86'd by Dan Fante Page B

her grandmother was waiting in the limo at the side entrance and that there were guys with cameras there too. Che-Che smiled and nodded and said she’d be out in a few minutes.
     
    As she left the building I was standing by the rear door of the limo waiting to open it. After signing an autograph or two, when she started to cross the sidewalk, one of the photographers—a guy a foot taller than me wearing an L.A. Lakers cap—jumped in front of her and began clicking. I sidestepped the guy, then body-blocked him in an effort to clear Che-Che’s path. He got even by elbowing me in the stomach. Hard. Then the jerk was right in her face again, snapping away.
    I wasn’t hurt but I was mad. It had been a couple of years since I’d clouted anyone and this guy was twice my size and must have assumed he could bully me. Eddie Bunker, the writer, once told me the secret to brawling: Always get in the first punch. This putz had it coming. Eddie would have been proud. A nice surprise left hook to the cheek, à la Bernard Hopkins.
    The guy looked shocked. He grabbed his face then fell against Che-Che as his camera hit the ground and broke.
    I opened the back door and hustled J.C.’s granddaughterinto my limo. As we pulled away, “Laker Cap” was still standing on the sidewalk holding his face.
     
    J.C.’s hand was on my arm. “Thank you, Bruno.”
    “No big deal,” I said. “I don’t like being strong-armed. The guy was out of line.”
    “I won’t forget today,” she whispered. “That was very gallant.” Then she turned to her granddaughter. “Are you all right, Marcella?”
    “The cocksucker deserved it. What a cazzo. Nice hook, Bruno. That’s your name, right?”
    “Right,” I said. “Bruno.”
    “That motherfucker’s been in my shit for three days. Ever since I got to L.A.”
    “Marcella, do you mind? I’m in the car too. That language is simply uncalled for—I know, how about lunch, dear? Let’s put this unpleasantness behind us.”
    “Sure, Nana. That’s a good idea. Anyplace where I can get a drink is fine with me.”
    Then Che-Che lit a cigarette. She was rattled and pissed off. “You know, that blowjob Morty Shiff isn’t paying me enough to go on TV and front his line of goop and powder. I don’t need this crap. I should’ve asked for more money. A lot more money.”
    “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child,” J.C. whispered. “Please dear, you’re upsetting me. That’s quite enough.” Grandma was now attempting to comfort wide-awake, jumpy, fat Tahuti. “And please, do you mind not smoking in an enclosed car.”
    “Okay, Nana, you’re right. I’m sorry,” she said, then tossed her butt out the window. “But between fuckin’ La Natura Cosmetics and that coke-slamming guitar player ex of mine, my goddamn life is a zoo. I’m really sick of this shit.”
     
    As it turned out our problem wasn’t over. A few blocks later I saw two cars following us: a green two-door and an open, yellow sports car. I recognized both the guys riding in the passenger seats from outside the department store.
    Che-Che noticed me checking my mirror then looked back and saw them too. “Now what?” she snarled. “These dickheads won’t leave me alone. Menica!”
    “I think we’ll be okay,” I said. “My company does a lot of concerts. I’ve been through this before.”
    With that I punched the gas pedal, crossing the double line on Wilshire and speeding past the three stopped cars ahead of me waiting for the light. Then I swung a quick right on a side street. Reeves Drive.
    I pulled over in front of a little residential hotel that was just off the corner—a hangout I knew about that catered to out-of-work studio musicians—called the Saint Paul.
    “Look, Che-Che,” I said, pointing at the hotel, “I’ve got an idea. I know this place. There’s a lobby inside. If you get out here and give me about half an hour to get rid of these guys, we can swing back to pick