’re telling me. I think you’re leaving out information here—omitting relevant facts. I recommend that you get your story of the incident in order.”
“I just told you what happened. Do your job, for chrissake! Find out who torched my car!”
Blue sneered. “I don’t believe what you’re telling me and I find your attitude to be unnecessarily belligerent. I think you somehow caused the fire yourself and are trying to shift the blame.”
“I don’t give a shit what you believe, lawman. I told you what happened.”
“We seem to be having a communication problem. I can have more backup here in five minutes. Do you want this situation to deteriorate further?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Good. Now empty your pockets and place the items on the hood of my vehicle.”
“Do you think I’d break my own window when I’m holding the car keys in my hand? Wake up, for chrissake!”
“Last warning: Calm down! Let me investigate the circumstances of the incident or I’ll cuff you right here.”
“How about this: Go talk to the neighbors and see if someone saw what happened. That’s your job, not hassling me!”
“I’m instructing you again: empty your pockets!”
“Jesus Christ,” I said, pointing down the block, hoping like hell the asshole wouldn’t frisk me and find the gun. “I work there at the Toyota dealer. On the corner. I was at my job.”
Blue looked down the block and saw Sherman Toyota’s big sign. “I see,” he said. “So, for the third and final time, remove the items from your pockets and place them on the hood of my vehicle.”
I reached into my pants and pulled out all my stuff, tossing it on to the cop car’s hood: my wallet, my cigarettes, my lighter, a few Nicorets, a dozen generic Sherman Toyota business cards that Max had passed out to all the new salespeople on Saturday, and the wad of cash that was left over from my hundred-and-fifty-dollar hooker.
“Here ya go,” I said, handing Blue one of the Toyota business cards, attempting to distract him and back up my story. “This is where I work.”
“Is that everything?” he asked.
“You just saw me empty my pockets. That’s it.”
Fortunately Blue didn’t toss me. Instead, he looked at the business card, then put it back on the hood of his patrol car.
“Okay,” I said, hoping to Christ the frisking part was over, “now, how about finding out who did this?”
“Insurance card?” he said. “I need to see proof of automobile insurance.”
“Look,” I said, “my car was on fire. I can’t get into it.”
Blue smiled. “The interior of the vehicle was not burned, sir. The flames are out. Go get the insurance card, Mr. Fiorella.”
“I don’t have an insurance card,” I said.
“Not good,” Blue said. “That is a problem.”
TEN
The morning after the car fire, when my mother and Coco came out to have their coffee and make their breakfast, I was sitting at the kitchen table. Dealing with the burning vehicle and the cop and the sobriety test, carrying a concealed weapon, and having no insurance card, was a cakewalk compared to facing my eighty-one-year-old D.A.R. (Daughters of the American Revolution) ex-librarian mother.
“Well,” she said, pouring her and Coco’s coffee with a still-steady hand, “you’re employed again. A step in the right direction. I certainly hope you apply yourself and do well, James. And soon, very soon, we’ll have a conversation about a repayment plan for the money you owe me.”
“Something happened last night, Ma. I need to tell you about it.”
“I’m listening.”
“Can you excuse us, Coco?” I asked, looking up at Mom’s companion. “I need to talk to Mom privately.”
When Coco was gone, carrying her coffee cup, the newspaper, and a slice of toast down the hall, I turned to Mom. “Somebody torched the Honda last night.”
“Speak English, James. Torched? Please explain what you mean by your use of that word.”
“Some person—some asshole—poured gas or lighter fluid or something on the Honda last night and put a match to it.”
“My car? Were the police contacted? The fire department?”
“Both. They were both there.”
“You are telling me that my property was destroyed? Torched! My vehicle?”
“Technically, it’s my vehicle. You put it in my name, remember?”
Mom was turning red. Redder. Her health issues were her clogged arteries and her high blood pressure—enough to allow her to drop dead after a strong sneeze some morning. I could see that she was beginning to shake.
“I hold you responsible, James. Your lifestyle—the way you conduct yourself—your addiction to alcohol and pornography. The smut I receive in my mailbox day after day is beyond horrific. You say you’ve now stopped drinking but your conduct has directly resulted in someone, some criminal type, destroying my private property.”
“No, I wasn’t hurt. Were you going to ask me?”
“You’re a forty-four-year-old bum—probably a sex offender and God knows what else. You spent years as a detective—thug is the more appropriate term—hurting people, and you still own a gun! I’ve seen it with my own eyes. A gun, for God’s sake!”
“Look, I have to know: did you ever cancel the insurance? The cop gave me a ticket for not being insured.”
My mother considered the question while reaching across the table for her bottle of blood-pressure meds. Opening the vial, she dumped out two little bluies, popped them, then washed them down with a gulp of coffee. “No, is the answer,” she said. “I never called the insurance company. I guess I forgot to do it.”
“Did your lawyer do it? Do you know?”
“He reminded me to make the call. I must’ve forgotten. Are you going to jail again? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, no jail. Looks like I’m okay. Just find the insurance card and give it to me. I’ll go to court and straighten it out.”
“I want you out of my home. Is that clear? By this weekend. Even Coco finds your behavior . . . unusual. She said so herself.”
“Calm down, Ma.”
“We’ll call a locksmith today and I will have the locks changed. You are a danger to my welfare and my health. You’re a recalcitrant fool with deep-seated psychological problems and I believe you actually take pleasure in hurting people.”
Then Ma got up, tied her bathrobe in a stranglehold around her midsection, grabbed her coffee cup and the bottle of blood-pressure meds, and teetered off toward her bedroom.
AT WORK THAT morning, after the sales meeting, I stuck my head into Max’s office. “Hey, boss,” I said, “can we talk for a minute?”
“What’s up, Fiorella? C’mon in. Got another deal for me—one like those wetbacks we hammered? I love it.”
I closed his door behind me and sat down. “Look, Max,” I said, “I’m in a spot. I have to find a place to live. I need to be out by Saturday.”
Max rocked back in his chair. He loved playing the big shot. “Sorry to hear that. So . . . ”
“So, can I get an advance? We both know I’ve got a good check coming. I just need about fifteen hundred for a deposit on a new place.”
“Look, I hear you, Fiorella,” he said, “but I’ve got to say something here. You won’t like it, but it’s part of my job and it’s for your own good. The truth is you’re sort of on thin ice around here. A couple of the staff have made comments about your attitude and rudeness and then there was that scuffle between you and Fernando. Do you see my point?”
“Max, I’m asking for a favor. I think I’ve proved myself.”
“No can do, my friend. Rhett’s GM now and he’d chew my ass from here until next week if I gave you an advance. He has a no-exceptions policy.”
“I don’t want to have to take time off. That’s why I’m coming to you. My back’s against the wall here, Max.”
Maxwell hit the hands-free button on his phone’s console. It started buzzing. Rhett pressed a button in his office and answered. “What’s up, Max?”
“I’ve got Fiorella here in my office. He has an emergency. He says he has to move, to relocate. Can we make an exception and cut him an advance? Say two K?”
Rhett Butler, aka Robin Baitz, as always, came right to the point. “Tell Fiorella that payday is Friday after next.” Click. Dead air.
Sitting back down at my cubicle desk in the showroom I decided to try my pal Woody. He was fat city, money-wise, and I knew it. A couple of weeks back he’d mentioned that he’d stashed almost ten grand in the bank and was saving up for a late-model used Benz.
I called him on his cell phone and found out that in a few days he was starting at the Lexus dealer on Seventeenth Street in Santa Monica. “What’s up with you?” he said after telling me his good news. “I’ve been looking for you at meetings. You weren’t at the Sunday nighter at the Marina Center.”
I didn’t mention the torched car incident. I wanted to sound positive. “You know,” I said, “work. That stuff. I don’t get out of here until nine-thirty some nights.”