Mooch (12 page)

BY NOW IT was clear that Frankie Freebase was unstoppable. Orbit’s summer Paris for Predators contest was about to enter its last week. His lead had ballooned to fifty-one thousand dollars in gross sales. Already swaggering, Freebase had prerewarded himself for the victory with a lease on a new Porsche Cabriolet. The gurgling yellow beast—tinted windows and racing scoop—sat in space number one of Eddy Kammegian’s new, exclusive Top Gun Parking Lot. Doc Franklin’s lowly black Caddy occupied slot number two. Franklin was a distant second and falling further behind.

The CEO of Orbit Computer Products loved keeping his staff pumped up. With seven days left, our big week-ending half-hour Friday morning sales meeting would now be devoted entirely to the Paris contest.

Precisely at five thirty a.m., Eddy Kammegian clanged his fire bell half a dozen times, signaling the staff to order. This done, he picked up his mic and faced his regiment of telemarketers.

Predictably, the Paris for Predators leaders were called up. First Freebase, then Doc Franklin, and finally, in third place, Judy Dunn. Frankie, as usual, used the opportunity to strut and crow. Kammegian shook his hand, and once again presented the number one guy with The Leader’s Sword for last month: a five-foot-long, gold plated medieval replica fucker that hung all week in the front hall by the reception desk above the scroll
of past winners. Eddy K, a piano of snowcapped teeth, draped his arm around Frankie’s shoulder. His voice boomed. It was an honor for him to present the Sword of Excellence to the number one salesman at Orbit Computer Products!

Loud cheering from the staff.

After the bestowal, Kammegian retold (for the new trainees) Frank’s Rags to Riches Story at Orbit. How the two had first met at an AA meeting in a half-way house. The boss lowered his voice for effect. Freebase, at the time, was twenty days sober with no previous sales experience. Eddy confided that it was at that first encounter he had detected the sleeping giant within the mean-spirited little prick. The next morning at Frank’s job interview, he had made a commitment to his own success and surrendered to Orbit’s sales training techniques. No more stinking thinking. Frank DeRosa was a
winner.
A true champion closer!

More cheering, stomping, and noise-makers filled the sales department.

Things were going according to plan.

Now, passing the microphone, Kammegian demanded that Frankie himself tell his co-workers
how he did it.

Frank’s part was the easy part. Everybody on the staff was Eddy K’s straight man. He began, as usual, by thanking The Big Guy for the opportunity that had altered his life forever (more cheering), then he gave the expected recitation on how he’d busted his hump for years and set his sights high and followed The Master Closing Formula;
make every call a sales call, try early in the sale for a close, close on every resistance, and keep closing time after time.

But then Frankie began ad-libbing and strutting; throwing in stuff about how these days the new people at Orbit were
pussies
with their computer-generated lead sheets, how they didn’t make enough cold calls, or work enough hours.
To illustrate how extraordinary marvelous and successful he was, Freebase unhooked his four-karat diamond tie pin and waved it in the air. He followed this with a recital of his personal sales statistics: a reorder closing ratio over thirty-one percent, twenty Fortune 500 clients, the largest account base at Orbit. Spit was flying from his mouth as he ended with a rant about his personal holdings which now included two condos, a boat, and a shopping center in Mar Vista.

When The Big Guy took the mic back, I could tell he was pissed off but fighting against showing any annoyance. Next, Eddy called on Doc Franklin.

Franklin was a good sport. So was Judy Dunn. They had endured this guff since the little rat first took the lead weeks before. Somehow Doc had still managed to retain his ‘Love Man’ facade.

He was about to speak when Freebase, who suddenly wasn’t yet done, snatched the mic back and began taunting the Number Two Man. Loudly, jeering, Frankie Freebase demanded that Doc tell the staff how it felt to be number two.

To everyone’s surprise, Doc was ready. He bullied the smaller guy aside, snatched the mic back, and raised both hands in a ‘V’-for-victory gesture. ‘I didn’t hear the fat lady sing!’ he bellowed. ‘Better be careful, Frank. She might be just starting to clear her throat!’

Wild cheering from the staff.

From his inside coat pocket, Doc pulled out a wide red beret and slipped it on. The goofy hat fell over his eyes and covered half his face.

The sales department clapped and hooted.

Doc grabbed Judy Dunn and began dancing a tango. ‘Watch who gets on zee Air France 747 to Pah-ree,’ he hissed. ‘It won’t
be
you,
fucko! Me and my lucky lady have already booked our limo for a tour of the wine country!’

Even Eddy Kammegian had to laugh.

The following Tuesday at four o’clock, the minute I walked in and closed the door to his office, I knew something was wrong. Kammegian sat stiff in his chair, staring straight ahead. In his double-breasted suit and diamond cufflinks The Big Guy looked like a pissed off, rich soccer coach. I dropped my sales records on the desk.

‘Have a seat, Bruno.’

‘Another good day,’ I said, sliding into my chair. ‘Five sales.’ I was fishing, uneasy, trying to catch his eyes for a sign of what might be coming. ‘Five hundred and twenty dollars in commissions. No prisoners. Rock solid deals.’

‘Very admirable. Congratulations.’

‘Right.’

He pushed my folder to the side of his desk. ‘This morning,’ he scowled, ‘I had a rather provocative telephone call.’

‘Okay.’

‘Clayton Timms from the Monday night men’s stag meeting called to check in.’

‘Okay, sure. I know Clayton.’

‘During our conversation, he mentioned that he had telephoned your apartment over the weekend about the change in time for next Monday. You have the coffee commitment at his AA meeting, correct?’

Now I knew. We were on the same page. ‘Okay Eddy, I see where this is going,’ I said.

Big Kammegian was on his feet. Fifteen-hour days and the pressure of the closing weeks of the Paris contest had made him more on edge and military than usual. ‘Jimmi Valiente answered your telephone. The same Miss Valiente that used
to be employed here at Orbit Computer Products. A rather unpleasant revelation.’

‘I wanted to tell you about Jimmi, Eddy.’

‘A crack addict and a trouble maker. A psycho hooker. Question: Are you drinking again, Mister Dante? Are you using rock cocaine with your girlfriend?’

‘I’m clean and sober. We both are. We’ve been living together for three weeks.’

‘When Clayton recognized her voice, he hung up. He’s had dealings with Jimmi before.’

‘That must’ve taken real guts.’

‘It’s a small world, Mister Dante. According to Clayton, before he got off drugs, he used to trade Miss Valiente dope for sex. She was living in her car at the time. It turns out she gives a first rate blow job.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with me and her.’

The veins were bulging on Kammegian’s neck. ‘The two of you are miracles of mental health!’

‘We’re going to meetings together.’

‘Two cripples. The walking wounded. Jimmi Valiente will trade your balls and your soul for a hit on the pipe, then leave you bleeding on the sidewalk. You’ve betrayed my trust, Mister Dante.’

‘No I didn’t, Eddy.’

‘We had a deal, remember? An agreement. Your commitment was to follow my direction to the letter. This was your opportunity to turn your life around.’

‘We had no deal about Jimmi. We never discussed Jimmi.’

‘Bullshit, Mister Dante! More evasion. Blatant prevarication.’

I remembered that my boss was an orphan. Once a homeless child on the streets of Venice. ‘Jimmi’s pregnant, Eddy…She’s having my kid.’

The Big Man flopped back in his chair and sighed heavily. ‘Splendid, Dante. And when were you planning on disclosing that fucking gem of information?’

‘What would you have done if you were me?’

‘It’s called changing seats on the
Titanic.
You’re a sap.
The beaver trail leads to wine country.
The last time you got involved with Valiente you wound up drunk in the emergency room.’

‘It’s different now.’

‘Insanity! Making the same mistake again and again, then expecting different results.’

I stood up. ‘Am I fired? If I am, I want to know.’

‘Get out of my office.’

THERE WAS ONE day left in the summer contest. That Thursday at three o’clock, with the sales staff gathered, Kammegian was awarding our spiffs for the day. Judy Dunn had sold five dozen 1403 printer ribbons on a reorder and made a six hundred thirty dollar commission. She came in first. She was given four darts to throw at the big, packed balloon board.

For the first time in a week, Frankie Freebase had come in second for the daily bonus. He’d only earned four hundred dollars in commission. And I was in third place with a solid three sixty.

With the boss officiating, we all stood in line waiting for our turn with the darts. His goading and cheerleading made Judy nervous. She was annoyed after throwing three of her darts and not popping any balloons. As she was getting ready to toss the last one, Doc Franklin, in his red beret, bounded across the sales floor holding an order. His smile was ear to ear.

‘Hold that dart!’ he screamed.

Eddy Kammegian took the order from his hand and checked the total.

The Big Guy stepped back, looking stunned.

‘Doc,’ he barked, ‘is this deal confirmed and for regular shipment?’

Franklin was vibrating with excitement, hopping up and down. ‘Signed, sealed, and delivered, Big Guy! You know
me! Good as gold! No air balls for the Doctor of Love! Ever!’

Kammegian, order in hand, crossed to his fire bell and began clanging it again and again. ‘My friends, fellow commandos,’ he yelled, ‘I hold in my hand an order. A massive order! A seventy-nine-thousand-dollar megaton explosion for paper and toner products from American Farmers Insurance!’

‘Is this for regular shipment?’ inquired the boss.

‘Two week delivery, Big Guy! One customer, one call! I just got off the phone. I am the Doctor! Number
One!
The Doctor of Love! Milton Butler is my bitch forever! My mooch for life!’

The sales department was hushed in disbelief.

As Eddy read each column of the order out loud, the staff returned to life and began applauding. The quantities and totals were staggering, unreal. Doc’s final commission on the deal was $35,052, his largest order ever. The Paris for Predators contest was now over. Out of reach. Frankie Freebase stood by, a handful of plastic darts at his side, speechless.

WAKING UP AT night with Timothy in bed between us was hard to get used to. Jimmi always slept naked and walked around the apartment without clothes. It was her way. During the day we sent him to YMCA camp. The kid had his own bedroom with a used Mac computer but he refused to sleep there. Most nights I’d be up and down anyway, smoking, moving from room to room in the dark like a ghost, my mind haunted, obsessed with some crazy shit or other that wouldn’t go away. I would read or write for an hour, then try to sleep again, going back to bed only to wake up later with the kid hugging me, attached to my arm or my leg.

Timothy turned six years old on the Saturday after the last day of the Orbit contest. For his birthday I went to Small World Books and bought him numbers one and two of the Anamorphs series by K.A. Applegate, a well-written sci-fi collection for pre-teen kids. The lady clerk said the paperbacks were advanced for a six year old and assured me of their popularity.

That night at home, the three of us were together with streamers, Hawaiian Punch, and a birthday cake. Timothy began opening his presents. When he got to mine, after tearing the wrapping open, he made a face.

‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ I said. ‘You told me that you appreciate fiction.’

The boy looked toward his mother but wouldn’t answer.

Jimmi saw the Anamorphs paperbacks and smiled. ‘Tell Bruno, mijo,’ she scolded.

‘No. It’s okay.’

‘I said tell him Timothy, for chrissake.’

He got up and padded quickly to his room and a minute later returned with a box. He set the container at my feet and opened the lid. All seventeen Anamorphs were inside. He piled them on the floor in front of me. ‘I like science fiction very much, Bruno, but I’ve read these. I can assure you they’re very engaging, especially
The Underground
and
The Escape.
I’ve read
Goosebumps
too. Basically, I guess you know, they’re written for children. I’m sure you would agree.’

‘Okay, then what about
Tarzan?
Have you read that? And
Robinson Crusoe?’

‘My favorite novel is
Stranger in a Strange Land.
I’m currently reading
Jurassic Park
by Michael Crichton.’

I pointed to my gift. ‘No problem,’ I said, ‘I’ve got the receipt. I’ll take ‘em back. I’ll keep Michael Crichton in mind.’

Timothy began re-boxing his Anamorphs. ‘Bruno…have I hurt your feelings?’

‘I look a little stupid,’ I said, laughing, ‘but I’ll live.’

Ten minutes later he was gone, back to play in his room, warming up to scare the shit out of mankind.

To keep herself busy, Jimmi took a day gig at a stand on the Venice boardwalk. She said she hated lap dancing and that she was through. Too slippery. Her new boss was a huge Latino peddler everybody called Mister Jewels. He assigned Jimmi to a booth close to the Sidewalk Cafe, selling yo-yos and kids’ magic coloring pens that changed shades as you used them. Her commissions were good right away; sometimes a hundred and fifty dollars a day. After day camp Timothy would meet
her and they would work the booth together. Jewels was smart, always insisting that Jimmi stand in front of the booth, pitching the tourist mooches and the beach crowd. Even pregnant and beginning to show, the people on the strand would see her in her halter top, her amazing good looks, and be drawn to stop by and spend.

Our sobriety is what seemed to bond us together. Sometimes I would come home and find notes taped to the refrigerator. Some were funny. ‘
BD,’
one started;
‘I bought us steaks on sale three pounds and rice and beans and lots of other shit. A hundred and fifty bucks. You’ll see. Look in the fridge. Timothy made me go back and get him turkey hot dogs. Three packs. My kid’s nuts. After the dentist another hundred and sixty-five dollars for two cavities he tole me he’s now a vegetarian. Who knows where he got that shit. I think it was in a magazine in the waiting room. He won’t say why he won’t eat meat only that it’s eleemosynary. When I asked him what eleemosynary was he said I should look it up if I wanted to know. Leave me more money so I can get more rabbit food for the vegetarian. Bye bye sweetie pie. J.V.’

On weekend nights we attended AA at a meeting room called the Marina Center. And, on Sunday mornings, before she went to work, the big open air Venice Beach AA meeting.

The sex was good too. Eventually, off crack, when I didn’t demand or ask, Jimmi just started wanting to fuck. But we never kissed, and she always made sure to say we weren’t in love.

It became regular. In bed at night, after the boy was asleep, we would tiptoe into his room to screw. Her on top always, the room dark, arms folded across her eyes or locked behind her head, slowly, grinding in a circle twenty minutes at a time, her body shiny from sweat, hair stuck to her face and neck like locks of black seaweed. I was lost. Nothing had ever felt this good.

But still she was restless. I could sense her need for separateness. There was distance, a visceral anger. For a day or two sometimes, for no reason, she would avoid talking or looking at me and snarl at the kid. Occasionally, needing a change, she would stay out at night with Mister Jewels, drinking coffee with the tattoo people and beach peddlers from the Venice strand. I didn’t mind. Because mostly it was good. Us living together was good. I knew time would make it right.