86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,37

blood test showed significant liver deterioration and we had to administer anticonvulsives. You’re a heavy drinker, correct?”

“That’s genetic,” I said. “It runs in my family—my father and brother.”

Rilke was whispering. “I’m not talking about genetics, Mr. Dante. Your problem is substance abuse. When you were admitted you had a blood alcohol level of .16 and there was evidence of cocaine and traces of the chemical compounds found in Xanax and Vicodin.”

“Like I said that stuff runs in the family. From time to time I deal with anger and depression. The pills help.”

“There’s a newer compound out called Lexapro that’s been quite successful in treating those symptoms. Patients in recovery have reported excellent results. You should look into it.”

“Thanks anyway. I’ll pass,” I said.

The next day was release day. A new Filipino nurse came in to check my meds and change the dressing. She was tiny and in her early twenties with a pretty dark face and eye makeup. Her long black hair wrapped in a bun. Her badge name tag read “Esperanza.”

Esperanza removed my sheet and blanket from the bed, then pulled off my blue hospital shirt. Then she peeled away my bandages and began a sponge bath starting with my back and chest. When she got to my crotch area and began softly dabbing my cock and scrotum with the warm cloth I knew I’d be okay. Bingo!

sixteen

Dav-Ko’s senior partner apparently wanted to keep tabs on the day-to-day operation of the company so he decided to stay on in Hollywood for another week or two and help run things. He’d unlocked his private suite upstairs and taken up residence. A steady stream of his gay pals invaded the duplex. The smell of hors d’oeuvres and gourmet dinners began flooding the building.

Resting in my room I spent the next two days writing a story about a paralyzed guy in the hospital who has an affair with his cute night-shift nurse but has no sensation whatever in his lower body, and watching old episodes of The Twilight Zone on DVD.

Even before I was up and around Koffman put an ad in the Los Angeles Times for a new day dispatcher. We got lucky and hired sixty-year-old Rosie Camacho the Monday after the ad ran. Rosie was a retired L.A. city bus route manager with twenty-five years on the job. Both of us liked her and it was an easy decision after the first interview. Her experience and her congenial phone manner made it a done deal.

Then it became a twofer package deal because Rosie had a grown son named Benito who had just recently started up his own lube and oil storefront business, close by on Western Avenue.

The day after she began work Rosie came back from a lunch with him and mentioned the nice coincidence of her son’s little company being only ten minutes away. David Koffman met with Benny that afternoon and put him on the payroll as our moonlight mechanic.

These days Dav-Ko was almost constantly busy. I was better now and in the afternoon and evening when Koffman was out making business calls or on the rounds of the West Hollywood clubs, I came downstairs to help dispatch. We never turned down a limo order and frequently our stretches were double-booked and Rosie needed help to call our list of affiliate companies to farm out our overflow.

Then, suddenly, my chickens came home to roost. I was helping Rosie learn how to do future cash bookings in the computer when Koffman returned from a lunch appointment and stomped into the office. He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out our company checkbook, then asked me to step into the chauffeur’s room with him. His face was stone; expressionless. I could tell something was up. Something ungood.

Marty Humphrey was watching a baseball game on the wall TV and waiting to do an airport run—the Dodgers were playing at San Diego. Koffman switched off the game and asked him to leave. The he barked the order: “Bruno, step in here with me. We have business to discuss.”

Once I was inside David closed the door then flipped the lock down for privacy. He dropped his big body heavily into a chair then folded open the check ledger. The shit was about to hit the fan. I could feel it.

“Sit,” he snarled.

I stayed standing. “Sure, what’s this about” I said.

“I had lunch with Portia today.”

My attempt to appear blasé failed badly. In the back of my mind I was aware of the