86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,38

possibility that Koffman might try to contact the vengeful bitch but I was hoping I might get lucky and also hoping that if he did talk to her that she wouldn’t spill her guts on every sordid detail. But now, standing in front of David Koffman, I was pretty sure the jig was up—my ass was in flames. “Oh,” I said. “So, how’s she doing?”

Taking a pen from his breast pocket I watched as Koffman printed my name on the top two checks in the ledger. “I’m writing this first one out to you for five thousand dollars,” he sneered. “I feel that’s a more than reasonable value of your 25 percent share in Dav-Ko.”

“Wait a minute. What’s up? Let’s talk this through,” I said.

“No discussion. No more deception. I’ve been an unthinking fool. But no more. I’m dissolving our agreement and our partnership as of today.”

He ripped the first check from the book then kept on writing. “This next one,” he said, “is a week’s severance pay. One thousand dollars.”

“C’mon, what the hell’s going on?”

“Do not screw with me, Bruno. You know precisely what this is about.”

“Do I get a chance to talk? This is still a partnership, right?”

“You’re unstable—an alcoholic and probably a drug addict too. Christ, bullet holes in the walls of your room! That’s plain insanity. On top of that you’ve abused your fiduciary responsibility to this company. There’s no adequate excuse for what you’ve done and no explanation for it is required.”

I sat down. “Look, what did Portia tell you? You owe me that much.”

The tall man folded the checkbook closed then used his ballpoint pen as a scepter, pointing its silver Gucci tip toward my head. “I was told things that, in confidence, I will not repeat here. But essentially, in substance, you’re a train wreck. And I agree with Portia’s view that you should be in therapy or some sort of recovery program. But, after today, that’s your problem. Your choice. I’m washing my hands of the entire matter.”

“The gun thing was an accident, David. I’m not crazy. I made a mistake.”

He handed me the check for a thousand dollars then folded the big one, the one for five grand, into his shirt pocket, then patted it. “You’ll get this one when you sign the release my attorney is drafting. Another ten days at the most.”

“Look,” I said, “my brother died. I had a hard time dealing with it. I fucked up. I started drinking again. That’s the truth. But I’m okay now. I’m back on my feet.”

Big David frowned. “No sale, sir.”

“So I’m out on my ass. What about hearing the flip side?”

“Frankly, for me, there isn’t one.”

“That’s just swell, David. I sober up and try to pull my shit together and then I get blindsided—and you get my quarter share in the company. That’s a lousy deal and I don’t deserve it.”

The tall man glared at me in silence, then snarled, “You have until tomorrow afternoon to pack your things and vacate your room,” he hissed.

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it. I have nothing else to say. The matter’s settled.”

That night I only slept an hour. Being off booze and pills was brutal and Jimmy was at me nonstop.

I was up early the next morning driving the alleys of Hollywood searching for boxes to help me pack up and move. After filling my Pontiac with collapsed cardboard I stopped at Ace Hardware on Sunset and bought a roll of clear tape that had a built-in cutter.

Back in my room I packed my clothes and began to unhook my computer and printer. There on my writing table was a stack of stories, now fifteen in total. Over a hundred and seventy printed pages of work. Good writing. Good stories. No matter what came next down the pike after Dav-Ko, I had these. My life wasn’t a total shit sandwich. These stories were the upside. I was also now an experienced L.A. chauffeur with a major company. I’d be able to get work. The hell with Dav-Ko. I’d start over. I knew the drill.

Then I began doing the hard part—boxing up my books. There were several hundred.

An hour later I had four full boxes on the floor. Novels, poetry, and plays, all sorted and ready to go on a shelf wherever I landed next.

I heard a knock at my door. Figuring it was my ex-boss coming to check on my packing progress, I yelled, “I’m busy. Come back later.”

The door opened and he stood there