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D
av-Ko’s senior partner apparently wanted to keep tabs on the day-to-day operation of the company so he decided to stay on in Hollywood for another week or two and help run things. He’d unlocked his private suite upstairs and taken up residence. A steady stream of his gay pals invaded the duplex. The smell of hors d’oeuvres and gourmet dinners began flooding the building.

Resting in my room I spent the next two days writing a story about a paralyzed guy in the hospital who has an affair with his cute night-shift nurse but has no sensation whatever in his lower body, and watching old episodes of
The Twilight Zone
on DVD.

Even before I was up and around Koffman put an ad in the
Los Angeles Times
for a new day dispatcher. We got lucky and hired sixty-year-old Rosie Camacho the Monday after the ad ran. Rosie was a retired L.A. city bus route manager with twenty-five years on the job. Both of us liked her and it was an easy decision after the first interview. Her experience and her congenial phone manner made it a done deal.

Then it became a twofer package deal because Rosie had a grown son named Benito who had just recently started up his own lube and oil storefront business, close by on Western Avenue.

The day after she began work Rosie came back from a lunch with him and mentioned the nice coincidence of her son’s little company being only ten minutes away. David Koffman met with Benny that afternoon and put him on the payroll as our moonlight mechanic.

These days Dav-Ko was almost constantly busy. I was better now and in the afternoon and evening when Koffman was out making business calls or on the rounds of the West Hollywood clubs, I came downstairs to help dispatch. We never turned down a limo order and frequently our stretches were double-booked and Rosie needed help to call our list of affiliate companies to farm out our overflow.

Then, suddenly, my chickens came home to roost. I was helping Rosie learn how to do future cash bookings in the computer when Koffman returned from a lunch appointment and stomped into the office. He opened the top desk drawer and pulled out our company checkbook, then asked me to step into the chauffeur’s room with him. His face was stone; expressionless. I could tell something was up. Something ungood.

Marty Humphrey was watching a baseball game on the wall TV and waiting to do an airport run—the Dodgers were playing at San Diego. Koffman switched off the game and asked him to leave. The he barked the order: “Bruno, step in here with me. We have business to discuss.”

Once I was inside David closed the door then flipped the
lock down for privacy. He dropped his big body heavily into a chair then folded open the check ledger. The shit was about to hit the fan. I could feel it.

“Sit,” he snarled.

I stayed standing. “Sure, what’s this about” I said.

“I had lunch with Portia today.”

My attempt to appear blasé failed badly. In the back of my mind I was aware of the possibility that Koffman might try to contact the vengeful bitch but I was hoping I might get lucky and also hoping that if he did talk to her that she wouldn’t spill her guts on every sordid detail. But now, standing in front of David Koffman, I was pretty sure the jig was up—my ass was in flames. “Oh,” I said. “So, how’s she doing?”

Taking a pen from his breast pocket I watched as Koffman printed my name on the top two checks in the ledger. “I’m writing this first one out to you for five thousand dollars,” he sneered. “I feel that’s a more than reasonable value of your 25 percent share in Dav-Ko.”

“Wait a minute. What’s up? Let’s talk this through,” I said.

“No discussion. No more deception. I’ve been an unthinking fool. But no more. I’m dissolving our agreement and our partnership as of today.”

He ripped the first check from the book then kept on writing. “This next one,” he said, “is a week’s severance pay. One thousand dollars.”

“C’mon, what the hell’s going on?”

“Do not screw with me, Bruno. You know precisely what this is about.”

“Do I get a chance to talk? This is still a partnership, right?”

“You’re unstable—an alcoholic and probably a drug addict too. Christ, bullet holes in the walls of your room!
That’s plain insanity. On top of that you’ve abused your fiduciary responsibility to this company. There’s no adequate excuse for what you’ve done and no explanation for it is required.”

I sat down. “Look, what did Portia tell you? You owe me that much.”

The tall man folded the checkbook closed then used his ballpoint pen as a scepter, pointing its silver Gucci tip toward my head. “I was told things that, in confidence, I will not repeat here. But essentially, in substance, you’re a train wreck. And I agree with Portia’s view that you should be in therapy or some sort of recovery program. But, after today, that’s your problem. Your choice. I’m washing my hands of the entire matter.”

“The gun thing was an accident, David. I’m not crazy. I made a mistake.”

He handed me the check for a thousand dollars then folded the big one, the one for five grand, into his shirt pocket, then patted it. “You’ll get this one when you sign the release my attorney is drafting. Another ten days at the most.”

“Look,” I said, “my brother died. I had a hard time dealing with it. I fucked up. I started drinking again. That’s the truth. But I’m okay now. I’m back on my feet.”

Big David frowned. “No sale, sir.”

“So I’m out on my ass. What about hearing the flip side?”

“Frankly, for me, there isn’t one.”

“That’s just swell, David. I sober up and try to pull my shit together and then I get blindsided—and you get my quarter share in the company. That’s a lousy deal and I don’t deserve it.”

The tall man glared at me in silence, then snarled, “You have until tomorrow afternoon to pack your things and vacate your room,” he hissed.

“So that’s it?”

“That’s it. I have nothing else to say. The matter’s settled.”

That night I only slept an hour. Being off booze and pills was brutal and
Jimmy
was at me nonstop.

I was up early the next morning driving the alleys of Hollywood searching for boxes to help me pack up and move. After filling my Pontiac with collapsed cardboard I stopped at Ace Hardware on Sunset and bought a roll of clear tape that had a built-in cutter.

Back in my room I packed my clothes and began to unhook my computer and printer. There on my writing table was a stack of stories, now fifteen in total. Over a hundred and seventy printed pages of work. Good writing. Good stories. No matter what came next down the pike after Dav-Ko, I had these. My life wasn’t a total shit sandwich. These stories were the upside. I was also now an experienced L.A. chauffeur with a major company. I’d be able to get work. The hell with Dav-Ko. I’d start over. I knew the drill.

Then I began doing the hard part—boxing up my books. There were several hundred.

An hour later I had four full boxes on the floor. Novels, poetry, and plays, all sorted and ready to go on a shelf wherever I landed next.

I heard a knock at my door. Figuring it was my ex-boss coming to check on my packing progress, I yelled, “I’m busy. Come back later.”

The door opened and he stood there framed in the doorway, a granite statue outside a public library. “Can we talk?” he asked.

“My stuff will be out of your company by this afternoon,” I said. “I reserved a U-Haul. I’m picking it up in an hour or
so. And frankly, David, I’ve had my life shoved up my ass by a boss for the last time. So let’s just save anymore replay for down the road, some other time. Okay?”

He stepped closer. “You should know that I had a conversation with Frank Tropper this morning. I’ve been waiting for his return call since I had my meeting with you.”

“Swell.”

“After we spoke I decided to dig deeper just to satisfy myself. I hope you realize that I didn’t take this matter lightly.”

“But you fired me anyway.”

“I did what I thought was best under the circumstances. Getting drunk and shooting off a pistol in this building was simply the act of a madman.”

“Have a nice fucking day, Mr. Koffman.”

“There’s more to discuss.”

“I’ve just been evicted. I’m busy here.”

“Do you want to know what happened on my call with Tropper?”

I’d begun stuffing books in a new box. “Sure, David. Sure,” I said.

“First, a question: Why is it that you never mentioned he was having an affair with Portia?”

“You said you didn’t want to hear anything from me.”

“I mean at the time you fired Frank. Weeks ago. Tell me what happened there.”

“I don’t know. The guy’s a snake. Dealing drugs out of a limousine. I squashed a snake. Case closed.”

“That incident was important. Portia never mentioned her relationship with Frank. She omitted any discussion of that can of worms.”

I sat down on a box of books. “Portia’s an angry, poisonous whackjob. Take my word for it,” I said.

“Go on. What happened?”

“Now it’s important,” I said, slinging the words at him.
“Now
you want to know. Forget it.”

“You have my full attention. What happened?”

“Okay, sure. Fuck it,” I said. “Why not?”

“Precisely.”

“After I found out she was his part-time backup pole smoker I made her tell me what they’d been up to. I’d suspected for weeks that she’d been playing favorites and pushing all the company’s cash work his way but I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, so I had let that part slide. After I fired the jerk and he could do no more damage, I thought it over and decided that Portia deserved another shot. My reasoning was what-the-hell, people are human. Shit happens. She made a mistake.”

Big Koffman sat down on the box of books next to me. “I thought as much,” he sighed.

“So that’s it. Anything else?” I asked.

“Well, I may live to regret this, but I’ve decided to reverse myself and give you the same chance you gave Portia. With strict conditions.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Setting aside the insanity of your shooting spree, you’ve done a good job, basically. I don’t want to overlook that.”

“Okay, so what conditions, David?”

Buffalo Bill flipped a chunk of his gray hair back over his shoulder then folded his arms across his chest. “You are no longer a partner. You are now an employee and you will immediately return the one thousand dollar check I gave you.”

“No problem. I can do that.”

“And you are now on strict probation. If you can stay sober—completely sober—then we’ll take it from there. You will attend three AA meetings per week and get the signature
of the secretary at each meeting. Then, in ninety days, after I’m satisfied that you really want to make this work, we’ll discuss reinstating our partnership.”

The worm had just turned. But, instead of me having to do more groveling and slithering and backpedaling, I now felt myself getting pissed off. “No deal,” I said. “Not that way.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I worked my ass off for this company and for that twenty-five percent. Screw that. Our partnership stays as it is or I move on.”

Big David scratched his head. “Okay, I agree,” he said. “I’ll meet you halfway. But the ninety days probation stays in effect and your attendance at AA meetings is mandatory.”

“Deal,” I said. “Fair enough.”

We both stood up. David Koffman put his arms around me and gave me his best lovey-dovey partner hug.

L
ater that afternoon I got the number of AA and called the main office in L.A. and was given the address of a night meeting in Culver City.

The guy’s name was Harvey. He was all business and got right to the point and let me choose one from the long list of cities he’d read out. I didn’t want to go to any more in Hollywood. Hollywood is a snotpile. But I was willing to try. I would do whatever I could not to lose the limo job.

I’d driven by the Marina Club a hundred times when I lived in Venice and I’d seen people standing outside on the sidewalk smoking and holding Styrofoam cups but I had never been curious enough to stop and find out what was going on inside.

I parked my Pontiac up the block on Washington Boulevard just in case I needed a quick getaway, then walked back.

The meeting time posted outside on the door on a stick-on blackboard was eight o’clock. A guy with long sideburns in a Harley jacket, smoking a cigarette—blocking my way—
stopped me going in and shook my hand. “Hi. I’m Vince,” he said grinning. “Welcome to the Marina Club.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“First time here?”

“Yeah. Does it show?”

“Like neon,” he said smiling. “So what’s your name, brother?”

“Bruno.”

“Well, welcome, Bruno. How many days you got clean and sober?”

“I’ve stopped counting,” I said. “A week or so.”

Vince sneered, then pointed. “Coffee’s all the way in the back. The meeting starts in five minutes. P.S.: You came on the right night. It’s Phil S.’s twentieth birthday. He sponsors me and five or six of the regular guys here. Big doings. He’ll be the main speaker.”

“Lucky me,” I said.

“No joke, Phil’s a miracle. Twenty-five years in the slam—pronounced dead twice—he gives a great message.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Hey Bruno…keep coming back.”

“Ten-four. You too…
brother.”

The fluorescent lighting in the Marina Club reminded me of the intake corridor at old County Jail, downtown. The meeting hall contained over a hundred chairs and was filling up fast.

After waiting in line and getting my free cup of coffee there were only a few seats left, so I decided not to sit down and subject myself to small talk. I stood at the back of the room near the bathrooms.

As it turned out Harley Vince in the leather jacket was also the guy leading the meeting. He called the room to order. As
before, at the last meeting I went to in Hollywood, someone got up to read part of the Big Book: Chapter 5.

I was starting to feel trapped and closed-in. Beginning to sweat. This was a bad idea. There were way too many bodies—people pressing against me—a crowded hall populated by smiling, miracle-oozing, AA robots. The smells of bad breath, sweat, and the unventilated men’s room behind me was beginning to make me want to bolt.

Then a pimpled teenage girl standing next to me, with ratty pink hair and torn jeans, held out her hand. “I’m Jeannie,” she whispered.

“Bruno,” I said back.

“First time here?”

“Yeah. You?”

“No. But I’m back again,” Jeannie sighed. “I had ninety days then I had a bad slip. My boyfriend’s back in County on a probation beef. I decided to try the program again.”

“I hear that,” I said.

“It’s really because Phil S. is speaking that I’m here. His wife sponsors me—well, she used to sponsor me. Anyway, everybody loves Phil. Have you heard him talk?”

“No. But I met Vince at the door—the biker guy leading the meeting. He filled me in that old Phil has pretty much been canonized around here.”

Jeannie was smiling. “Canonized?”

“Forget it.”

“Just keep coming back,
Bruno.
It takes what it takes.
If I can do it anybody can.”

A couple of minutes later, when the reading was over, Vince was back at the podium. “Any newcomers?” he yelled.

Five or six people stood up and gave their names and how
many days they were off booze and drugs. Ten dozen of the faithful cheered and hooted and clapped.

Then pimples next to me raised her hand. Vince motioned for her to talk.

“I’m Jeannie,” she yelled. “I’m back. I’m an alcoholic. I have two days sober.”

“That’s great, Jeannie!” Vince boomed over the mic. The crowd clapped.

Now Captain Harley was pointing right at me. “And the guy next to you…Bruno? Right? Your first meeting, right?”

Jeannie nodded yes on my behalf.

More clapping and a few cheers.

“C’mon up here, Bruno. First timers get a seat right up front. Right here next to our speaker.”

Trapped. All eyes on me. I had no choice.

The great Phil S. went on for over forty minutes. He was sixty-six years old and skinny and gray. He’d robbed twenty-six supermarkets and been stabbed in prison and shot in the knee and crashed his bike into a police barricade at a hundred miles an hour and been pronounced dead and lots of other stuff. All until he found God and AA and the Twelve Steps. Right.

Eventually, when old Phil was done, the cheering went on for a full half a minute.

Then Vince and a couple of his Harley henchmen presented Phil with a twenty-year cake.

More adoration. More applause.

Finally, when Vince announced it was time for sharing, hands went up around the room.

One by one people they came to the podium to deliver the Good News and congratulate Phil S. Saved marriages and walking on water and commuted sentences and transplanted
livers, and not one juicer among ’em. Whackos and drunks and doper pillheads all cured of a hopeless malady of mind and body.

Finally, the meeting was winding down. Almost over. I’d had more than enough. I felt like I hadn’t had a drink in a hundred years and my brain was tuned to internal scream.
Jimmy
wouldn’t let me alone—hissing in my head—mocking me.

My shirt was wet and I felt my brain becoming unglued.

Vince was back at the podium. There were plenty of hands still raised in the room but he pointed down at the front row. At me.

Standing there facing a horde of the anointed, on the podium, sucking in air, I had come to hate Vince and the great Phil S. and Jeannie with her stringy fucking pink hair. It occurred to me that I had arrived at a place in my life where I was willing to commit murder—to do anything—but be where I stood.

“How long are you sober?” someone near me yelled.

I was unable to make my lips move. I could not speak.

Then Vince was beside me at the podium. “Take your time,” he whispered. “You’re doing fine. Just say whatever comes to your mind.”

Near me on the podium was a half-full plastic bottle of Sparkletts. Phil’s leftover speaker’s water. I didn’t care. I took a sip anyway.

“My name is Bruno Dante,” I said, shaking a little, clearing my throat. “And to tell you the truth I have never heard so much bullshit in all my life.”

On my way out, after I got the meeting secretary’s signature on the attendance sheet given to me by David Koffman, Vince spotted me as he stood by the door shaking hands.

“How ya doin’?” he whispered.

“I’m here. I made it through the worst part,” I said.

He handed me a printed card with his phone number printed on it in bold Century italic. “Take this,” he insisted.

I slipped the card in my pocket.

“Hey, look, Bruno, don’t worry what people think.”

“I don’t,” I said, now annoyed. “I don’t give a fuck what people think.”

“Use the number. It’s my cell. Use it twenty-four seven. Anytime you need to talk.”

Outside, up the street in my Pontiac, I lit a smoke and took a deep hit.
Jimmy
began sneering.
You really are a limp-dicked mental gimp. You belong in that room, bigshot—you and the rest of those tit-sucking Jesus whiners. Nice going.

But when I began to calm down I realized that old Phil S. had said a few things in his
drunkalog
that had stuck. Number one: He said that “AA is for the people who
want
it, not for the people who
need
it.” I concluded that the statement was accurate. Judging from the assembly of zealous outpatient whackjobs gathered in the room that night, the
want-it
tag made a lot of sense.

Number two: “Wear the AA program like a loose garment.” His meaning there, I decided, was to not to be too hard on yourself. To just do the best you can. A reasonable bit of advice.

And Number three: “Fake it ’til you make it.”

Number three fit me to a tee. Faking it would be no problem. Faking it would be a breeze for me.