86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,5
so nervous?”
“You’re mistaken, David. You’ve misconstrued my enthusiasm as a sign of tension. I get warm sometimes. Sometimes I sweat. What’s the big deal?”
Koffman took a sip of tea. “May I suggest that we keep our voices down? We appear to be attracting attention.”
“Sure, no problem. Fine with me. Fabulous.”
“Okay, let’s move on. Tell me about the precious metals aspect of the company?”
I sucked in air. I could feel my face reddening and I was beginning to experience the onset of two simultaneous physical sensations: Either (a) I was going to pass out or (b) I was going to shit in my pants. “That’s just more hyperbole, prevarication, and cocksnot,” I snarled. “Like calling the company a consortium. We didn’t sell precious metals. No such thing. We sold coins. You know, uncalculated old silver dollars and Buffalo nickels ’n’ shit. Krugerrands. Stuff like that.”
Setting my résumé on the table Koffman folded his arms. “What’s bothering you, Bruno? Is it a hangover or what? Just tell me what’s going on.”
It became apparent to me that I needed to murder this huge, tea-slurping faggot.
Leaning across the table I was an inch from his face. “Okay look, here’s the deal,” I blurted. “My Pontiac is parked down the street at a meter. Okay. That meter is about to expire. I’ve been here over an hour. Okay. This is Hollywood. Okay. Expired meter parking tickets here are forty-nine fucking dollars. Okay. And I’m about to get one. Okay! And additionally, I think I’m coming down with something. It isn’t a hangover. Possibly it’s the flu.”
Koffman rolled his eyes. “We’re almost done. Can’t you just calm down. I’ll pay the ticket. Your car will be fine. We were discussing your last job.”
“I know what we were discussing, David. I’m not a mongoloid imbecile.”
“Will you be straight with me about something: Have you been drinking this morning? Be completely candid, please.”
“Here’s what I’m saying, okay?” I whisper-yelled. “I’m saying that the owner of that company—the main guy—the prick that ran the coin place—was a Middle Eastern anal-retentive Taliban fuck. I lied, okay? They didn’t reorganize the company. I quit. I quit because I became aware that they were recording all our phone calls. Believe that shit? Recording calls! Every goddamn call!”
Koffman inclined his lanky body away from me, pressing his back against the red Naugahyde. He looked scared. “Soooo, you’re saying that you left that position voluntarily.”
“Yes, I did. I quit. Know w’amsayin’?”
“Okay, fine, but as far as I know there’s really nothing illegal about a company recording calls.”
“Hey, this is the United States of America if I’m not mistaken! Okay. We have laws relating to espionage and wiretapping here. The particular rectumshitbreath jerkoff I’m referring to was a vindictive Persian prick. A pernicious towelhead un-American alien pompous shitsucking dorf. And the sonofabitch beat me out of my final paycheck. Okay! Five hundred and eleven bucks. If that’s not the definition of a card-carrying cocksucker then I don’t know what the hell is?”
“I can see that we’re not on the same page here.”
“The page you’re on is the page I’m on. Ten thousand percent the same page. I promise you.”
“So, is it your car? Or the flu? Or are you upset about your last boss?”
“Okay, look, I’m sorry about the cocksucker remark, David. I apologize. Okay. It was uncalled for and off-the-cuff, completely out of context and inappropriate to our discussion. I’ll just say this: In my book a cocksucker can be male or female, anatomically. Cocksuckers are—let’s say—potentially interchangeable. That doesn’t make ’em right or wrong. I think we can both agree on the definition of the word cocksucker as sort of neutral. Okay. I mean you yourself may or may not suck cock. That’s none of my concern. It’s a private matter between you and your conscience and any other consenting adult whose cock you might be sucking. What I’m saying is that it doesn’t necessarily follow that all homos must ipso facto be cocksuckers. Perhaps most are but who says we should throw the baby out with the bathwater. Right?”
On the table by the menus and the sugar shaker Koffman’s cell phone began to chime to the tune of “Dancing in the Dark.”
“Go ahead,” I said, still battling dizziness, gulping in as much air as possible, pointing at the chrome-colored chiming turd on the table, “answer your phone. I’ll go put some quarters in my meter.”
Big David was staring at me—ignoring his phone. He sighed deeply. Then, extending his thick arms, a benign