86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,28

bench with black fatso, the paparazzi lost interest and drove off.

When we eventually got back to J.C.’s bungalow on Crescent Heights, it was four o’clock. Grandma and Che-Che had eaten lunch at Jimmy’s in Century City while I’d watched Tahuti snore and read two chapters from my book. Then we dropped the beautiful model at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

This time my customer allowed me to open the car door for her and help out by carrying her handbag up the walkway.

At the bungalow entrance the old lady was smiling. “Well, it’s been quite a day,” she said. “Honestly, I’m exhausted.”

“You’re home and everything’s okay,” I said. “I hope you’ll call us again—when you need a ride in an old Pontiac.”

J.C. wasn’t used to giving compliments. She had to look down at Tahuti for inspiration before she could squeeze one out. “You’re a decent man, Bruno. A good man. Marcella and I are both grateful,” she whispered.

“Ten-four, J.C.,” I said.

“And I’d work on my excessive misuse of your native tongue if I were you.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

Then she unlocked her door and set her cat inside. After turning back she opened her purse and handed me four one hundred dollar bills. “Here. This is for you—for your trouble.”

I looked at the money. “That’s a big tip.”

“Ten-four,” she said, grinning. “And as my stunning granddaughter might say, ‘You earned it. Big-time.’”

I began to turn away but I wanted to ask a favor—so I faced her again. I wasn’t sure how to do it. The words refused form in my mouth. “I…I,” I said. “Would you mind…if…very much…”

The blue-gray eyes fixed on me. “Speak up, Dante, for the love of God. I’m eighty-seven. I haven’t got that much time left on the planet.”

“Well, would you mind reading some of my stuff—a few stories?” I blurted. “I know it’s a big favor to ask, but…”

J.C. was beaming. “A man was starving in Capri,” she quoted. “He moved his eyes and looked at me…”

“I know that one too,” I shot back, amazed at myself. “I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, and knew his hunger as my own.”

“Not bad, Mr. Dante. You’ve read Millay. You may send me your work, or bring it. I will read what you’ve written…and give you an honest literary assessment.”

“I’ll drop it by tomorrow. Thanks, J.C.”

No reply. The door slammed and she was gone. Inside to the darkness with her mystic Tahuti. This ancient publisher and poet with a great mind and a short fuse.

twelve

I hate banks. And lines. I get uncomfortable and impatient anywhere there’s a queue and not enough help behind the counter, especially at the bank.

It had been an okay morning so far and on my drive down Sunset Boulevard I’d been thinking about my new customer, J. C. Smart, and our meeting and also about her beautiful granddaughter, Che-Che. The idea came: Maybe I’d try writing some poetry again. It had always been a welcome distraction. For years in New York I’d carried a notebook and a pen around with me and jotted down lines that might later become a poem. Maybe I’d try doing that again.

For some reason most L.A. banks never have enough tellers and no matter how long the line gets, or who’s running the branch, the suits behind the rail, sitting at the desks, apparently never look up or give a rat’s ass how long their customers are logjammed.

Wells Fargo Bank is at Sunset and Vine streets in Hollywood. My habit, on instructions from David Koffman, was to deposit all the checks and cash from the previous weekend’s work on Monday morning. Sometimes, some days, I’d need to go twice after the mail arrived in the afternoon if we were short on payroll. I’d come to hate the process.

This particular Monday I also needed to cash my check to pay back the advance I’d taken from the cash box.

As I entered the moneyshrine there were eleven people in the line in front of me with only three tellers to service them. Then one of the tellers mysteriously—spontaneously—slapped her “Next Teller Please” sign up and went away. Nine-fifteen on Monday fucking morning and the guy awards himself with a break while a line full of people are kept waiting. My brain went crazy.

Jimmy suggested that I tell these flimflam cocksuckers, in the loudest voice possible, about how arrogant this abortion clinic they called a bank was. His voice was so loud that I had to tell him audibly to shut-the-fuck-up. The