Free 86'd by Dan Fante Page B

expensive-looking red leather handbag. “You’re late,” she barked.
    “Our pickup time is for nine o’clock,” I said. “It’s nine o’clock.”
    She was grinning. “I beg to differ. It’s nine-oh-two Greenwich meantime. You might possibly consider resetting your watch.”
    “You’re Mrs. Smart, right?”
    “You may call me J.C.”
    “Well, good morning, ma’am.”
    “My proper name is Joyce Childers Smart. I’m a retired English lit teacher and not a bank president. So the diminutive J.C. will do just fine. And you are?”
    “Bruno Dante.”
    My reply seemed to lighten my client’s expression. “Dante,” she smiled, “as in La Divina Comedia?
    “The same,” I said.
    “Ah, the Comedia. How appropriate given your propensity for tardiness and embarrassing justifications. Tell me, Mr. Bruno Dante, have you read your namesake’s work?”
    “Yeah, I have, but it’s been years,” I said.
    “And…”
    “Well, it’s okay. Not my favorite piece of literature, but interesting, I guess.”
    “Interesting? And not your favorite tidbit of writing from the Middle Ages? The Divine Comedy . Really?”
    “The car’s in front. Shall we go?”
    “Are you, by chance, related to a writer named Jonathan Dante?”
    “He was my father.”
    J.C. was beaming. “Well, well, well. My husband and I knew Johnny. He was a fine writer. As I recall he died and then all of his books were republished a few years later. He got quite famous.”
    “That’s right.”
    Mrs. Smart extended her hand and I shook it. “How nice to meet you,” she said. “Nothing replaces good breeding.”
    Then my new client leaned past me and glanced at the black stretch limo parked at the curb. “You want to take me—in that?”
    “Sure. First-class transportation. You deserve the best, right?”
    “Mr. Dante, son of Jonathan Dante, I did not just win second prize in one of those lurid televised game shows. I’m a rich old lady and not a crack dealer. I do not hold with glitz and ostentation. Please tell me, does your firm have other, smaller cars?”
    I thought about it for a second. “Only my own car. My Pontiac,” I said. “It’s twelve years old. But it is a four-door.”
    “What color is this Pontiac?”
    “Color? Light brown. Beige, I guess.”
    “That’ll do for next time. I now intend to open an account with your company. I’ll provide my credit card information and whatever else you require.”
    “Sorry, I thought you knew. You ride free of charge. Our deal is to drive seniors in the neighborhood to and from their doctor’s appointments at no charge.”
    “I pay my own way. I always have.”
    “Hey, no problem. You’re the customer.”
    “Precisely,” she nodded. “Now wait here a moment. I’ll have to get Tahuti.”
    “Tuhootee?”
    “T-A-H-U-T-I. My cat. We go everywhere together.”
    J.C. closed the door in my face then stepped back inside her bungalow.
    Half a minute later she was back, beaming, holding in her arms the fattest monster black cat I had ever seen. “Bruno Dante, meet Tahuti.”
    The beast opened its heavy eyes, glanced at me, then closed them again. “We can go now,” J.C. whispered.
    On the street I opened the rear limo door for my passenger and her beast. J.C. shuffled toward me up the sidewalk then waved me off. “I’m not an oil sheik nor am I with the State Department, Mr. Dante,” she said. “Tahuti and I ride in the front seat.”
    “Whatever you say,” I said back, knowing when I was licked.
     
    After I got in behind the wheel I was about to start the car when J.C., now done situating Tahuti on her lap, leaned toward me. “And Mr. Dante, one more thing,” she chimed, eyeing me coldly in my chauffeur’s cap.
    “What would that be?” I said, fearing the worst.
    “Please, no cheap thrills.”
     
    It turned out my passenger was also a speed-talker. While I drove I learned that she was an avid reader, that she’d gobbled up every mystery series of novels ever written.