86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,52
out of this one in Venice, parked at a beach parking lot against the sand behind the wheel of my Pontiac. My pants were around my knees leading me to believe I must’ve been jerking off before I fell out. I was wet from my chest down and on the seat next to me were my soaked shoes…and my arm was stinging like crazy. The bright lights from the car behind me were blasting through my windows. I looked at my watch. It was 4:05 a.m.
Now there was a guy banging on my driver’s window with his flashlight, dressed in blue. I saw the badge too.
“Last time, pal! I said open the door! Out of the car!!”
“Sure sure sure. Hang on,” I said. “I’m doing it. No problem.”
I pulled up the jeans and tucked my cock into my pants, fastening the snap.
“Open the goddamn door!” Blue repeated.
I unlocked the button and was then yanked from the seat. I did the drill: hands on the roof. Blue yanked my pockets out, then took my money.
“No driver’s license? NO ID!”
“I misplaced them…I guess.”
“Turn around,” Blue snarled.
I turned around.
“Now close your eyes, asshole.”
I closed them.
“Now put your arms out, and touch your nose with the tip of your left index finger!”
“I’m right-handed,” I said.
“Shut the fuck up, jerkoff. Do it now!”
I did what he asked but the result was apparently unsuccessful or unsatisfactory.
“You’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated and not having a valid license. Any questions?”
“Can I smoke?”
“You can shut the fuck up! Where’s your car registration?”
“Can I talk?”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“It’s in the glove compartment.”
“Get it.”
I found my paperwork and my cigarettes and lighter, then handed the envelope to Blue. I was about to ask him if I could smoke again when he said, “I told you to shut the fuck up.”
I decided not to ask—not to smoke.
Backup arrived suddenly, screeching into the deserted parking lot. The pinball machine flashing. The works.
“Whatcha got, Tessman?” A much larger Blue snorted.
“DUI, sergeant. And no ID.”
“Didja call for the tow?”
“Not yet.”
“Can I smoke now?” I asked, looking from one blue to the other.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The big sergeant reminded me of someone dead. A guy I’d known in New York when I was a street peddler. Tooty LaPardo. Tooty sold watches outside the Time-Life Building. One Wednesday he said he had a stomach ache. The next Monday he was dead. Forty-eight years old.
After handcuffing me, Blue stuffed me in his police cruiser.
“Can I have my money back?” I asked.
“Shut the fuck up.”
At the Pacific Station I was ordered to take a breath test. I refused. Then I was placed in a holding cell and allowed my one call. Joshua, our night manager, answered on the first ring at Dav-Ko. I told him to call Perry Busnazian, the attorney who had represented Robert Roller, and to tell Busnazian it was a personal matter and not a Dav-Ko business situation. I made sure that Joshua would keep the conversation to himself until we could talk personally.
Sitting in the cell alone it was the first chance I’d had to examine my sore, stinging arm. I rolled up the right sleeve and there it was. A red, swollen tattoo, made worse by the sand and salt water. Three lines of black letters, in all caps, raised above the rest of the skin. Line 1: RICK DANTE. Line 2: DEAD FROM BOOZE, NAZIS. Line 3: STUDEBAKERS & STUPIDITY.
I stared at the thing. Why had I done it? My brother never liked me and I never liked him. But there it was. Shit.
Well well well, you’ve really done it now. So long limo career—hello orange, County Jail jumpsuit. How ’bout this, needledick: Go find that fucking .38, stick it in your mouth, and do world ecology a small favor.
When I was released the next morning after court, Busnazian drove me to the impound in Marina del Rey to pick up my car and pay the $150 towing and parking fee.
Busnazian knew his job. After stopping at the DMV for me to get a temporary license we went on to the impound. As we drove my attorney wanted to know the details of what happened and began a series of questions. Where was I exactly when I was arrested? Was there an open bottle in the car? What did I say to the cops? That stuff.
Back at Dav-Ko I wrote him a $2,000 check. A down payment. There would be more, he said.
After I walked him to his black Benz in