Point Doom (7 page)

TEN

T
he morning after the car fire, when my mother and Coco came out to have their coffee and make their breakfast, I was sitting at the kitchen table. Dealing with the burning vehicle and the cop and the sobriety test, carrying a concealed weapon, and having no insurance card, was a cakewalk compared to facing my eighty-one-year-old D.A.R. (Daughters of the American Revolution) ex-librarian mother.

“Well,” she said, pouring her and Coco’s coffee with a still-steady hand, “you’re employed again. A step in the right direction. I certainly hope you apply yourself and do well, James. And soon, very soon, we’ll have a conversation about a repayment plan for the money you owe me.”

“Something happened last night, Ma. I need to tell you about it.”

“I’m listening.”

“Can you excuse us, Coco?” I asked, looking up at Mom’s companion. “I need to talk to Mom privately.”

When Coco was gone, carrying her coffee cup, the newspaper, and a slice of toast down the hall, I turned to Mom. “Somebody torched the Honda last night.”

“Speak English, James. Torched? Please explain what you mean by your use of that word.”

“Some person—some asshole—poured gas or lighter fluid or something on the Honda last night and put a match to it.”

“My car? Were the police contacted? The fire department?”

“Both. They were both there.”

“You are telling me that my property was destroyed? Torched! My vehicle?”

“Technically, it’s my vehicle. You put it in my name, remember?”

Mom was turning red. Redder. Her health issues were her clogged arteries and her high blood pressure—enough to allow her to drop dead after a strong sneeze some morning. I could see that she was beginning to shake.

“I hold you responsible, James. Your lifestyle—the way you conduct yourself—your addiction to alcohol and pornography. The smut I receive in my mailbox day after day is beyond horrific. You say you’ve now stopped drinking but your conduct has directly resulted in someone, some criminal type, destroying my private property.”

“No, I wasn’t hurt. Were you going to ask me?”

“You’re a forty-four-year-old bum—probably a sex offender and God knows what else. You spent years as a detective—thug is the more appropriate term—hurting people, and you still own a gun! I’ve seen it with my own eyes. A gun, for God’s sake!”

“Look, I have to know: did you ever cancel the insurance? The cop gave me a ticket for not being insured.”

My mother considered the question while reaching across the table for her bottle of blood-pressure meds. Opening the vial, she dumped out two little bluies, popped them, then washed them down with a gulp of coffee. “No, is the answer,” she said. “I never called the insurance company. I guess I forgot to do it.”

“Did your lawyer do it? Do you know?”

“He reminded me to make the call. I must’ve forgotten. Are you going to jail again? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“No, no jail. Looks like I’m okay. Just find the insurance card and give it to me. I’ll go to court and straighten it out.”

“I want you out of my home. Is that clear? By this weekend. Even Coco finds your behavior . . . unusual. She said so herself.”

“Calm down, Ma.”

“We’ll call a locksmith today and I will have the locks changed. You are a danger to my welfare and my health. You’re a recalcitrant fool with deep-seated psychological problems and I believe you actually take pleasure in hurting people.”

Then Ma got up, tied her bathrobe in a stranglehold around her midsection, grabbed her coffee cup and the bottle of blood-pressure meds, and teetered off toward her bedroom.

AT WORK THAT
morning, after the sales meeting, I stuck my head into Max’s office. “Hey, boss,” I said, “can we talk for a minute?”

“What’s up, Fiorella? C’mon in. Got another deal for me—one like those wetbacks we hammered? I love it.”

I closed his door behind me and sat down. “Look, Max,” I said, “I’m in a spot. I have to find a place to live. I need to be out by Saturday.”

Max rocked back in his chair. He loved playing the big shot. “Sorry to hear that. So . . . ”

“So, can I get an advance? We both know I’ve got a good check coming. I just need about fifteen hundred for a deposit on a new place.”

“Look, I hear you, Fiorella,” he said, “but I’ve got to say something here. You won’t like it, but it’s part of my job and it’s for your own good. The truth is you’re sort of on thin ice around here. A couple of the staff have made comments about your attitude and rudeness and then there was that scuffle between you and Fernando. Do you see my point?”

“Max, I’m asking for a favor. I think I’ve proved myself.”

“No can do, my friend. Rhett’s GM now and he’d chew my ass from here until next week if I gave you an advance. He has a no-exceptions policy.”

“I don’t want to have to take time off. That’s why I’m coming to you. My back’s against the wall here, Max.”

Maxwell hit the hands-free button on his phone’s console. It started buzzing. Rhett pressed a button in his office and answered. “What’s up, Max?”

“I’ve got Fiorella here in my office. He has an emergency. He says he has to move, to relocate. Can we make an exception and cut him an advance? Say two K?”

Rhett Butler, aka Robin Baitz, as always, came right to the point. “Tell Fiorella that payday is Friday after next.” Click. Dead air.

Sitting back down at my cubicle desk in the showroom I decided to try my pal Woody. He was fat city, money-wise, and I knew it. A couple of weeks back he’d mentioned that he’d stashed almost ten grand in the bank and was saving up for a late-model used Benz.

I called him on his cell phone and found out that in a few days he was starting at the Lexus dealer on Seventeenth Street in Santa Monica. “What’s up with you?” he said after telling me his good news. “I’ve been looking for you at meetings. You weren’t at the Sunday nighter at the Marina Center.”

I didn’t mention the torched car incident. I wanted to sound positive. “You know,” I said, “work. That stuff. I don’t get out of here until nine-thirty some nights.”

“Right. A couple of people asked about you. Look, pal,” Woody went on, “once I get squared away with Lexus, I’m putting in a word for you there with the used-car manager. Rhett’s a fucking gorf. A jerkoff. And big Max is his gofer bitch. They’ve chewed through a thousand salespeople like us. They’ll never change. Best thing for you is a gig at a decent, high-end store. From what I can see so far, the guys at Lexus are okay. The leasing manager, Manny—hey, you met Manny at the meeting where I popped that weird stalker guy—remember?”

“Right, Manny. I remember.”

“He’s a straight-up dude and sober three years. Look, when I’m on board I’ll mention that you’re looking for a new car gig.”

“Hey, Woody,” I said, “I’ve got something I need to ask you. Something I think you’d be interested in. Do you still want to write that screenplay with me?”

“Are you kidding? Hey, my man, anytime you say!”

“Okay, so here’s the deal: My living situation just took a dump. I’ve got to get out of my mom’s house by this weekend. That’s the downside. The upside is that I made a decent hit on a 4Runner and some other cars and I’ve got over three K coming on payday. If you can front me fifteen hundred to find a new place, I’ll get the money back to you immediately when I get paid, and I’ll help you write the script. A fifty-fifty split on screen credit. How’s that sound?”

I could hear Woody’s breathing. Then, after a long pause: “And I get the money back a week from Friday, right?”

“A hundred percent. No problem,” I said. “The day I get paid.”

“When do we start the screenplay?”

“On my first day off after payday. Wednesday. We’ll make the schedule work. I’m pretty good at screenplays. It’s a promise. Okay?”

“Okay, deal,” Woody said. “But hey, JD, you sound all wound up. Easy does it, my brother. You okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You just sound edgy, is all. I mean, more edgy than usual.”

“Hey, if you just found out you were out on the street in favor of a nursemaid and six overfed mongrel cats, you’d be edgy too.”

“You’re right, I would. One day at a time, pal.”

“Right. I’ll start to look for a place on my lunch break. How about coffee on Friday? We’ll talk over the screenplay and I can pick up the money?”

“Sure, sounds okay. I’ll meet you at that coffee place on Wilshire and Tenth. That’s close to you. Okay?”

“Deal. Thanks Woody. I appreciate your help on this.”

“No sweat, brother. I’m looking forward to getting into the screenplay.”

AFTER MY CALL
to Woody, I refilled my coffee cup for the fourth time that morning, then walked out to the lot to guard my sales area from Fernando.

There was no foot traffic and, after checking the showroom floor, I stepped up close to my lot partner, pushed my finger into his chest, and whispered, “Hey shithead, someone burned up my Honda. What do you know about it?”

“Jou tink I dee it? Jou acuzin’ me?”

“If you were the guy, we can settle it right now. Right here.”

“Majn, I done do thisa kinda chit. I neber seen jour car? I deen know jou had a fukkin’ Honda.”

I looked him in the eye. There was no tell in his expression—even with my finger in his chest. I decided to believe him.

THAT AFTERNOON ON
my lunch break I drove east on the Santa Monica Freeway, got off at the Centinela exit, then turned south. In five minutes I was in West L.A. I copied down a few for-rent phone numbers, then returned to the Sherman lot.

Two hours later, on a break, I began a Google search on Sherman’s main showroom’s computer that had a search engine, typing in “West L.A. apartments for rent.” There were two dozen on the list.

ON MY DAY
off, which had now changed to Thursday (Rhett got a bug up his ass and switched everybody’s day-off schedule for the second time), I went to Santa Monica court, showed the clerk my proof of car insurance certificate, and had my No Proof of Insurance summons dismissed.

Then I stopped off at several apartments in West L.A. and finally settled on a smallish studio on Short Avenue off Centinela. The rent was $721. The place was clean, on the second floor, and bright, with a big window facing the street and two eucalyptus trees just outside. There was no A/C but good cross-ventilation from the main room and the bathroom. But the big bonus (for a low $721 rent) was the furniture it came with: a convertible couch, a coffee table, and a bookcase, along with the stove and refrigerator that were standard. The left-behind living room stuff saved me several hundred bucks in furniture expense. The place also had venetian blinds and even a shower curtain left by the last tenant, a woman. The building was on the old side but the apartment came with off-street parking for my demo Corolla.

I gave the manager, a baldheaded guy named Norm with melanoma scars on his blotchy noggin, a postdated check for the first and last month’s rent: $1,442.

THREE DAYS LATER,
still a week away from payday, I had sold three more cars. None of them were home runs like the 4Runner deal, but I’d made another five hundred dollars. Woody was right: pitching used iron had come easy to me. Even Max, who’d reminded me again that he didn’t like my attitude, assured me that I was doing well as a car guy. The good news was that I’d stayed clean after the gin and tonic scare and even squeezed in a couple of AA meetings when the store closed early after more rain.

Eventually, dreading the deed, I telephoned my old sponsor, Southbay Bill, to check in. Before I could say anything, he fired me as a sponsee for not calling in for several days in a row. It was a relief. I hadn’t had to cop to anything. I had come to loathe Southbay Bill and his Jesus racket anyway. Old Bob A. was my new guy, a total straight-shooter.

Later that morning an adjuster from Mom’s insurance company came by Sherman’s showroom to tell me that her Honda was a total. The value of the car was set at $660. I told the guy to mail the check to Mom at her address.

I met Woody three blocks away from Sherman at Pete’s Coffee on Wilshire Boulevard. We’d changed our meeting because he was officially starting at the Lexus dealer the next day.

For the last couple of months we’d been talking on the phone at least a couple of times a week and e-mailing each other frequently. Woody was a good friend, and as much as I hated the idea, I told myself I would do my best to help him with his screenplay.

When he saw me at a table, Woody flashed me his eleven-dollar car salesman’s grin, ordered his double espresso at the counter, then sat down. “Heya, JD. You look like shit,” he said.

“You know, new schedule. Workin’ my ass off.”

“But hey, now you’re an official car guy: sellin’ cars to movie stars and tellin’ jokes to all the folks. How’s that feel?”

“It’s a job, Woody. I’m glad I’ve got one.”

Woody nodded and smiled. “Look, I’ll tell you this; I’m a hundred percent glad I did what I did with Rhett. It was the right move, no question. I even did a mini-inventory on Rhett and Max and talked to my sponsor. The AA program works, pal, that’s no shit.”

Woody pulled a white envelope out of his jacket pocket and pushed it across the tabletop.

Opening it, I saw a sheaf of hundreds. I folded the envelope, then stuffed it into my pocket. “Thanks, my friend. You’re bailing me out here. Now I can cover the deposit check I gave to the manager at my new place.”

“Glad to do it. No sweat.”

“You’ll get it all back next payday. That’s a promise.”

Then I saw that there was something different in his eyes. “Hey,” I said, “you look more up than usual. What’s going on? You just get laid or something?”

“Pal, if I was any better I’d be twins. I’m sober six years next week, and starting a new job. And ba-boom, I met someone. I mean I’m not talking about some ex-crackhead bubble-brain like most of the tail we bump into in the program. I mean, a real nice lady.”

“So, you’re actually dating again? I thought you only did one-nighters.”

Woody’s grin was ear to ear. “Last night was our first real night together. I kid you not, Laighne’s a class act, in the program for over a year, dresses like a winner, and the girl has her own business. And, get this, she’s in her early twenties.”