THE DMI OFFICE OPENED EVERY DAY AT TEN. WHEN I WOKE up, I was laying on the front seat of the Dart, in the parking lot of Dream Mates International. I had a complete memory of the night before. This time, there had been no blackout on the Mad Dog. Closing my eyes, I tried to synchronize the throbbing in my brain with my breathing. Some homeopathic asshole had once told me it worked to reduce hangover pain. He wasn’t a wine drinker.
My watch said ten-forty-five. Friday. Pay day.
As I walked around the corner of the building, from her desk on the other side of the building’s glass wall, Susan Bolke saw me coming and made a repulsed face. I saw myself in the glass. My sport coat and tie were replaced by the dirty red sweatshirt from the night before. She dialed somebody on the phone, then resumed chatting with a male client who had video boxes in his hand and was sitting on the corner of her desk looking down the top of her blouse.
Susan didn’t acknowledge me, but continued smiling and talking to the client, so I waited. After a couple of minutes of observing her breasts seducing the customer, I understood that I was being ignored.
“Excuse me!” I said, “I’m here to see Mr. Berkhardt.”
She gestured at the reception area without looking at me. Poisonous. “Sit down over there. He’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
I was too hungover to engage her, but I saw a stack of sealed window envelopes on her desk. The top one had the name of one of the other salesmen typed on the front. “Is my paycheck one of those?” I asked.
Susan ignored me and went back to her conversation with the DMI mooch.
“Pardon me,” I said politely, “may I ask a question?”
“What is it now?”
“When was the last time you let one of your boyfriends puke on your tits?”
Berkhardt’s office door was closed. I didn’t wait to be asked. I went in and let it swing shut behind me. “I’m here for my pay check,” I said. “Not for trouble.”
He slammed down his phone and jumped up from his chair, knocking a miniature Christmas tree off the end of his desk. Berkhardt was red-faced, ready for action. I stopped him by handing him the fistful of hundred dollar bills from the Cooper deal. Then I sat down.
His attitude changed immediately. He picked up the tree and replaced it. “The police are looking for you,” he said.
“For what?”
He sat down too. “Mrs. Cooper has been hysterical all morning. Calls every five minutes. She’s making a lot of trouble, saying that you assaulted her. Because there was missing cash involved, I had to protect the company and make a police report.”
“I’m no criminal. Count it. It’s all there.”
He fanned the money and saw I wasn’t lying. “You look like shit. What happened at Mrs. Cooper’s?”
“I’m no salesman anymore. I’m done. That’s what happened.”
“You were drunk. Weren’t you? Shit, Dante, you’re heading right at that wall, going a hundred miles an hour. Living is fucking up your drinking.”
I got to my feet. “I believe we’re square. Have you got a paycheck for me?”
He opened his desk drawer and threw a sealed envelope on the desk in front of me. Through the plastic window I saw my name typed on the check.
Then I heard my voice say, “Thanks for giving me a second chance. I apologize.” I extended my hand to him.
“Did you assault Mrs. Cooper?”
“No.”
He shook my hand. “What are you going to do now?”
“I’m not sure. I used to be a writer.”
“I remember…I mean for money.”
“Odd jobs. Wash dishes. Work in a parking lot. Grunt stuff, whatever I need to do to pay the bills while I write again.”
“What makes you think your drinking won’t interfere?”
“If it does, I’ll quit.”
“Poetry, wasn’t it? You’ve had your work published?”
“Yes.”
“I get a lot of people through here looking for a night job that pays quick money. Huge egos. Actors. Models. L.A.’s full of that. Airheads. People trying to break into TV. You’re the first one who admitted to being a poet.”
“As far back as I can remember, what I wanted to do was escape from this city. To get as far from L.A. as possible. That’s less important now. What I really need to be able to do is deal with my thoughts. Writing used to give me peace.
“I’ll cancel the police report. It’s Christmas, they’re busy anyway.”
The information surprised me. “It’s Christmas?”
“December 24th.”