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  I arrived at the restaurant early and headed for the men’s room. Once inside with the door locked, I set the manila envelope containing my fictitious job résumé down under the paper towel rack then finished off one of two half-pint bracers I’d picked up on the way, tossing the empty into the trash.

  Then I took a minute to focus in on the face in the mirror. I looked okay. Eyes clear. Good close shave. I’d been sweating through my shirt as usual and my tie had a stain—snot or food or something—but it wasn’t that noticeable. I smoothed my hair down with my fingers and that was that.

  To quiz myself on my bogus work history I unclamped the envelope and took a last look at my résumé. If Koffman required a document that showed management in addition to straight chauffeuring, no problem, I was ready. I had one.

  It was ten-thirty and after the breakfast rush, so the Formosa wasn’t busy and I was able to find a booth with a window.

  The owner of Dav-Ko Hollywood made his appearance as I was finishing my second cup of coffee. I watched as his hired-by-the-hour chauffeured blue stretch Lincoln pulled up in front of the restaurant blocking the Santa Monica Boulevard crosswalk. Before entering, David Koffman, all six foot seven inches and three hundred pounds of him, now with shoulder-length gray hair, stood outside the restaurant’s glass door, a spring fashion statement in his Tom Wolfe, open-collared, white-on-white linen suit. Posing there, half man, half tent, he chatted amiably with his driver long enough to make sure everyone inside the place had a good opportunity to check him out.

  He shook my hand, flashed me his million-peso grin, then flopped his long body into the booth. He looked older. The night life and years with the booze had taken their toll.

  “Is that for me?” he asked, pointing at the brown envelope on the table.

  I nodded and pushed it toward him. I couldn’t help but notice that this guy and his Buffalo Bill act were ideally suited to a city composed mainly of status junkies and now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t flimflam sincerity.

  After ordering eggs and green tea and taking a quick cell phone call, Koffman gave my résumé a ten-second once over then looked up. “Soooo…you drove a yellow cab here in Los Angeles for over a year?”

  “Yeah. Correct,” I said. “Long hours. Lousy pay.” Then I went on. “There’s a limo job there too—underneath the taxi job.”

  “Right, okay, here it is. A private-party chauffeur position. Part-time. You drove for an ex-CEO?”

  This of course was a lie. From here down everything I had written on the résumé was an exaggeration or outright bullshit. For me it had always been easier to make stuff up than to remember the sequence of an unimportant and ridiculous job or its dates in history.

  “A retired guy,” I said. “He traveled with a large, stinky, fifteen-year-old Irish setter. The dog had a bladder problem and the old guy never bathed him. He died—I mean the guy died—probably the dog too. Anyway, I’m not a big Irish setter fan.”

  Koffman seemed amused. “The important thing is that you know the L.A. streets.”

  “Hey, I know the streets. No problem.”

  “Okay, okay—here we go; you managed a staff of three to five at Kassim’s Worldwide Precious Metals and Rare Coin Consortium in…in Manhattan Beach.”

  “Right. Correct.”

  “Long name. What sort of consortium?”

  “It wasn’t a consortium at all. This is L.A. I guess the guy just needed a flash title for his telemarketing boiler room.”

  “Reason for leaving?”

  “Reorganization, I guess you’d call it.”

  “Reorganization? Ha-ha. You mean the place went tits up?”

  Suddenly I had an overwhelming need for a drink. For the last thirty seconds I’d been controlling the onset of leg tremors by tightly crossing the fuckers at my ankles. Even now the heebie-jeebies appeared to be traveling their way up my body to my upper torso. Maybe I was about to get a sudden spell of the flyaways because my left hand had just begun to shake—my coffee cup hand. I slid it under the table then pinned the prick beneath my thigh. “Right,” I said. “Bad management.”

  “I see,” said Koffman, whose hands never seemed to shake at all.

  Now I was dizzy. My throat was dry and I needed air. My heart began slamming itself against the inside of my rib cage. The guy in the polar bear uniform leaned closer. “Are you okay?” he whispered. “You’re trembling.”

  My mouth formed words but the lips refused the marching orders. I had to settle for wagging my head up and down. My full attention was fixed on the glove compartment of my Pontiac—parked at a meter fifty feet away—where I’d left my backup half-pint of vodka. I was now acutely aware that I’d be unable to endure another four seconds of this moron interview. I needed an excuse—any excuse—to get up and leave the booth.

  “Bruno, what’s up? What’s going on? Are you…hungover?”

  Unlike me David Koffman was an excessive episodic drinker and not a day-to-day juicer. There was no way he could not get what was going on with me. I thrust a trembling thumb down on top of the résumé and was finally able to blurt some words. “Bottom line,” I said, “that company was a total Chinese fire drill. If you want to know, the guy…the owner, was a foreigner. He spoke about five words in American. He wouldn’t know a cold call from the goddamn La Brea Tar Pits.”

  “I see. I understand.”

  “Swell. Can we move on?”

  “Okay, but just below that in your job description you write that you ran a staff of three to five people? I’m confused. Was it three or was it five, or what?”

  Sweat was now soaking my hair, forehead, and armpits. For some reason—beyond my control—my voice was getting steadily louder. I pointed back down at the page. “Confused! I was a supervisor,” I barked. “I managed trainees. Some weeks there were three and some weeks there were more than three—sometimes five. Sometimes more. Sometimes two. Sometimes one. Sometimes seven. Okay? Jesus Christ!”

  “Okay, fabulous. And you did this supervisor job for how long?”

  “It’s there in front of you typed out in bold New Courier twelve-point font!”

  “Right, I see it. Two years. And what products did you sell?”

  “Rare coins! Valuable! Rare! Coins!”

  “Why are you so nervous?”

  “You’re mistaken, David. You’ve misconstrued my enthusiasm as a sign of tension. I get warm sometimes. Sometimes I sweat. What’s the big deal?”

  Koffman took a sip of tea. “May I suggest that we keep our voices down? We appear to be attracting attention.”

  “Sure, no problem. Fine with me. Fabulous.”

  “Okay, let’s move on. Tell me about the precious metals aspect of the company?”

  I sucked in air. I could feel my face reddening and I was beginning to experience the onset of two simultaneous physical sensations: Either (a) I was going to pass out or (b) I was going to shit in my pants. “That’s just more hyperbole, prevarication, and cocksnot,” I snarled. “Like calling the company a consortium. We didn’t sell precious metals. No such thing. We sold coins. You know, uncalculated old silver dollars and Buffalo nickels ’n’ shit. Krugerrands. Stuff like that.”

  Setting my résumé on the table Koffman folded his arms. “What’s bothering you, Bruno? Is it a hangover or what? Just tell me what’s going on.”

  It became apparent to me that I needed to murder this huge, tea-slurping faggot.

  Leaning across the table I was an inch from his face. “Okay look, here’s the deal,” I blurted. “My Pontiac is parked down the street at a meter. Okay. That meter is about to expire. I’ve been here over an hour. Okay. This is Hollywood. Okay. Expired meter parking tickets here are forty-nine fucking dollars. Okay. And I’m about to get one. Okay! And additionally, I think I’m coming down with something. It isn’t a hangover. Possibly it’s the flu.”

  Koffman rolled his eyes. “We’re almost done. Can’t you just calm down. I’ll pay the ticket. Your car will be fine. We were discussing y
our last job.”

  “I know what we were discussing, David. I’m not a mongoloid imbecile.”

  “Will you be straight with me about something: Have you been drinking this morning? Be completely candid, please.”

  “Here’s what I’m saying, okay?” I whisper-yelled. “I’m saying that the owner of that company—the main guy—the prick that ran the coin place—was a Middle Eastern anal-retentive Taliban fuck. I lied, okay? They didn’t reorganize the company. I quit. I quit because I became aware that they were recording all our phone calls. Believe that shit? Recording calls! Every goddamn call!”

  Koffman inclined his lanky body away from me, pressing his back against the red Naugahyde. He looked scared. “Soooo, you’re saying that you left that position voluntarily.”

  “Yes, I did. I quit. Know w’amsayin’?”

  “Okay, fine, but as far as I know there’s really nothing illegal about a company recording calls.”

  “Hey, this is the United States of America if I’m not mistaken! Okay. We have laws relating to espionage and wiretapping here. The particular rectumshitbreath jerkoff I’m referring to was a vindictive Persian prick. A pernicious towelhead un-American alien pompous shitsucking dorf. And the sonofabitch beat me out of my final paycheck. Okay! Five hundred and eleven bucks. If that’s not the definition of a card-carrying cocksucker then I don’t know what the hell is?”

  “I can see that we’re not on the same page here.”

  “The page you’re on is the page I’m on. Ten thousand percent the same page. I promise you.”

  “So, is it your car? Or the flu? Or are you upset about your last boss?”

  “Okay, look, I’m sorry about the cocksucker remark, David. I apologize. Okay. It was uncalled for and off-the-cuff, completely out of context and inappropriate to our discussion. I’ll just say this: In my book a cocksucker can be male or female, anatomically. Cocksuckers are—let’s say—potentially interchangeable. That doesn’t make ’em right or wrong. I think we can both agree on the definition of the word cocksucker as sort of neutral. Okay. I mean you yourself may or may not suck cock. That’s none of my concern. It’s a private matter between you and your conscience and any other consenting adult whose cock you might be sucking. What I’m saying is that it doesn’t necessarily follow that all homos must ipso facto be cocksuckers. Perhaps most are but who says we should throw the baby out with the bathwater. Right?”

  On the table by the menus and the sugar shaker Koffman’s cell phone began to chime to the tune of “Dancing in the Dark.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, still battling dizziness, gulping in as much air as possible, pointing at the chrome-colored chiming turd on the table, “answer your phone. I’ll go put some quarters in my meter.”

  Big David was staring at me—ignoring his phone. He sighed deeply. Then, extending his thick arms, a benign expression infecting his face, he covered my hands with his massive paws in a misguided dumbfuck homosexual attempt to soothe me. “I know you’re upset, Bruno,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

  Now I was impaled, pinned to the formica by a gay Hulk Hogan in a milkman’s uniform. “Okay, Jesus,” I howled. “Yes I am. I’m upset. I admit it.”

  “Please listen carefully, Bruno. Just try to let in what I’m saying. I’m offering you an excellent opportunity—a live-in chauffeur manager position. Are you interested?”

  “Jesus—of course I’m fuckin’ interested! I want the job.”

  “Good.”

  A minute or two later, as I was sliding across the booth’s fake-leather bench seat to get to my feet, somehow the trembling butt of my hand came down on the outer rim of my coffee cup. Its contents were launched across the table and landed on the sleeve of David Koffman’s white jacket. It didn’t help seal the deal. It just happened.

  I was half-sure I’d blown it until he phoned me the next day. One of his ex-lovers had been an active New York City AA guy. Based on that, in the end, Koffman must’ve decided he’d take a chance. His one condition was simple and straightforward: He knew I’d been drinking. He insisted that I attend twelve-step meetings.

  “You and I have worked together before with good results,” he said. “I realize I’m taking a big chance but I’m betting with an opportunity like this one, you’ll clean up your act.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” I said.

  “Will you do it?” he asked. “Will you cut down on your alcohol consumption and go to meetings?”

  “Absolutely. One thousand percent!” I shot back. “You can count on it. You have my word. And I’ll pay the cleaning bill for your jacket too.”

  My new boss told me that we would sign a contract for the job. It would include medical insurance and a paid vacation and a 25 percent partnership after six months if I managed not to screw the pooch. Also, because of Koffman’s kinkiness for honesty, if I was somehow arrested and convicted of a crime, other than a traffic ticket, for any reason, the deal would be void.

  That afternoon when I opened my e-mail, I saw something that drove me to my keyboard. I’d been receiving more than my share of crazy spam solicitations from Africa. People telling me I’d won some fucking lottery or another, or that they wanted to split some inheritance or annuity or some goddamn thing. This one was from some conniving bitch impersonating a princess. Here’s the letter I wrote. After I finished it I bummed four stamps from Uncle Bill then took it to the post office:

  Crown Princess Makeba Urabe (Deposed)

  18 Rue Marselles

  Zimbabwe—AFRICA

  Hello Dearest Princess:

  I have no idea how you got my e-mail address but I consider it a treasured blessing to have received your vital correspondence. How gracious and kind you are, dear one, to make me such a generous, even dare I say, unselfish, offer. Your description of your plight and your efforts to recover your stolen family fortune from the evil and tyrannous political opportunists who have betrayed you brought me to tears and opened my heart to you big-time.

  You mention that all you require is $50,000 to travel to Europe and recover the 3,000,000 pounds sterling awaiting you at the Royal Bank of England. Then you will reclaim your fortune. And, let me make sure that I get this down correctly; you are offering me $500,000 in return!! I am breathless! I cannot believe your kindness! Dear and gracious Princess, how giving and momentous can one person be? All I can say is, thank you, and gee whiz!

  Our local prayer circle meets the day after tomorrow. We will hold your success and well-being and the restoration of your title and fortune in our hearts from then on, with HE who presides over us all.

  I am confident that I can speak for my fellow parishioners when I tell you that we will vote to put ourselves at your immediate disposal. This is your hour of need and I’m quite sure everyone will be in agreement. Therefore, I am confident that you can expect our check for not $50,000 but $60,000—almost immediately. Also, as you astutely suggest, we will include our church’s wire-routing checking-account number, should there be any confusion regarding the cashing of our check.

  Dearest one, please wait at your mailbox daily for the funds to arrive.

  Your newest and most ardent admirer,

  Bruno Dante

  666 Ohsureur Drive

  Gulfport, MS 39501

  three

  The next morning, wearing the same puked-on tie from my interview, after paying the parking valet guy at the Beverly Hills Hotel almost ten bucks to relocate my Pontiac, I found the path to the bungalows and knocked on Number 104. I was sober except for slamming three Vicodin with my morning coffee on my way driving down Venice Boulevard.

  A gray-haired giant wearing a monogrammed blue robe opened the door, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Well, Bruno Dante. This is a surprise.”

  “At your service,” I said, feeling the vike buzz kicking in. “I’m ready for my first day.”

  “I wasn’t sure that I’d be seeing you today.”

  “I’m better,” I said. “Ninety-nine percent. Fact is I
had an excellent bowel movement this morning.”

  Standing on the steps outside the bungalow, it was hard not to notice that my new employer’s robe wasn’t tied all the way closed. I caught a glimpse of what might roughly approximate the genitalia of a pastured rhino behind the terry cloth.

  “Wait here,” Koffman said, then disappeared into the darkness. A moment later he was back with a wad of money-clipped bills in his hand and the robe cinched closed.

  After peeling off several fifties Koffman held them out toward me. “There’s a men’s store on Hollywood Boulevard,” he said. “The Manhattan Tie Shop. At the corner of Cahuenga. Ask for the manager. His name is Octavio. He’s a doll. The store sells a three-piece polyester blue business suit—the perfect chauffeur’s uniform. They charge a hundred and seventy-nine dollars. Buy two. Have the store do the alterations while you wait. Then come back here dressed for work.”

  “Ten-four,” I said, half-snatching the money from his hand, wanting to appear eager and confident. “I’ll be dressed for success.”

  Again Buffalo Bill eyed me up and down. “Sooo, you’re okay, ready to start your new career?”

  “Nothing equals a good dump. To my way of thinking taking a decent shit is a life-affirming experience.”

  “How delightful.”

  “So I’ll be driving you around after I get back with my new duds?”

  “I’ve got a full to-do list.”

  “Swell. Have you rented another limo?”

  Somewhere in the room behind my boss a curtain came open and a sudden shaft of light illuminated a person—a young Latino guy—naked from the waist up, a foot shorter than Koffman and twenty-five years younger. The kid continued moving around and getting dressed for the rest of the time me and my boss stood shooting the breeze.