86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,36

flown to L.A. from New York to help Joshua run the company while I would spend several days at Hollywood Presbyterian.

In bed, in my ward room while he stood there wearing his newest Panama hat, which made him nearly seven feet tall, I gave David my account of the accident—about being in my underpants trying to attach the section of chrome molding back on to the front bumper of Pearl when the tube of Krazy Glue burst open against my shorts.

The lie sounded only semi-convincing and it didn’t account for Portia’s abrupt departure, but the look of pain in my face and my apparent discomfort were real and Koffman was genuinely sympathetic and upset for me. His sombrero came off and he set it down. It covered the lower half of my bed.

When the opening was right I reminded him of something that I’d only realized myself the week before: Our company had just passed its six-month mark in business. I was now a full 25 percent partner.

“Were you drinking when the accident happened?” he asked quietly.

I blew up: “No, for chrissake, it was six a.m. in the morning! I was getting the car ready for an airport run. Remember, we had a deal about my drinking. I really resent that kind of question.”

David apologized. He could see what I was going through. And Portia’s quitting, I added, was an unfortunate coincidence—icing on the cake to a really fucked day. Nothing more.

The meds I was on were starting to make me feel a little giddy and I went on to tell him about my run-in with Frank Tropper a few weeks before, and his dealing drugs, and explained that Portia had been put on probation as a result. This, of course, was a lie, but her resignation the morning of the incident was now beginning to fit in nicely with the stream of bullshit I was concocting. “Bottom line, we’re better off without her,” I said. My new partner had no choice but to nod his head in agreement.

Then two of our drivers, Marty Humphrey and Cal Berwick arrived to pay their respects, both of them dressed in cop shades and black driving gloves. It surprised me when Koffman approved of the new thug look and he even suggested that we might consider advertising our driving staff as chauffeur-bodyguards.

I was on a roll so I blurted out that the idea was absurd, that advertising that nonsense would open the door to legal licenses and hiring restrictions that could make the task of hiring decent drivers even more difficult. The white-haired giant in the plantation owner outfit seated near me nodded his head in agreement.

The next day Dr. Rilke, the guy who did my surgery, came into the room to give me his evaluation. He was freshly tanned from a long weekend. It came to me that this was the first time in three years I’d gone this long without a drink—or a hard-on.

Rilke, who had body odor and seemed perpetually distracted, checked my chart then put it down. He peeled away my bandages, poked me and pressed and squeezed, then offered his assessment of my red and oozing crotch. “You’re progressing well.” The guy needed deodorant—a class he must’ve ditched in med school.

“What else?” I asked, turning my head away to cop a gulp of fresh air.

“Well, you’ll experience epidermal numbness on your penis and testicles. But that’s to be expected as well.”

“Permanent numbness?” I asked.

Rilke was folding my bandages back down and taping them closed. “Doubtful,” he said. “Just give it all time to heal.”

“Hey, good news.”

Now done with taping my body, Dr. B.O. pulled up a chair and sat down. He made some notes on my chart. “There is another factor that comes into play: the psychological component.”

“Which means what? Don’t tell me that I may never get a hard-on again?”

“That’s not my area but anxiety after this type of injury can become a factor. If you’d like I can refer you to someone. We have people on staff here.”

“Not interested. Thanks.”

“Then, if I were you, I’d give myself as much time as necessary. Don’t rush things.” He looked at my chart again. “You’re unmarried, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Avoid sexual contact for a few weeks.”

Portia’s face suddenly popped into my brain and I felt myself wince. “That won’t be a problem,” I said.

The twitchy doctor adjusted his glasses. “There another issue we need to discuss,” he said. “Something I’d think long and hard about if I were you.”

“Okay. What? Tell me.”

“Your