by Dan Fante
Billy nodded. Billy now looked excited. Maybe Billy would perform oral sex on Ronny too after I left the room or empty his piss pot for him.
Stedman grinned again. His best million lira, I gotcha, film-producer leer. “It was—like—an amazingly cool surprise when I read those stories. Like finding a diamond in a Dumpster.”
“Really,” I said, “A diamond in a Dumpster? No kidding? That’s an interesting choice of words.”
“Hold up,” Ronny barked. “You’re driving us to see the new location, right? We’ve got a full day ahead of us.”
“Yeah,” I said, putting my cap on, “I meant to tell you. I guess I’ve got the flu or something. I’m sick to my stomach. I’ll call in and get you one of the other guys to drive you for the day.”
Ronny Stedman gave me a long look. “Well—okay—I mean, if you’re sick. Sure.”
“Yeah, I’m sick. I’m sick to my stomach.”
In the elevator on the way down to the street I felt my crotch scars itching like crazy. I began shaking. I needed to smash something, anything. Then in my mind Jimmy gave me a direct order: Listen to me, asshole: drive yourself to the nearest gun store—buy a used .38—the same kind that you got from your old man—the kind that Portia took from you and threw away—and come back here and shoot these two cocksuckers deader than the deadest lowlife snakes that they are.
Then I noticed the glued-on, maroon-colored nameplate next to elevator button #11 that read HOLLYWOOD STAR PRODUCTIONS. I took out my pen knife and pried the plastic fucker away from the fake formica paneling, then snapped it in half, tossing the pieces onto the floor. From now on, no matter what, I promised myself I would not set eyes on Ron Stedman again. Let Rosie and Joshua at the office deal with the slithering feral fuck. I’d develop a slipped disk in my back or contract hep C or whatever excuse I needed to come up with to avoid being in the same car ever again with these pricks.
Down on the street behind the wheel of Pearl I phoned Rosie with instructions to replace me with another limo and chauffeur, telling her a sudden and important business appointment had come up.
On the way back to the office I stopped at Wells Fargo Bank, waited in the usual line of eleven people, then cashed my check: $1,357.00. I told the smile-trained imbecile behind the counter to give me my money all in twenties. I wanted to feel the weight and the roll in my slacks. The kid sighed and ha-humphed and mimed his best Jay Leno, roll-your-eyes to the camera expression, then reached under the counter for more bills.
Back at Dav-Ko I parked Pearl in the driveway, walked into the office past Rosie, then wordlessly grabbed the keys to my Pontiac and took off. For the last hour my mind had been a screaming monkey. I had to escape, to go anywhere and to be anywhere else. I despised Hollywood and the bizarre greedy deranged mutant jerkoffs it had spawned. I hated myself for not facing Stedman and telling him how I felt about him and his obvious and ungenuine conniving manipulations and stupidity. I hated the limousine business. I hated it all.
twenty-two
It happened to me rarely these days. Working and making money and writing and managing Dav-Ko was all that I’d been doing for months. But I now clearly had a serious case of the fuckits.
I can’t say it was Ronny Steadman and I can’t say it wasn’t but within me there is this leveling device thing that, when my mind exceeds a certain point, just goes on tilt. Snaps. I know that normal people can take a pill or go to bed or call their friend Bob and watch TV or have sex with their wife or jerk off, or some goddamn thing. But that stuff doesn’t work for me.
I know what I was thinking. I was thinking: What’s the big deal. Life is too short for this shit and I need to take the edge off. Fuckit. I deserve it. Fuck it!
A door slammed. I woke up.
It was a strange room. It looked to be a nearly unfurnished one-room apartment with only a small window and dark yellow walls. No pictures.
Clearing my head, I rolled toward the floor and looked down—a woman’s dirty underwear and a pack of cigarettes and a strange half jar filled with blue liquid tucked just beneath the head of the bed.
Lifting the jar up I studied it: a set of false teeth, bridges, uppers and lowers. The sight of these in the strange colored water unnerved me and the glass slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. A pool of blue liquid now flooded the linoleum and nearby underpants.
Reaching back down I picked up the teeth again and held them in my hands, examining them.
How the hell did I get here on this bed with these goddamn things? The top bridge had six fronts with one missing space. No back teeth. The bottoms had no molars but like the uppers, all the front teeth were there. In other words whoever owned these had no real teeth on the top and bottom. My brain collated this information and gave me an image of the toothless bitch who owned them. Whoever had slammed the door must have left in hurry and neglected to put her teeth in.
Near the underpants on the floor, but away from the blue pool, were my pants and socks. Both my shoes and my jacket appeared to be missing.
Reaching for the pants I found that the pockets had been turned inside out. The wallet was gone. My money was gone. The cell phone too.
Pulling back the sheets around me I discovered several hairpins and a sex stain. I was naked except for my torn and soiled shirt. Two buttons were missing.
Finding the bathroom I vomited again and again until my head hurt so much that I had to fall to the coolness of the tile floor and curl myself around the porcelain toilet, in a ball. Then the shakes started.
Fifteen minutes later I’d pulled myself together enough to leave the crapper. But lighting a cigarette forced me back into the bathroom to puke again.
Back in the main room I checked for more signs of where I was and what had happened. I saw more dirty women’s clothes and underwear strewn in the corner. Under some socks was a stack of supermarket coupons held together by a rubber band. Nothing else except a large, gold plastic crucifix looked down from above the apartment’s main door.
The window was partially covered by a sheet. The only furniture other than the bed was a dresser. I opened the drawers. They contained a child’s clothes. Old and worn.
Outside, looking down from the second floor, the neighborhood appeared to be Ghost Town, in Venice—a row of old, rundown houses with sad, unwatered lawns. But maybe not. Maybe I was in Compton or Old Torrance or even Long Beach. I couldn’t be sure.
On the window sill were two green plants. They still had their price tags stuck to the black plastic pots.
Then something shiny got my attention: my car keys. Across the room in the corner.
But that was it. Nothing else belonged to me. All of my shit was gone—gone with whoever slammed the door and departed in a rush.
Back in the bathroom I washed myself. There was no soap. No towel. No toothpaste. Nothing.
I gulped as much water as possible from the faucet until I felt myself wretch convulsively, but somehow I kept the liquid down.
So far so good.
Drying my face with the end of my shirt I then ran water through my hair with my rattling hands in an attempt to smooth it into place. Then I used the last of a toilet paper roll that sat on the toilet tank to clean my teeth.
I now had a sudden and immediate need for a drink. Without a drink I would start puking again or pass out. Or die.
Picking up the set of teeth I stuffed them in my pocket, one in each, along with my car keys. Then I pulled on my socks.
On the street in the heat I intended to circle the block until I found my car. But a few minutes later, with no luck, I reached a main drag with a sign: North Van Nuys Boulevard. Fucking Van Nuys Boulevard. The ghetto. Had I spent the night with a Mexican hooker? That figured. My thing had always been Latin women.
My feet were starting to burn badly and swell as they scraped the asphalt. A mother with her two young daughters averted her glance as she passed me crossing the street.
I kept moving, my brain aching and slamming itself inside
my skull. I couldn’t stop. I had to locate my car and I had to have alcohol. A drink. Immediately. The voice of Jimmy, my hangman, scorched my brain. Well done, fucko! Lost in the goddamn Valley! No shoes. No money. Just swell. You’ve outdone yourself once again. You’re a gutless juicer and a loser just like your fucking brother. You deserve this. Hey cheesedick, with a little luck you just might get yourself arrested for vagrancy—or drunk in public.
There was only one way I’d ever been able to shut Jimmy up: drown him in bourbon.
Finally, my fists sweating and still clenched around the teeth in each pocket, I reached a section of shop fronts: A ninety-nine-cent store. A 7-Eleven. Instant payday loans. A porno arcade. A pawnbroker. In the window above a display of beat-up used watches, the pawnshop clock read ten twenty a.m.
I stopped. I felt myself starting to pass out.
Leaning against a wall I sucked in air. It took thirty seconds for the dizziness to pass, then I was okay. I could walk.
Maybe the 7-Eleven? I decided to turn back. I had no money but maybe I could steal two talls or a forty-ouncer while the guy’s back was turned. For once Jimmy screamed some good advice: Hey nutcase, are you completely crazy? You’ve got a torn shirt and no shoes!…Keep moving, for chrissakes.
So I kept going.
Then, on the corner, I saw it. A bar! It was open—a square neon sign in the window flashing.
I pushed the door open and went in.
Two working guys sat at the rail drinking bottled beer. The jukebox played mariachi music.
Then it happened. I was inches away from the stools. The bartender had seen me and was moving toward me when I felt the spasmodic rush of hot liquid hit the inside of my pants. I’d crapped myself! Without underwear I felt the heat of the mess running down my leg.
As I reached the stools I tossed my car keys up on the bar, trying to appear self-confident.
The bartender’s expression changed. He knew. The stench had been immediate and overwhelming.
“What’s up?” he snarled.
“Look,” I said, “I’ve got an idea. Hear me out, okay? Do you want to make some money?”
“I ka smel jour idea from ober here! Take a walk, cabrón! Now. No chit. I mean it. You wann troubl in disa plaze, you got troubl!”
I raised my hands in the air like a guy under arrest. “No kidding!” I blurted. “Do you want to make a hundred bucks? For real.”
“For wha, chitman?”
“For a pop. One drink! A hundred dollars for one drink. Straight business.”
“Lemme guez, okae. Jour problem is jou ain’t got the hundred on you. Am I rie?”
I nodded.
“Mira, stupido, jou got ten seconds to get jour stinky culo outa here and go bak on da stree. Ten seconds, comprende? Nine…eight…”
“Two hundred! No joke!” I was panting now. Gulping air. “I’ll pay you two hundred bucks for one drink…and a phone call! I run a business. I’ll have someone bring the money. It’ll be here half an hour after I make the call. C’mon, cut me a break.”
“Thaz it, chitpants! Timz up!”
The guy scooped my car keys off the bar and held them toward me. “I tole jou, take a fukking walk!” he hissed. “I ain no kiddin’!”
Then something happened. With my key ring in his outstretched arm, the bartender’s expression changed. He was looking at what he held in his hand. “Whaz about thez?” he said.
“What?” I said.
“Deez one, my man!” he snarled, pinching the coin on the ring between his fingers.
It was a fifty-cent piece. A silver half dollar. The coin and chain had been a gift from my ex-girlfriend Cynthia years before, when I bought the Pontiac.
I felt my body breathe again. “What about it?” I asked. “You want it?”
“I collek. I collek koinz.”
“So?”
“Dis one iz a 1916. Firss jear minn. Walkin’ Leebertee. Goo condicion too.”
“I know what it is,” I lied. “How about a trade?”
The guy folded his arms across his chest. “Hokay, chitmajn, herez dee deal: Jou get jour stinky, shakin ass to the bahroom ’n’ clean up an when jou come back I giff jou one drink—an one phon call. For dis.”
“Two drinks” I blurted. “Two drinks and you have a deal. Double shots. Deal?”
“Deal,” he snarled. “Now go wass jour ass.”
It took Robert Roller almost an hour to travel the twelve miles from Dav-Ko to the Tanampa Bar and Grill in our brown stretch, Cocoa.
When he walked in he stuffed the hundred dollar bills in cash in my hand, wordlessly eyeing me up and down, shaking his head.
We found my Pontiac where I assumed I’d left it, in the alley behind the rundown apartment house where I’d come too. There were no new dents and it was unlocked. And I was okay now. Feeling much better. Two more sets of doubles at the bar and a quick stop at a liquor store for a pint of Jim Beam had restored the calmness to my brain.
While big Robert sat in the limo I looked inside my car for signs of trouble. There were none. But in the backseat, in a box, I discovered some old clothes and two pairs of shoes I hadn’t yet returned to my closet after the firing episode with David Koffman.
No one was around, so I took off my shirt and shitstained chauffeur’s slacks and replaced them with a pair of jeans, an old warm-up jacket, and tennis shoes.
Telling Robert to wait for me I went back inside the building and walked upstairs to the one-room apartment. I knocked. When no one answered I tried the door. It was still unlocked. Inside I could tell that whoever she was, she had not returned.
I put the set of dentures down next to the plants on the window sill where they could be found, then checked again for anything in the room that might be mine. There wasn’t anything. I’d been picked clean.
I took a long pull from the bottle in my pocket, then went to the door. Above me was the big gold plastic crucifix. A new thought caught my attention and stuck: A choice. An option.
Returning to the window I removed the plants from the sill, then put them down on the floor in the blue puddled water.
Then I unzipped my pants, took out my cock, and pissed in each one.
That done, I picked up the two custom-made bridges and set them down in the mess on the floor next to the whore’s dirty panties. Then I crushed each one with the heel of my shoe.
Back at the door, ready to go, I looked up at the crucifix on the wall. Big Jesus was smiling.
But, as it turned out, I wasn’t done. I wasn’t done at all.
After Robert followed me back to the Dav-Ko office I took seven hundred bucks from the petty-cash drawer, left an IOU, and informed Rosie that I was taking a payroll advance. Then I told her that I was taking a day or two more off, telling her that if David Koffman or anyone else asked, I was using up sick-leave days to attend a weekend AA seminar. Rosie’s expression was blank. “It’s Wednesday,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I’m getting an early start. Is that okay with you?”
“You’re the boss, Bruno.”
“Correct-a-mundo, Ms. Rosie. That I am,” I said smiling.
My favorite porn is anal action. Number two is deep-throat blowjobs with oral cum shots.
At the liquor store I picked up large bottles of Mad Dog 20/20. Mogen David. It had been years since I’d hit “the dog,” but this was a special occasion. I needed to get downtown in my brain and Mad Dog is the best and fastest train there is. After picking up the wine I made a stop at the best X video store in Hollywood, on Santa Monica Boulevard. I rented half a dozen titles that looked promising then drove back to Highland Avenue to an upscale tourist motel against the Hollywood Hills called the DeMille, off Franklin Avenue. I knew the day manager, Russ. He’d been my new pill connection since I moved to Hollywood.
To me Mad Dog and porn in a clean motel is the best vacation a person can take. A spiritual retreat.
twenty-three
I’d never had two blackouts in a row before. Unti
l now. I came out of this one in Venice, parked at a beach parking lot against the sand behind the wheel of my Pontiac. My pants were around my knees leading me to believe I must’ve been jerking off before I fell out. I was wet from my chest down and on the seat next to me were my soaked shoes…and my arm was stinging like crazy. The bright lights from the car behind me were blasting through my windows. I looked at my watch. It was 4:05 a.m.
Now there was a guy banging on my driver’s window with his flashlight, dressed in blue. I saw the badge too.
“Last time, pal! I said open the door! Out of the car!!”
“Sure sure sure. Hang on,” I said. “I’m doing it. No problem.”
I pulled up the jeans and tucked my cock into my pants, fastening the snap.
“Open the goddamn door!” Blue repeated.
I unlocked the button and was then yanked from the seat. I did the drill: hands on the roof. Blue yanked my pockets out, then took my money.
“No driver’s license? NO ID!”
“I misplaced them…I guess.”
“Turn around,” Blue snarled.
I turned around.
“Now close your eyes, asshole.”
I closed them.
“Now put your arms out, and touch your nose with the tip of your left index finger!”
“I’m right-handed,” I said.
“Shut the fuck up, jerkoff. Do it now!”
I did what he asked but the result was apparently unsuccessful or unsatisfactory.
“You’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated and not having a valid license. Any questions?”
“Can I smoke?”
“You can shut the fuck up! Where’s your car registration?”
“Can I talk?”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“It’s in the glove compartment.”
“Get it.”
I found my paperwork and my cigarettes and lighter, then handed the envelope to Blue. I was about to ask him if I could smoke again when he said, “I told you to shut the fuck up.”
