Free 86'd by Dan Fante

getting even with her for not saving his ass this last time.
    According to Frank, Portia’d been showing more than favoritism at Dav-Ko. He said that of course she knew what he was doing, that their friendship and her attraction to him permitted the skinny English girl to administer oral sex once or twice a week along with steering a lot of the cash work at Dav-Ko his way. Bottom line: Portia was a pole smoker and a coconspirator. Nice.
    I’d never liked Tropper but the story didn’t sound like a rope-a-dope. It was too damning not to be true.
    I made him turn in his cell phone and his credit card and his sets of limo keys, then wordlessly escorted the jerk down the block to where one of his girlfriends was parked and waiting.
    “What are you going to do about Portia?” he asked, getting into the new red Mustang convertible.
    “Well,” I said, “I don’t think she should run for mayor.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “It means mind your own fucking business. You’re lucky I don’t have you arrested. Have a nice day, Frank.”
    But now I had a choice: I could inform Koffman of Portia’s foolishness and be rid of her once and for all or I could let the matter slide. I knew my boss. His business principles were unwavering. The sex angle aside, if Koffman found out a driver was dealing drugs and she’d been overlooking the behavior it would mean the axe for her too. All I had to do was say the word and she’d be gone.
    When the bony English girl returned around midnight I switched the phones to the answering service and sat her down in the dispatch office. She was still pissy and oozing with self-righteousness.
    “What’s this stuff about you and Tropper?” I said.
    “The truth is you never liked him. That’s the obvious issue here.”
    “He was dealing coke, Portia. You allowed the asshole to endanger our business.”
    “That’s absurd. Totally preposterous and unjustified. Frank is a superb employee. And you questioning my integrity is an insult that I will not tolerate. I suggest we contact David in New York. I believe he’ll see my point of view in this matter.”
    “Frank tells me that you give a decent blowjob; pretty nice tongue technique and all. That’s an interesting trade-off.”
    Miss Britannia looked as if she’d just choked on a thick French fry. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered.
    “Look, here’s how I see it: I’ve owed you one for my boozing and throat-cutting stuff. Now we’re even. I’m willing to let it go at that. But, for chrissake, no more driver favoritism and looking the other way on dope deals, and no more flirting with the staff. And I’d cut back on the cocksucking in the office if I were you.”
    I held out my hand.
    Portia was twitching like crazy and chomping away on her nicotine gum, her eyes on the floor. Finally she looked up and nervously shook my hand. “Thank you for understanding,” she whispered.
    “No sweat. We’ve all made our share of dumbshit moves now and then.”
    I checked my watch. “Hey, it’s after midnight. How about a drink to seal the deal?”
    The bony blond girl with the actress face mustered her first smile of the day. “Thank you,” she said. “Perhaps another time.”
     
    It was two a.m. a week or so later. An accident in one of the stretch limos that afternoon, an angry road manager and ascreaming chauffeur, and a few drinks after dinner to level things out had turned a bad day into two pints of Schenley and a badass drunk.
    Upstairs in my bedroom, with the house phones patched over to the answering service, I had been phoning sex ads from the L.A. Weekly for half an hour. Calling out-call hookers. But because I didn’t have enough cash I’d been turned down, pissed off, and hung up on a half dozen times.
    Finally, pretty drunk, and determined to get laid at any price, wearing only my T-shirt, I made my way downstairs.
    In the dark office I opened drawers until I located the petty cash box. My plan was to make a