86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,53

the driveway he eyed me up and down. “DUI is serious business,” he said. “The new laws have sharper teeth. I’ll have to see what I can do.”

“Will you keep this confidential? I don’t want my partner to know my business.”

“You’re my client in this matter. No one will hear anything from me.”

“Will they pull my license?”

“You refused the breath test, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Not good, Bruno. Not smart. I tell everyone the same thing. Always cooperate fully. If you’re convicted, refusing the breath test is an automatic one-year license suspension in this state.”

“Swell. I didn’t know.”

“You seem to be a guy with a chip on your shoulder. Did you resist the police at any time?”

“No. Just the breath test thing.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“I’m upset, for chrissake. I just got out of jail.”

“Have you been to AA?”

“Goddamn right. I go to AA.”

“How often?”

“Periodically. Once in a while.”

“I can pretty much guarantee that will change if we manage to retain your driving privilege,” he said.

“What are my chances here? I just want to know?”

“California is a rough state.”

“Will I lose the license?”

“You’re a chauffeur. With first offenders there are generally imposed driving restrictions. But the breath test issue is a significant hurdle. And in California DUI convictions stay on your record for ten years.”

“Fuck.”

“Look, I have a couple of ideas. Just don’t piss on our shoes again, if you get my meaning.”

“I’m a chauffeur. You’re telling me I might not have a goddamn job?”

“Let me look into it. I’ll just say this: It pays to have friends in tall glass buildings.”

“No shit,” I said. “And it pays pretty goddamn well too. Two thousand bucks worth.”

“You just shot your horse, sir. You’ve been charged with drunk driving. Now let’s see what I can do to remove the bullet. For the time being just calm down and get some rest. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Take it easy,” Busnazian said, patting me on the back. “This is what I do. One of my partners specializes in DUI and drug cases. I’ll earn my fee. You have my word on that.”

Then my attorney glanced down at the fresh, swollen tattoo on my forearm. “What’s that?” he asked.

“A mistake. Another fuckup.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Thanks for the advice. And thanks for cheering me up. Have a swell day, Mr. Buznasian.”

Then I walked into the office to find out from Rosie just how deep the shit around me was piled. But I was pretty sure I would be okay. Unlike crazy Portia, Rosie and Joshua regarded me as their boss. They knew that as far as I was concerned they were replicable and they were aware of my reputation for having a short fuse.

twenty-four

The following week, Wednesday, mostly sober for four days except for a few pills and some wine coolers here and there, I got a long-distance call on my cell from Che-Che Sorache in Manhattan. Against her protests La Natura cosmetics was dispatching her to do a statewide personal appearance tour of New York department stores. The whole deal would be filmed and turned into part of a national TV campaign. But Che-Che hated flying and she hated trains. Her idea was for me to catch a plane back east and drive her from store to store throughout the tour. She said the gig would take no more than a week.

The idea appealed to me. I liked the tall model and getting out of L.A. for a few days to be back on the East Coast sounded more like a vacation than a job.

I telephoned Koffman and he approved the assignment. I’d drive one of his limos while I was there. A new light-blue Benz that had just been stretched forty-eight inches in Mexico and shipped north. My partner had visions of some kind of advertising coup for the company if our limo made it into a TV ad.

Dapper Joshua, night manager/bookkeeper, who’d lately appeared twice a week in a new sports coat and a made-to-measure dress shirts, would move in and run Dav-Ko Hollywood until I got back. I’d stay at David Koffman’s condo on Riverside Drive when I wasn’t chauffeuring Che-Che around to do her gigs.

I left the next morning.

In the baggage claim area at American Airlines at JFK I was greeted by Dennis, Che-Che’s blond, six-foot-two-inch boy toy. The guy looked like he’d just left a modeling shoot for Calvin Klein sportswear. My client had sent him to greet me and escort me back into town.

In the limo on