by Fante, Dan
I waited until neither of them was near the yellow convertible. Then, leaning in and across so I wouldn’t trip the car alarm, I poured half of the oil on the seats and floor carpet. After that, ducking down, I circled the Porsche, my punch in my left hand, and jammed it into the side of each tire. I could have done more. A lot more. I could have slashed the seats and done electrical damage but I figured that a nice cleanup job and a tow-truck call for a couple of thousand dollars’ worth of tires made us even.
WHEN I ENTERED the restaurant I noticed that my hands were shaking again. A pretty Asian hostess in heels approached me. She saw that I was carrying a quart can of oil wrapped in paper towels, then noticed my expression, and gave me a startled look. “No problem,” I said. “I’m not here to eat. I’m just talking to a customer.”
She stepped back, nodded, rolled her eyes, then turned to the couple in beach clothes who had come in behind me. “How many for lunch?” she chirped.
It took me a few seconds out in the main dining area to locate the Porsche motorist. His black hoodie was easy to pick out and he was sitting with two other people at a table. Both women.
Approaching the jerk, who was still wearing his heavy-framed sunglasses and cap, I noticed he and the women with him were eating salad. One of them had tattoos on both her arms and two or three lip piercings. Retro punk.
I waited until they stopped talking and looked up, thinking that maybe I was their waiter or something.
Without speaking, I first poured some of the oil on his salad, then trailed the dripping goo across the white tablecloth to his pants and sweatshirt. Then I pressed my oily hands against the guy’s chest, rubbing the oil in.
To my surprise I discovered that there were breasts behind the baggy sweatshirt. Good-sized breasts.
She—now I knew it was a she—lurched backward in her chair. A nice blob of the oil was running down the front of her and soaking into the seat cushion of her chair. “That’s for you, jerkoff,” I said. “I never forget someone who tries to kill me on the highway. And I always get even.”
Her face reddened but she didn’t speak.
She opened the zipper on the sweatshirt and peeled it away. Beneath her hoodie was a tight-fitting, white T over round, large, braless breasts.
When I finally noticed her hands, I saw that there were rings on at least three of the fingers. She had big hands for a woman.
“Go ahead, get up,” I said. “I’ll nail you right here! You think a yellow Porsche and bad attitude gives you the right to get crazy with people on the highway? Go ahead—get up, you psycho bitch!”
She didn’t stand up. Instead, she adjusted her sunglasses. She didn’t look scared either. “You grabbed me, motherfucker! That’s a serious mistake.”
As her friends watched, I poured the rest of the oil from the can into my hands, knocked her cap off, then smeared it on her hair and face. She tried to duck but I was moving too fast. Finally, she lurched back in her chair and it tipped over.
Now she was on her feet. When she spoke again, it was in an even tone. “You’re a dead man, bitch. That’s a promise.”
“Screw you, lady! You messed with the wrong guy today,” I yelled. “Now the score’s even!”
Heads were turning toward us from the tables nearby.
As I started to leave, two busboys and a beefy-looking guy in a cook’s apron were blocking my path toward the exit. The beefy guy was holding a heavy metal soup ladle—ready for trouble.
“Back off,” I snarled. “I’m leaving. If you don’t want to get hurt, just back off!”
They backed off.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, when I got back to Mom’s house, I was okay again. Grateful I hadn’t really hurt anyone.
Mom and Coco were outside on the patio in the sun and didn’t hear me come in. Without saying hello I went to the bathroom and took a shower. After the shower, standing naked at the refrigerator, I downed a quart of milk. Then, wrapped in one of Jimmy Fiorella’s old bathrobes, I went to my bedroom and called my sponsor, Southbay Bill, on my cell as I’d promised. I’d already decided not to share any of the details about what happened at the restaurant.
Bill was at work at his store. He owns a copy and printing business in Hollywood and when he talks about owning his own joint he always calls it “a gift of my sobriety.”
“Hey, Bill,” I said, “it’s JD. Can you talk?”
“Yeah, of course we can talk. But I gotta go if a customer comes in. I’m working the counter. It’s Friday and the girl’s on a coffee break.”
“So . . . guess what? I got the job.”
“Hey, congrats, JD. Nice work. God is good. Small miracle. I was praying for you. When do you start?”
“Tomorrow morning. I feel okay about it too. I really need the job.”
Then I added, “Look, Bill, I wanted to say thanks for your help. You were the one who suggested that I ask Woody about an opening at the dealership.”
Bill chuckled. “First things first, my man. God’s will and not my will. We take the action and leave the results up to the Big Shooter.”
“Well,” I said, “anyway, thanks again.”
But Bill wasn’t done. He had more spiritual input. “Speaking of miracles, I’ll share one with you. Want to hear how a Higher Power works in another recovering alcoholic’s life?”
“Sure. Okay,” I said, knowing that I was in for another of Bill’s spiritual AA harangues.
“My friend Stan. You know Stan. We always sit together at the Wednesday night meeting.”
“Sure . . . Stan. He’s got twenty-something years, like you. The bald guy.”
“Well, Stan has a bad back. He’s had laser surgery and he wears that metal brace ’n all. He’s had a rough time for the last few years with that back. Naturally, because he’s sober, he refuses to take any pain meds.”
“Hey, that’s a drag,” I said. “I didn’t know about Stan’s back, Bill.” And I didn’t give a rat’s dick if Stan had a bad back or not. I don’t like Stan. In my book Stan is a shithole, a long-time-sober condescending prick. Stan makes it a habit of calling me “sonny boy” at meetings and makes every effort to infect me with the feeling that I don’t know my ass from third base about sobriety and recovery.
“Well,” said Bill, “here’s the miracle: Stan is watching the evangelist guy, Joel Osteen, on the TV. He watches him every week. You listening here?”
“Front and center,” I said. But now I was also wondering to myself why in the hell I had to hear about Stan’s demented Jesus miracle.
“So Stan’s watching this preacher, like he does every week. And the guy is talking about the healing power of God. How many have been cured by their faith in a loving God and all. So Stan gets this idea—an inspiration. His idea is to put his hands on the TV screen while the preacher is talking.”
“Really?” I said. “No kidding. Stan actually put his hands on the TV screen?”
“Are you listening, JD?”
“Right. I’m listening.”
“From that second on, Stan has had no more back pain. That’s a miracle of faith! A product of the Twelve Steps of recovery.”
“Well, wow, no kidding, I don’t know what to say here.”
“The point is, my newcomer friend with twelve months and two weeks of abstinence from booze, that through the steps of Alcoholics Anonymous and faith in a God of your own understanding, miracles are achieved. A great change is possible if you apply yourself to this work and make a commitment to grow into a new man. That’s the reason I said what I just said.”
“Well, I’ll make it a point to catch that preacher’s act on TV. I need better clothes and a new apartment.”
Southbay Bill didn’t reply. He had hung up.
AFTER I FINISHED my call with Bill, Mom and Coco entered my room, each holding a cat. Mom asked about my job interview. I told her that I got th
e gig. A faint smile crossed her lips until she saw my coffee-stained clothes, then she made a face. “What happened there?” she asked, pointing at my ruined shirt and pants lying on the bed.
“My coffee spilled in the car,” I said. “A stupid accident.”
“Mercury retrograde,” she hissed. “I warned you, didn’t I? At least twice.”
Then Mom shook her head and she and Coco left the room. In a couple of minutes she was back, carrying her purse. She handed me her ATM card. “You can’t start a new job and not look respectable,” she said. “Go back to Santa Monica and buy some decent clothes. And bring me the receipt.”
As she was turning to leave the room, she stopped. “Need I remind you that you now owe me over three thousand dollars in personal loans? I’ve written it all down, not including the outlay for that preposterous so-called treatment program. Another five thousand dollars down the waste pipe, as far as I’m concerned. As you know, James, I keep accurate accounts. Every penny. And now that you have a new job, I fully expect you’ll be finding your own place again and making a beginning at a repayment plan.”
“I’m doing my best here, Ma. I’m trying to turn things around.”
“Really? Apparently you’ve forgotten that you lost a successful business and disgraced yourself and our family name. You call that doing your best?”
ON MY WAY back to Santa Monica to buy new clothes, on the Coast Highway, I had to stop for a red light at Cross Creek Road. It had been an hour and a half since my visit to Guido’s Restaurant.
Looking over at the parking lot, thirty yards away, I caught sight of a white tow truck. Hooked to the back of the truck was a yellow Porsche convertible. The truck driver was writing something up on his clipboard while a woman still dressed in sunglasses and a black hoodie and jeans stood with her hands on her hips, looking on.
A moment later she turned her head and her attention wandered in the direction of the highway. Her eyes came to rest on Mom’s tomato-colored Honda, then on me. There was no mistaking her expression.
FIVE
He loved the California coastline. Over the years he had made the spectacular drive from San Diego to San Francisco no less than a dozen times in his elegant Millennium motor home. Until last week those drives had always been recreational and rejuvenating. Then suddenly, one of the young female charges who worked on his estate had gone missing and, on a tip from her jilted boyfriend, he had driven to Ensenada to find the girl and reassert his authority. Sadly, when the child had resisted and refused to return with him, he had had no choice but to kill her.
It was early afternoon on day three of his Highway 1 tour when he reached Santa Barbara. The girl’s body had been washed and dissected and was now stored in plastic bags in the cargo area of the motor home. The day’s outside temperature was a perfect seventy-two degrees and above him the sky was blue and faultless. After a less than enjoyable luncheon with a former female TV star at the Four Seasons, he refueled the motor home, returned several phone calls, then continued his drive north to enjoy the exquisite coastline.
The sun was beginning to set as he approached the Buellton–Solvang exit on Highway 1. From behind his vehicle a California Highway Patrol trooper’s flashing lights caused him to pull over. The tall woman who got out of the cruiser and approached his motor home wore mirrored sunglasses beneath her wide-brimmed hat. He noted that her tan uniform appeared tailored and fit her well.
As she rounded the front of his vehicle, he pressed his dash button, heard the hiss, and watched as the automatic door popped open.
He stood at the top of his carpeted steps as they began to speak. From six feet away he was able to read the lettering on her gold nametag. It spelled out the name, Trooper Spivak.
After handing the officer his driver’s license, vehicle registration, and insurance card, he was informed that he had failed to use his turn signal when exiting the highway and that she would be issuing him a summons for that offense.
He felt himself becoming annoyed and decided to speak bluntly to the woman. This was patent nonsense, he said. There had been almost no highway traffic behind him for several car lengths. Why then would he need to use his directional signal?
Trooper Spivak’s posture stiffened behind her sunglasses but she said nothing.
Then, as she was looking over his vehicle documents, she paused. “I smell something strange coming from inside your motor home, sir. Something smells funny,” she said.
Spontaneous killing had never been his métier. In fact he’d always considered it unrewarding and risky. Yet, quite suddenly, his options were limited.
Trooper Spivak set his license and registration documents on the carpeted steps of the motor home and began boarding. “I am ordering you to stay where you are, sir,” she said. Then she unholstered her service weapon.
His reaction was spontaneous but a bit sloppy. As she moved up the steps he kicked the woman in the stomach. She fell backward and her gun went off. The bullet entered her leg below the knee.
Ten minutes later, after gagging Trooper Spivak and restraining her on one of his motor home’s two facing leather recliners, he used her uniform’s thick belt around the injured leg to stop the blood flow. Following that he made his way to her vehicle, shut the motor off, then removed the car keys and a dash-mounted shotgun. In the cruiser’s trunk was the woman’s purse and a long-barreled stainless steel flashlight. He took these as well.
Heading north on Route 1, an hour passed before he reached the Bescara Resort Inn. It was dark now. He rounded the building’s registration entrance and then pulled his motor home into the rear parking area. It was a weeknight and the lot was nearly empty.
Trooper Spivak was conscious and struggling though her leg wound continued to ooze. The bullet had entered and exited through her calf but was not serious. He used a sedative injection to calm her, then retightened the belt on her leg.
After registering in the lobby and getting his room key he returned to the motor home. Spivak was still alert but more docile.
Putting on his plastic gloves he cut away her clothing with a pair of thick shears and replaced the tourniquet on her leg. The last items he clipped from her body were her boots, police bra, and pair of white Kmart panties. The panties had small pink roses rimming the waistband.
He decided against removing the officer’s mirrored sunglasses. To him the glasses symbolized the irony and absurdity of the situation she had put them both in.
After laying out his surgical tray he covered the motor home’s carpeting and the facing of the recliner with plastic sheeting and cleaned up the bloodstains as best he could. He then selected an appropriate musical accompaniment: Mel Tormé’s Greatest Hits.
Leaning close to the woman, jostling her to make sure that she was conscious, he untied each arm separately and, with deft motions, broke them both at the shoulder joint.
After resecuring her he picked up a scalpel and reclined her chair. The facts were these: This police person had jeopardized his freedom and was, he felt, annoying and inappropriately aggressive. The decision was simple; her death would be a slow and painful one.
He elected that his initial cut would be fairly wide, a six-inch opening just beneath her rib cage. While she looked on he would remove her intestines and place the coiled mass on her naked chest.
He was about to make the first cut when he saw that his hand was trembling. He realized that he had allowed himself to become genuinely upset. The incident had thrown him off center.
Setting his scalpel down he leaned back and took several deep breaths. He needed to reassess his relationship to this person. He chided himself. He should, at the very least, at a minimum, be objective.
A minute passed and then he leaned closer to Trooper Spivak’s face, gently removing her mirrored sunglasses. He began stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. Spivak, whose eyes had been clamped closed, reacted to his touch by tu
rning her head away.
Now he made a study of the woman before him. He observed that without the glasses, she was not displeasing. She was a big woman, certainly, wide-hipped, with acne scars on her face and jawline, but not unattractive—except for her nose.
He unfastened the clips that held her hair tightly in place against her head. In doing this the thickness of it fell to her shoulders.
Wanting to know more about her, he reached down and picked up her purse from the floor. From it he removed her lipstick, a makeup compact, her wallet, a postcard, a pack of Marlboro Lights, and a blue plastic lighter. He spread these across her naked chest and stomach and then dropped the purse back onto the carpet.
Trooper Spivak opened her eyes briefly, then clamped them closed again.
The postcard was the first thing he examined. It had a photo of the Atlantic City Boardwalk on the front. Turning the card over, he saw that it was signed by a person named Simone. According to what Simone had written, she and Willy were having a great time.
Setting the card down he opened Trooper Spivak’s gold-toned lipstick. He tasted it by drawing an X on his tongue. After deciding that the flavor pleased him, he dropped the lipstick into his shirt pocket.
He then opened her compact. It was plastic and white. He smelled the powder, then closed the lid. He put the compact back on Trooper Spivak’s chest, covering her right nipple.
Her California driver’s license gave her full name. Marta Denise Spivak. Her birthday was August 4. She was six feet two inches tall. She weighed one hundred and sixty-three pounds.
There was an assortment of photographs in her wallet’s plastic inserts, perhaps twenty in all. Most of them were of the same two women, both apparently Trooper Spivak’s sisters—they all shared the same flat nose. There was a picture of a bulldog as well. The animal was huge, with a brown spot over one eye. Toward the back of the photos there were several of children: a boy of about seven and two preteen sisters who had brown hair. Absent, he noted, were any pictures of a man—a husband or boyfriend.
