86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,21

my arm. “Bruno! Stop it for God’s sake. You’re yelling. What’s wrong with you?”

“Him!” I said, gesturing at the body in the box, getting to my feet.

“Sit down,” Liz scolded. “Everybody’s looking.”

I sat down.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“I guess you’re right. I guess I must be drunk.”

Then it was over. My brother’s entire life had been neatly dispatched in twenty-five minutes.

We drove the three blocks to the Roseville boneyard and then got out.

The only surprise in the day’s festivities came as our group of mourners walked across an acre of manicured graves and up to the top of a small hill to discover the gleaming Golden Hawk standing alone in the openness on the other side. Old Cecil was passed out behind the wheel while two caretakers were trying to wake him up. Tire tracks and skid marks ran in a circle around the tomb. The right front wheel of his Studebaker had gotten stuck in Rick’s unfilled grave.

ten

After returning to Hollywood it took me a week to get my head right. I was still choked by sadness and the memory of sighting of my dead brother’s twin only days before his death. The Jimmy voice was a nonstop monologue in my head. You’re next, asshole. Keep it up! You’re boozing yourself right into the boneyard like your fucking brother.

But the limo business was picking up and the grind of dealing with the minute-to-minute disruptions and concerns of running a busy dispatch office helped to keep my mind off myself. I’d cut out hard liquor completely after the Roseville funeral. A bottle or two of wine a day and a few vikes seemed to be keeping me mellow and allowed me to get my work done. Portia, on orders from New York, was boss and was watching me like a hawk. I had no interest in another blow up. I needed the job if I was to continue my writing.

Koffman’s publicist’s newest brainstorm of a formal wedding-looking invitation to our California clients had worked like magic. The filigreed announcement featured a color photo of Pearl, our gaudy white flagship limo. The phones were ringing and the company was really taking off. We had movie people and wannabe celebrities coming out of the woodwork, courtesy of Dav-Ko’s publicity and advertising blitz.

Our client roster looked impressive: Famous guys like Mick Jagger, Elton John, Rod Stewart, Ringo Starr, Paul Simon. Lots of the major rock bands too. They all wanted to ride in one of our stretches.

When these guys were in L.A. I drove them all myself on the first run to make sure that the account got off to a good start. But after I’d chauffeured Simon the first time he continued to request me as his driver when his manager phoned in for a car. Paul never talked to me or called me by name when I picked him up and he always raised the glass partition when he was in the car, so my repeated selection as his driver always came as a surprise. It took me a few weeks to realize why: Simon is around five feet tall and I am five foot seven, the shortest driver on the staff.

At the crest of our success wave was my boss. He’d splurged on three more different-colored Town Cars to be “stretched” in Mexico and then shipped north to Hollywood.

Portia and I were barely on speaking terms but her snotty English nitpicky personality and her apparent lust for Frank Tropper were beginning to wear on me. Koffman still loved her. He found her “very capable,” and her personality “fabulous.” And there was no question that she’d covered my mistakes and appeared to be doing a good job. More than once in dealing with an angry corporate client, I’d lost my temper and one of them had threatened to cancel their business relationship with us. Double-bookings and no shows at pickups are among the problems that beset a busy limo company, and Portia had a way of smoothing things over with irate celebrities and bailing us out. Groveling to resurrect an annoyed client was hard for me but schmoozy Portia would do whatever it took to stay on good terms with a customer. They’d find a free bottle of champagne and a rose on the back seat on their next booking. Soon, on orders from Koffman, she began keeping her stuff in an office closet and sleeping over several nights a week on a newly installed pullout couch in the chauffeur’s room.

But then

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