86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,50

my pocket, one in each, along with my car keys. Then I pulled on my socks.

On the street in the heat I intended to circle the block until I found my car. But a few minutes later, with no luck, I reached a main drag with a sign: North Van Nuys Boulevard. Fucking Van Nuys Boulevard. The ghetto. Had I spent the night with a Mexican hooker? That figured. My thing had always been Latin women.

My feet were starting to burn badly and swell as they scraped the asphalt. A mother with her two young daughters averted her glance as she passed me crossing the street.

I kept moving, my brain aching and slamming itself inside my skull. I couldn’t stop. I had to locate my car and I had to have alcohol. A drink. Immediately. The voice of Jimmy, my hangman, scorched my brain. Well done, fucko! Lost in the goddamn Valley! No shoes. No money. Just swell. You’ve outdone yourself once again. You’re a gutless juicer and a loser just like your fucking brother. You deserve this. Hey cheesedick, with a little luck you just might get yourself arrested for vagrancy—or drunk in public.

There was only one way I’d ever been able to shut Jimmy up: drown him in bourbon.

Finally, my fists sweating and still clenched around the teeth in each pocket, I reached a section of shop fronts: A ninety-nine-cent store. A 7-Eleven. Instant payday loans. A porno arcade. A pawnbroker. In the window above a display of beat-up used watches, the pawnshop clock read ten twenty a.m.

I stopped. I felt myself starting to pass out.

Leaning against a wall I sucked in air. It took thirty seconds for the dizziness to pass, then I was okay. I could walk.

Maybe the 7-Eleven? I decided to turn back. I had no money but maybe I could steal two talls or a forty-ouncer while the guy’s back was turned. For once Jimmy screamed some good advice: Hey nutcase, are you completely crazy? You’ve got a torn shirt and no shoes!…Keep moving, for chrissakes.

So I kept going.

Then, on the corner, I saw it. A bar! It was open—a square neon sign in the window flashing.

I pushed the door open and went in.

Two working guys sat at the rail drinking bottled beer. The jukebox played mariachi music.

Then it happened. I was inches away from the stools. The bartender had seen me and was moving toward me when I felt the spasmodic rush of hot liquid hit the inside of my pants. I’d crapped myself! Without underwear I felt the heat of the mess running down my leg.

As I reached the stools I tossed my car keys up on the bar, trying to appear self-confident.

The bartender’s expression changed. He knew. The stench had been immediate and overwhelming.

“What’s up?” he snarled.

“Look,” I said, “I’ve got an idea. Hear me out, okay? Do you want to make some money?”

“I ka smel jour idea from ober here! Take a walk, cabrón! Now. No chit. I mean it. You wann troubl in disa plaze, you got troubl!”

I raised my hands in the air like a guy under arrest. “No kidding!” I blurted. “Do you want to make a hundred bucks? For real.”

“For wha, chitman?”

“For a pop. One drink! A hundred dollars for one drink. Straight business.”

“Lemme guez, okae. Jour problem is jou ain’t got the hundred on you. Am I rie?”

I nodded.

“Mira, stupido, jou got ten seconds to get jour stinky culo outa here and go bak on da stree. Ten seconds, comprende? Nine…eight…”

“Two hundred! No joke!” I was panting now. Gulping air. “I’ll pay you two hundred bucks for one drink…and a phone call! I run a business. I’ll have someone bring the money. It’ll be here half an hour after I make the call. C’mon, cut me a break.”

“Thaz it, chitpants! Timz up!”

The guy scooped my car keys off the bar and held them toward me. “I tole jou, take a fukking walk!” he hissed. “I ain no kiddin’!”

Then something happened. With my key ring in his outstretched arm, the bartender’s expression changed. He was looking at what he held in his hand. “Whaz about thez?” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Deez one, my man!” he snarled, pinching the coin on the ring between his fingers.

It was a fifty-cent piece. A silver half dollar. The coin and chain had been a gift from my ex-girlfriend Cynthia years before, when I bought the Pontiac.

I felt my body breathe again. “What about it?” I asked. “You want it?”

“I collek. I