Free Mooch by Dan Fante

something?’
    Cin was smiling. ‘Of course.’
    I leaned close and put my hand on her leg. ‘The way your body looks in that dress makes my dick hard.’
    Her eyes came alive and began to twinkle. She tilted her head back. ‘Say that again.’
    I kissed her neck. ‘I said, you make my dick hard.’
    Her fingers were on my arm. ‘You have to look at me when you talk.’
    ‘Why? Are you a lip reader?’
    Without shame she pulled the hair back on the left side of her face. There was no ear where an ear should be, only an indentation and a smooth scar. ‘I have to be face to face when we talk.’
    ‘You’re deaf?’
    She nodded, looking almost afraid. ‘I hear a bit out of my right ear, but not much,’ she whispered. ‘So, say it again, Bruno. I am interested.’
    Being sure she saw my mouth, my words came out too loud. ‘I love you. Could we go somewhere and fuck?’
    Cin laughed. ‘Not today, angel.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘Would you like my phone number?’
    ‘I would. Yes. I want your phone number.’
    Taking a pen and a business card from her purse, on the back she wrote her name and a Hollywood 323 area code number. The penmanship was perfect. ‘Drive safe,’ she said. Then she was gone. ‘Compatibility’ under her arm, a sweet melancholy lingering behind like the quietness of jasmine.
    Now it was only me and Mike. Stu, his video game partner, was gone. Walking back from the pisser, I stopped by Ninja Bloodbath/Marauders of Death. A kickboxing video deal. Mike was still at the machine. I watched for a minute. It was bullshit. A preposterous child’s amusement. The principle of the game appeared to be maiming your opponent by karate kicking, then hacking and dismemberment. There were controls: two red buttons and a joy stick.
    He sensed me behind him, and I knew it made him uncomfortable. I didn’t care if Mike was uncomfortable. Mike was an asshole, a crime against the environment.
    I continued to watch the action. His warrior was getting nailed and sliced up. The opponent, the computer, was pilingup points. Then Mike settled down. He pounded the buttons in front of him, wiggled furiously on the joy stick, and made his guy leap in an impossible twirling pirouette. Down he came, hacking off his opponent’s fighting arm. The next move was a gore to the throat. A nifty one-two. The tide had turned. Mike’s digitized killer began bouncing up and down waving his weapons, waiting for the opposition to get up. Oozing blood and bodily fluids, the enemy squirmed in an attempt to get to his feet. But Mike tapped crazily at his red button and his man showed no mercy, kicking out viciously with a stiletto-pointed armored boot. Down again went the opponent, the spike driven deep into his forehead.
    It was time for the game’s final move. Mike’s killer did a flip and crashed down on the fallen warrior’s skull. Blood and brain tissue squirted against the inside of the video screen. Death! Victory! 940,000 points.
    ‘How ‘bout it, Ace,’ Mike sneered. ‘Wanna play? You and me.’ He was ready. His neck veins throbbing. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll make it easy; ten bucks a match. Loser buys the drinks.’
    ‘How about fifty bucks a game?’ my mouth shot back. ‘How about that, Ace?’
    ‘You know Bloodbath? You play?’
    ‘Fifty bucks a game,’ I said. ‘Here’s mine.’ I slapped a hundred up on the glass.
    After he had won the first round, we began going double or nothing. Half an hour later, I was cleaned out. Twelve hundred dollars.
    I was evicted. That night at the recovery home, Chickenbone, the manager, saw me come in drunk. That was that. While I was packing I kept trying to call Jimmi from the upstairs payphone but her sister’s answering machine kept clicking on,screening my calls. After a pocketful of quarters, I finally left a message. ‘Jimmi—Bruno…I’m moving out. Tonight. They kicked me out…You there? I’m sorry you got fired. I got fired too. I want to see you. I want