86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,13
smokers. She loves gay men.”
“Does being around someone who likes gay men represent a problem for you?”
“Let’s just say that I don’t expect us to ever exchange Valentine’s cards. Her only plus I can see is her knowledge of computers. Did you at least check her references?”
“I did not.”
“Then I rest my case.”
“I found her utterly charming,” he sniffed. “She’ll bring class to our company. And I see no reason why how she looks or her physical problems should disqualify her.”
“Fine. Set that aside. How about that she’s a pretentious, condescending asshole?”
“Now there’s a solid professional assessment?”
“Just let me talk to her last employer—do some phone calling and some checking.”
“Should I call your last employer?”
“Why would you?”
“The point is, I took a chance on you?”
“That’s one hundred percent pigsnot. You and I worked together in New York. I proved myself. You know all about me.”
“Correct. And I hired you again anyway.”
“I think you’ll be sorry.”
“It’s my decision. I’ll live with it.”
“You’re the boss.”
“How kind of you to concede that point.”
Big Koffman began leafing through one of the two thick men’s magazines that had arrived that morning and I went upstairs to shoot myself in the head.
six
As it turned out I was more than half wrong about Portia. That Friday afternoon a full staff meeting was called at Dav-Ko. The guys began showing up in their blue suits, white shirts, and Greek seaman’s caps, ready for action. David wanted his drivers to meet their new night dispatcher, and as they filed passed the office on their way to the chauffeur’s room, I watched Ms. Darforth-Keats checking out the talent.
We had a four-car job scheduled for six o’clock: A world premiere movie in Westwood.
As the meeting began Koffman and Portia positioned themselves in the front of the room, him wearing his best Tom Wolfe milkman getup, nervous about making a good impression that night with our newest account, the Beverly Hills GMA Agency. Koffman felt it necessary to reemphasize the fine points of opening and closing the rear door of a limo and greeting our clients and other stuff that they knew already, and there was Portia smiling, chomping her nicotine gum, eager to be every chauffeur’s best pal. Watching her expression as the guys asked questions I quickly deduced that puking three times a day was most likely her second priority. Her lifelong best friends may have been gay, but she clearly had an affinity for California boys, as did her boss.
But Portia could be charming too. When David explained how he wanted the guys to each report in on the hour via cell phone she made a joke in her best snooty London accent about being there to serve their every need, rain or shine. “Think of me as your ’umble servant,” she crooned. The boys ate the shit up.
I felt better. She’d somehow left her arrogance at the door.
That night, clicking on my computer to write my page for the day, my mind gave me a reprieve, another needed perspective. Screw it, I thought. I’ll make it work. In truth, on balance, Portia or no Portia, everything was going okay for me. I had a good job with paid medical insurance for the first time in years, a big upstairs bedroom with a newly swish-decorated john. I had a writing desk for my laptop and enough after-hours time to work on my new book of stories. For once I didn’t have to worry about scuffling around for enough money to pay the rent. All I had to do was to show up and control my mind and my tongue. I even promised myself to cut back on the booze and try a few more AA meetings.
But it happened anyway. I woke up in bed from a blackout, still drunk, in a pool of blood with my neck slashed.
Koffman and Francisco were out for the night at the ballet and Portia was downstairs chomping on nicotine gum, manning the phones for her third full shift. I’d penciled in all the morning pickups for the drivers and set up the work schedule for the next day on the computer before going up to my room to work on my writing.
Ten minutes into it there was a sudden Hollywood power failure. My screen went blank. A minute or so later when the electricity was restored, I restarted the machine but everything was gone, all my writing, months of work.
I started the machine again. Nothing. I tried everything I knew. Anything I knew.