86'd: A Novel - By Dan Fante Page 0,67

Plexiglas. “The charge is felony DUI,” he whispered for dramatic effect. “You were involved in an injury accident. In a word, you’re in deep shit, sir.”

“That’s two words. Deep and shit. Look, it was a street scam, for chrissakes. A setup. The punks did it purposely. They caused the collision on purpose.”

Now I was getting a whiff of his cologne over the top of the glass wall. Busnazian shook his bald head and glanced down at the papers in front of him. “Not according to the arrest report. You apparently rear-ended vehicle number two in the number-one lane heading east on Sunset Boulevard. We need to be particularly mindful of the facts in evidence. A: You were intoxicated. They were not. B: You collided with their vehicle from the rear.”

“I don’t care. I want to plead not guilty.”

“Unfortunately, you cannot dispute your guilt at this point.”

“Fuck.”

Busnazian flashed a twisted grin. “Fucked describes your situation with accuracy. Felony DUI carries an automatic and immediate driver’s license revocation. A jail term is also automatic. Your actual sentence will be determined at your hearing. That’s the only area where I can be of help. I’ve discussed a strategy with Ms. Sorache and she has endorsed the scenario that I have in mind.”

“So now you’re buddies with Che-Che? Got yourself a new client, do you, Busnazian?”

“That’s really not relevant to your situation.”

“What else?” I said.

“Well, there can be no release from custody from now until your hearing. No bail is possible.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“It smacks of irony, doesn’t it?”

“And why is that?” I snapped back, really beginning to hate this pompous jerk.

“You recently mentioned to me that you wanted to disassociate yourself form the limo industry. Apparently, unwittingly, you appear to have achieved that end.”

“I don’t think it’s ironic, Busnazian. I think it sucks a big dick.”

Busnazian’s face was expressionless. “As it happens, unfortunately, I am the bearer of additional unpleasant news.”

“Swell. Let’s hear that too.”

“Your employment at Dav-Ko is officially terminated. Your conviction has ipso facto violated the terms of your partnership agreement with Mr. Koffman. In a telephone conversation with him this morning I was clearly charged to convey that message.”

“Thanks, Busnazian. Anything else?”

“We’ve known each other quite a while now. Our attorney-client relationship has expanded over time. You may now call me by my first name. Dalton. I’ve asked Ms. Sorache to do so as well.”

“Jesus! I’ve really gotta get out of Hollywood.”

I had $4,100 in my checking account. That day I signed a power of attorney that Busnazian already had in his silky leather briefcase, so he could withdraw my money against his fee.

thirty

In the end I served fourteen days in jail. The original sentence was six months and then a six month rehab, and I was in County awaiting transfer to Wayside jail when I was released.

It pays to have a good lawyer. But better said, it pays to know someone who can pay for a good lawyer. At my hearing Dalton Busnazian presented additional facts that one of his law clerks had discovered in the public record: The two greedy assholes whom I rear-ended had been involved in three of the same type accidents over the past two years. They were career victims and stupid enough not to change IDs between insurance claims.

On the basis of that information the judge dismissed the felony DUI charge and reduced my crime to simple DUI. I was resentenced to time served and a six-month inpatient rehab to begin within thirty days.

Busnazian picked me up and drove me to Dav-Ko, where I would be permitted, according to David Koffman’s note and Rosie Camacho’s instructions, to stay for “a day or two” until I packed my books and belongings and found another place to live. It was then that Dalton let me know Che-Che had paid my fine and the rest of the legal bills above the money I’d already given him. I’d tried to call her many times from jail without success.

Up in my room at Dav-Ko while going through my mail and bills I found a padded brown shipping envelope with her name and New York City return address on the upper left corner. After tearing the package open by the tab I found a get well card inside in a white envelope. The message was handwritten: “Hang in, Bruno. Good luck. Don’t call me again. Che-Che.”

In another sealed envelope there were thirty hundred-dollar bills. The golden kiss-off.

It took a few dozen phone calls and a little time but I managed to