86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,66

cutoff Louisville Slugger in the trunk of my taxi or under the front seat—the result of being involved in two uptown holdups. The habit had continued when I went to work for Dav-Ko.)

Wordlessly, I turned and hurried to the passenger door of my car a few feet away. I opened it, then the glove box. Then I pressed the trunk release. The two assholes assumed they’d just scared me off.

With my bat in my hand I walked back to deal with Number Two. I was pretty drunk and I knew it. But I felt no fear. Only rage. These shitbags deserved what they got.

When they saw me coming back at them with my Slugger in my hand, they separated. Now Number One pulled a shank too—a letter opener kind of blade with a taped handle.

“Who’s first,” I yelled. “Which one of you cocksuckers wants a piece of this?”

“I’ll stick you, puta!” Number two screamed. “Get back. I’ll cut your fucking throat out!”

My first swing at Number Two didn’t miss by much. Then I saw Number One circling behind me so I took a cut at him too, missing his head but sending him falling back on his ass to the pavement where my next blow caught the side of his leg.

He scurried to his feet and backed away. They both did. Number One was screaming. “Jou krazee, maricón! The cops comin’! Dey gonna fuk u up!”

I was. I was crazy. And I wanted to hurt them both.

Now they stood ten feet away and every time I made a move toward them one or both of the pricks would bolt in a separate direction.

A couple of minutes passed with me yelling and threatening and lunging at the punks with my bat on the empty street. Then, in the distance, I heard the siren and saw the lights of the black and white.

Seeing the squad car speeding toward us, knowing they were now safe from me, the two cockroaches reverted to their original M.O. They knew the drill: They first tossed their knives down a street drain, then flung themselves back down to the asphalt again, continuing their jiveass scam. I had just enough time to fling my bat into a bush.

I was escorted by a cop to the curb, where I blew a trusty .17 on the blue man’s Breathalyzer and was cuffed right away. My ranting explanation about the faked injuries of the two guys and the bogus accident was ignored. I was now a drunk driver. I was the criminal. The cops had their man. Case closed. I wisely left out the part about the knives and the bat. I wanted no part of risking an assault charge on top of the DUI.

Justice is swift in L.A. for intoxicated motorists. A few minutes later a hauling truck arrived to transport my limo. I watched, squatting on the curb next to the patrol car with my hands cuffed behind my back, as the two rats were put on stretchers by the EMT guys. Number Two, as he was being loaded into the ambulance, made eye contact with me and grinned, then gave me the middle-finger salute. Then they were gone, sirens blaring.

The next morning without sleep, with Jimmy’s voice filibustering in my head and reminding me of every detail of my stupidity, I met with attorney Busnazian. He was accompanied, I was told, by Che-Che. I’d phoned her from booking and given her Busnazian’s number to call for me. But I was in L.A. County max lockdown, so only my attorney was allowed in.

Busnazian and I spoke through the thick plastic partition. But first I had to watch as he removed the jacket of his expensive-looking double-breasted brown suit jacket, then adjusted the diamond cufflinks on his pink shirt sleeves to make certain they were the requisite one inch above the end of his hands.

“This is a difficult situation,” he said finally while opening his briefcase and dumping my paperwork on the counter. “I did my best to explain the implications of your arrest to your friend, Ms. Sorache, as we drove down here this morning. Might I say that she’s a most attractive advocate for your cause.”

“Just tell me when I can get out?”

“Your field sobriety test indicated that your blood alcohol was at least twice the legal limit.”

“Okay, what does that mean? How long do I have to stay here?”

My representative paused to examine the positioning in the knot of his light-blue tie in the reflection from the