Chump Change by Dan Fante Page A

EVERLY H ILLS, until we got to Western Avenue, then I turned south. It was still morning rush hour and the hot wind blew dust and palm branches and garbage around the streets. Amy was sullen and crouched against the rear door. Her feet were pulled up under my army coat and the only part of her body visible was her head. The dog was exhausted and moaning with each breath and noiselessly farting. Lethally. Cookie-wine farts.
    I kept the windows down as we passed the nude mud-wrestling place and the porno shops, then crossed Santa Monica Boulevard. She hadn’t talked at all. Finally, I said, “Where am I taking you? Where do I drop you off?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Amy,” I said, “my head’s coming off. Talk to me or get the fuck out of the car.”
    “Pa-pa-pull over at the na-next corner, ba-by that store,” she said. “I’ll ga-get out tha-tha-tha-there.”
    It was a mini-mart/liquor store. I turned in and parked in a lined spot away from the entrance, then shut off the motor.
    She glared at me. “Wha-what you da-did ba-back there wa-was insane. It ska-scared the pa-pa-piss uh-out of ma-ma-ma-me.”
    “I said I was sorry. I have no tolerance for self-righteousness.”
    Then I had another thought. “And I hate people who wear cowboy hats.”
    Amy got out of the car and came around to my driver’s door. She was smiling, saying goodbye. “Wa-Want ma-me to ga-get ya-ya-ya-ya-you ssssssomething for ya-your sta-sta-stomach before I ga-go?”
    I couldn’t turn her down because I didn’t want to get out of the car unless I had to. With difficulty, I reached a shaking hand into my left pants’ pocket and worked a fistful of bills up into the light.
    She was impatient and snatched the money. “La-let me da-do that,” she whispered, “ya-you’re a fa-fa-fa-fuckin’ ka-case.”
    Quickly, she flattened the bills out, counted them, then gave me a total. I had two hundred and seventy dollars in twenties and tens, the last of my cash from New York, not counting the credit card. She handed the money back. “Wha-what do ya-you wa-want from inside?”
    “More wine,” I said, “Mogen David,” handing her a twenty. “Two bottles, and aspirin. And Pepto for the stomach.”
    “Ya-you think ya-you’ve ga-got a big da-dick, da-don’t ya-you? Sometimes ya-you act la-like you’re a ba-ba-big sha-shot?”
    “I do?”
    Ya-you think ya-your da-dick is ba-ba-bigger than Ta-Tom Sa-Sa-Sellnock’s?”
    “Who’s Tom Sellnock?”
    She smiled again. “Da-da-don’t worry Ba-Bruno, I na-knew you wa-were wha-wha-whacked-out and ca-crazy and wha-wha-wha-when I fa-first sa-saw ya-you. Ya-you have ca-crazy eyes.”
    Hers were big. Light brown. They softened her face. “Wa-want ma-ma-me to sta-stay with ya-you today? Ha-ha-hang out? Wa-wa-we’ll ga-ga-get the wa-wine and ga-go to ya-your pa-pa-place.”
    “I don’t have a place. I’ve only been back in L.A. for two days.”
    “Fa-from where?”
    “New York. New York City.”
    I wa-was tha-there wa-once. Ah-I la-liked it.”
    “My father died at Cedars last night. I was born here.”
    “La-let’s ga-get a ra-room. A mah-mah-mah-motel. Ya-you’ve ga-got money.”
    “How much will it cost for you.”
    “Ah-ah-I’m ma-moving ta-ta-today and picking up ma-my st-stuff from fa-fa-fuckin’ Ma-Ma-MC-Ba-Beth’s ah-ah-apartment. Tha-tha-that’s it. I pa-promise. Ha-he’s ta-two blocks fa-fa-fa-from ha-here.”
    We got one of the bottles of wine free because Amy knew the day manager behind the counter. We continued down WesternAvenue to Romaine and turned east. After a block, we pulled over in front of a pre-Hollywood Twenties Craftsman House with stone pillars supporting the porch. It had heavy concrete steps and was set far back off the street, falling apart. Amy instructed, “Ta-take off your sh-sha-shirt and ga-give it to ma-me.” I did and she slipped the army jacket off her shoulders and pulled my buttoned shirt over her little body. When she stood on the sidewalk