Mooch

by Dan Fante

  ‘I have no idea. Was he a wine drinker?’

  ‘Baskin burgled his reorder account books and several vital account history CD’s from these premises in an attempt to open his own computer supplies operation: a felony. Of course, his attempt failed and he was apprehended.’

  ‘And I hope the jerk got what was coming to him.’

  ‘May I continue?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘A staff sales person who was working late the night of the crime witnessed Baskin skulking around outside in the parking lot, then smuggling a box of company files into the trunk of his car. The act was later verified by our exterior surveillance video camera. The point, Dante, is that someone stepped forward. That person knew Baskin; they were friends actually, but his loyalty to Orbit Computer Products exceeded his personal concerns.’

  ‘Great. Crackerjack.’

  ‘Stand up, please.’

  I stood up.

  Kammegian was in front of me. He started to say something then paused a moment—the death pause—then he handed me an envelope.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘Open it.’

  Inside was a payroll check for three hundred and eleven dollars along with a pink form paperclipped to the top. The form read NOTICE OF TERMINATION. I tried to hand it back. ‘I want another chance,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve been writing front-call orders for Ms Valiente. You’ve been fucking her. Both you and McGee. You erased your own name on your sales orders, then filled in her I.D. number.’

  ‘I’m in love with her.’

  ‘You’re fired. Get out of my office.’

  Chapter Ten

  YOU SLEEP.

  Sometimes, in a panic, you wake up in the middle of the night, not knowing where you are. Bolt upright. After you realize you’re okay, you suck back a half-dozen pulls from the bottle on the floor by the bed. You smoke a cigarette. Two. If you’ve had enough whiskey, you can fall back to sleep. Sometimes.

  In the morning you come to and start puking. But you must drink again right away to hold off the heebie-jeebies. So you drink and you puke some more, because the booze won’t stay down.

  You try eating food to settle yourself. Anything. Stale bread. Dry cereal. Peanut butter by the spoon. Anything.

  Eventually the food stays in your stomach, and you’re okay and you can start again. The best thing, of course, is vodka in orange juice. Or ginger ale. Cold. Cold is always best. If you haven’t got vodka, a beer. But it has to be cold. If it’s not cold, you’ll puke again. And that’s how it goes—if you have money. If you’ve got money, you’ve got no worries—not a care in the world.

  Sometimes my runs lasted ten days. Two weeks. How long they go on depends on how much my body can take. When your ankles and feet stay numb all day, it’s time to ease off.

  The day I started back, I had a fistful of hundred dollar bills, clean socks and underwear in my drawer, and a 5.00 p.m dentist appointment for an examination because my gums bleed all the time. I was thinking constantly about Jimmi, but I had made no conscious decision to drink again or even had any thoughts about it. The morning after Kammegian fired me, I was up early, slurping coffee in the communal breakfast room at my recovery house, re-reading my story, ‘Compatibility’. I remember for once liking what I had written. Straight up fiction. Dashiell Hammett. Boom boom short sentences. Like my father’s stuff. Hemingway. My twenty-five pages were just right for the high-end man’s magazine market. I had made up my mind to send the story off.

  My plan for that day, except for the dentist, was to completely re-read my story, attend the movies, and go to an AA meeting with Liquor Store Dave. Because money was no problem, I told myself that I’d start looking for a new telemarketing gig in a week or so.

  After more coffee, upstairs at the hall payphone, unable to stop myself, I dialed her number again and again. I wanted to say I was sorry and say hello.

  Jimmi’s sister, Sema, with the two kids, answered the phone. One of them was crying in the background. Sis said Jimmi was in the bathroom and asked me to hold on. There was yelling through the door—Jimmi shouting something back. Sema asked me my name. I told her, ‘Bruno’. Jimmi yelled something in Mexican, then the phone clicked dead.

  On my way to the movies, I stopped at the 7—11 for cigarettes. A guy was sitting against the wall outside the store—a street guy. Shaking one out. He wanted chump change for some beer. We talked for a minute.

  Thinking back, that was how it started. I bought him two cans of Coor’s and brought them out. I didn’t drink with him, but my mind did. I never let go of the impulse.

  Parking my Chrysler at the movies, I was twenty minutes early. I hate the fuckasshole commercials and trailers and the hard-sell stuff they make you watch for fifteen minutes before the feature, so, with ‘Compatability’ under my arm, I walked to the bookstore nearby to kill some time, to see if they stocked any titles by the dead writer, Jonathan Dante.

  The bookstore was closed. The sign in the window said opening time was one o’clock (the same time as the movie). Next door was an air conditioned sports bar: the Alibi Room. I walked in. Not a second thought—no hesitation at all—found a stool, set ‘Compatibility’ down on the bar, then ordered a double Stoli shooter with a beer back. One sip and I was home.

  An hour later, Cin walked in. It was the beginning of the second inning of a Mets/Dodgers game on TV. I had finished re-reading my story about a dating service salesman being seduced by the red-haired manager of a uniform store.

  Cin was short for Cynthia. Australian with an accent. Lovely large floppy tits. Her friend with the big hair and the shopping bag was Nikki. Cin had been in America for twenty years. She was older than me by a dozen years, but pretty. Short blonde hair. Ass wide and ample. By comparison, Nikki’s ass was huge, a hippopotamus ass.

  Cin ordered tequila and smiled at me when they sat down. Nikki ordered something red that came with an umbrella.

  Piazza homered early with two guys on, so the game was in good shape. The girls were talking about their vacation in Barcelona. They were animators at The Kartoon Factory in El Segundo.

  Mike, the barkeep, was coming and going behind the bar. He and the weekend bartender, Stu, were involved playing a video game. Yelling and whooping and high-fiving in an imitation of a commercial for basketball shoes. When any of us at the bar required another drink, we had to contend with getting Mike’s attention.

  Closest to me was Cin, only a stool between us. Nikki had anchored her ass on the far side. Everything Cin said was in a low voice, a semi-whisper, which I liked. Sexy. I learned from the girls that animating is a lucrative occupation. It’s piece work, but when animators are being paid to animate, the money is excellent. The two of them traveled a lot together and made excursions to various foreign destinations.

  My buzz was good and my money was on the bar: a stack of hundreds and twenties to impress the girls. I was paying for their drinks and for mine, but Mike clearly didn’t give a fuck about his patrons because of the video game. I tried tipping him ten dollars, but it didn’t help.

  ‘Compatibility’ was in front of me. I said I was celebrating a film deal. Big Nikki suggested that she and I might have friends in common at the studios and wanted to know who I was doing business with. What producer. What production company. I changed the subject.

  The Dodgers got five runs in the third and two in the fourth. I bought us each three rounds, so we didn’t have to worry about Mike. Presently, good and drunk, I began to put a move on Cin. I told her ‘Cynthia’ was my favorite woman’s name. My aunt’s name was Cynthia. As a kid, my family had pet bull terriers, brother and sister, named Rocco and Cynthia.

  There was a sweetness about her. Not like the insanity in Jimmi’s eyes. A gentleness from some old sadness. She knew New York too. Manhattan and Soho and the upper West Side, The Ansonia Hotel. While we talked, she leaned over to pick a piece of lint off the front of my Yankees cap.

  Mike came back and poured more
drinks then switched the satellite station from the Mets to hockey without asking shit from anybody.

  Soon, big Nikki was bored and drunk. Five tiny, bent, pink umbrella sticks spelled out ‘N I K I’ on the bar. Finishing her drink, she suggested to Cin that they both should leave. After some conversation I didn’t hear and a quick phone call from the cell portable in her purse, Nikki went off alone.

  Cin and me continued talking. It turned out she was an avid reader. Agatha Christie and that stuff, but Harry Crews and Sherwood Anderson too. And Herman Hesse. Even one or two by Selby. Her breath was sweet, and her thighs were firm and strong against the inside of her thin dress. She was touchy too, putting her hand on my arm as we talked. She asked if she could read ‘Compatibility’ and wanted me to loan it to her. I shook my head no. My last copy, I said. It was my only copy.

  One drink later, she leaned close to my ear. ‘Time to go, Bruno,’ she whispered. ‘Meeting friends for dinner.’ Then she kissed the side of my head. ‘You’re quite drunk. You should go too.’

  The sadness in her was deep. It filled the room and touched me. Impulsively, carried away by the emotions of the moment, I passed her my story. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘read it and send it back.’ I wrote my Venice P.O. box number and zip code on the front by my name. Then I said, ‘Can I tell you something?’

  Cin was smiling. ‘Of course.’

  I leaned close and put my hand on her leg. ‘The way your body looks in that dress makes my dick hard.’

  Her eyes came alive and began to twinkle. She tilted her head back. ‘Say that again.’

  I kissed her neck. ‘I said, you make my dick hard.’

  Her fingers were on my arm. ‘You have to look at me when you talk.’

  ‘Why? Are you a lip reader?’

  Without shame she pulled the hair back on the left side of her face. There was no ear where an ear should be, only an indentation and a smooth scar. ‘I have to be face to face when we talk.’

  ‘You’re deaf?’

  She nodded, looking almost afraid. ‘I hear a bit out of my right ear, but not much,’ she whispered. ‘So, say it again, Bruno. I am interested.’

  Being sure she saw my mouth, my words came out too loud. ‘I love you. Could we go somewhere and fuck?’

  Cin laughed. ‘Not today, angel.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Would you like my phone number?’

  ‘I would. Yes. I want your phone number.’

  Taking a pen and a business card from her purse, on the back she wrote her name and a Hollywood 323 area code number. The penmanship was perfect. ‘Drive safe,’ she said. Then she was gone. ‘Compatibility’ under her arm, a sweet melancholy lingering behind like the quietness of jasmine.

  Now it was only me and Mike. Stu, his video game partner, was gone. Walking back from the pisser, I stopped by Ninja Bloodbath/Marauders of Death. A kickboxing video deal. Mike was still at the machine. I watched for a minute. It was bullshit. A preposterous child’s amusement. The principle of the game appeared to be maiming your opponent by karate kicking, then hacking and dismemberment. There were controls: two red buttons and a joy stick.

  He sensed me behind him, and I knew it made him uncomfortable. I didn’t care if Mike was uncomfortable. Mike was an asshole, a crime against the environment.

  I continued to watch the action. His warrior was getting nailed and sliced up. The opponent, the computer, was piling up points. Then Mike settled down. He pounded the buttons in front of him, wiggled furiously on the joy stick, and made his guy leap in an impossible twirling pirouette. Down he came, hacking off his opponent’s fighting arm. The next move was a gore to the throat. A nifty one-two. The tide had turned. Mike’s digitized killer began bouncing up and down waving his weapons, waiting for the opposition to get up. Oozing blood and bodily fluids, the enemy squirmed in an attempt to get to his feet. But Mike tapped crazily at his red button and his man showed no mercy, kicking out viciously with a stiletto-pointed armored boot. Down again went the opponent, the spike driven deep into his forehead.

  It was time for the game’s final move. Mike’s killer did a flip and crashed down on the fallen warrior’s skull. Blood and brain tissue squirted against the inside of the video screen. Death! Victory! 940,000 points.

  ‘How ‘bout it, Ace,’ Mike sneered. ‘Wanna play? You and me.’ He was ready. His neck veins throbbing. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll make it easy; ten bucks a match. Loser buys the drinks.’

  ‘How about fifty bucks a game?’ my mouth shot back. ‘How about that, Ace?’

  ‘You know Bloodbath? You play?’

  ‘Fifty bucks a game,’ I said. ‘Here’s mine.’ I slapped a hundred up on the glass.

  After he had won the first round, we began going double or nothing. Half an hour later, I was cleaned out. Twelve hundred dollars.

  I was evicted. That night at the recovery home, Chickenbone, the manager, saw me come in drunk. That was that. While I was packing I kept trying to call Jimmi from the upstairs payphone but her sister’s answering machine kept clicking on, screening my calls. After a pocketful of quarters, I finally left a message. ‘Jimmi—Bruno…I’m moving out. Tonight. They kicked me out…You there? I’m sorry you got fired. I got fired too. I want to see you. I want us to talk.’

  I heard a click, like someone was listening on the line. Then it went dead.

  Chapter Eleven

  MY RUN LASTED nine days. Drunk around the clock with the blinds down and porn movies blinking at me from the TV. My new home was Room 117 at The Prince Carlos, a U-shaped, fifties-style ‘remodeled’ motel on Sepulveda Boulevard. Before the neighborhood changed the building had once been two floors of furnished studio apartments. Now it was $197 per week. Two weeks up front. The Carlos was the only motel on the street advertising air conditioning, weekly rates, and all rooms with HBO and Adult Movies. ‘Se habla español.’

  It took several days for the crazies to start. It had been over half a year since the last time, but now they were on me. It was bad. I had been sleeping only an hour or two at a stretch and hadn’t got drunk enough—hadn’t been numb enough—so when I fell asleep there they were—the terrors—the phantom fuckers. Huge bastards, scurrying around, the size of dogs—bodies like roaches—on my wall, scooting along, their lizard fucking tails twisting, up the ceiling and across, one side of the room to the other. Watching me as they crawled. Leering. If I woke up with a jerk, sat up, sometimes it would take a full minute or two for the images to go away.

  Sometimes I would hear them in the drawers. Or the floor creaking. They bred in closets, hidden places. By the hundreds. Scratching noises everywhere.

  A day later, with a lot more booze, it got better because I kept myself awake, burning myself on the arm with the tip of my cigarette.

  Scratching. Scratching. Scratching.

  If I had to piss, I pissed in an empty vodka bottle, pissed over everything because I was shaking. Pissed on my fingers. On the sheets.

  Then finally, exhausted, I slept.

  When I opened my eyes, it was to a different noise. Outside, the rumbling sound of the motel maid’s heavy, metal-wheeled cleaning cart. I realized it must be morning. I had no idea what day. My body hurt. I couldn’t move. My face, my legs, my back. Pain everywhere.

  Looking around, I saw that I was not in my bed. I was in the bathtub, naked. With me was my stuff, all that I owned: shoes, bottles, clothes, my typewriter, a fake plant, a suitcase, my books. I had relocated my life to the bathroom. The sharp pain at my temple was being caused by the volume dial of my portable radio.

  Shifting positions, I looked at my watch. Seven o’clock. On the linoleum floor was a bottle. Half empty. I took a long hit. With the drink came an acute awareness. I was now fully crazy. If I kept going, I would be dead.

  I was hungry. My shakes were bad, and the sourness in my stomach was choking me. I unloaded the tub, slowly, one object at a time, then moved all my shit back to the main room.

  After puking, I too
k a slow hot shower, putting down the rest of the vodka; then I found a shirt and got dressed.

  In the daylight on the staircase of the Prince Carlos Motel, it took a long time for my eyes to adjust. When I had convinced myself there was nothing crawling near my feet, it became okay to walk across the asphalt to my car.

  I drove slowly to Vons market and purchased cold beers to taper down. A ham and cheese sandwich from the deli section. Only one quart of vodka.

  Back in the Chrysler, after I ate and drank two beers, I felt okay. Better. I still had the shakes, but I congratulated myself on making it out into the world. I decided to drive to the beach to my Venice P.O. box. I hit the radio. The blues station. 88.1. Otis Redding. ‘I Been Lovin’ You Too Long.’ I cranked the music up to make sure it was louder than my head.

  At the post office, opening my P.O. box, ten days of congested pulp spilled out. There was a big brown envelope. Even before I looked to see who it was from, I knew the sender was the sad Australian woman. Then I saw the handwriting, formal, calligraphic. My returned manuscript. ‘Cynthia Appleton. 8743 Wonderland Avenue, Los Angeles, California 90048.’ Post-marked two days before. Safe to open.

  Most all the other stuff was crap, but two letters worried me. One had a New York law firm as the return address; I assumed it was my ex-wife’s attorney. Another one, an evil-looking, blue-bordered prick, note size, bore one of my mother’s stick-on return address labels. The postmark was a week old. Trouble. I threw everything into a trash bin except Cynthia’s package and mom’s note.

  I was right.

  Mom’s letter was to notify me that my brother, Rick, was dead from an exploded ulcer. Forty-eight years old. The family genius. Jonathan Dante’s first-born pride and joy. Ricardo Frederico Dante. Rick Dante. My big brother. Chess champion at ten, scholarship to art school, one of the designers for NASA of the flexible struts that held the first space stations together. A thinker. A guy deeply into books and Wagner and the histories of weird SS German generals. A confused, sad, isolated, bad-tempered, damaged mooch of a guy. Dead from years of scouring his large intestine with two quarts of whiskey a day. First Pop, then Fat Willie. Now Rick. Dantes were dropping like flys.