Day 123: Monday, February 8, 2010: The cell tower companies want to rent panel space on your belly.
Severance Pay: Continued from Day 122 . . .
Bobby Casseolla, aka Bobby Shenanigans, aka Bobby Bonia, and finally, Robert P. Kane, stared at a tall, gangly man representing the County of Los Angeles Public Health Department holding a very small, football-shaped mouse turd between the sharp pincers of his shiny new tweezers.
“I really don’t understand,” Bobby was explaining. “We’ve got traps out back, traps under the sinks, traps under the coolers and freezer . . . hold on a sec . . .”
He disappeared beneath his desk, coming up with a little plastic box trap.
“You feeling me? And we check them every single day.”
“The turd was in a salad, Mister Kane.”
“Shenanigans.”
“What . . . you think someone planted these?”
“My name is Bobby Shenanigans, and yes, it’s a fucking plant.”
The inspector checked his forms, scribbling something down.
“I mean . . . salad’s kind of a dead plant, but the turd was planted.”
“I know what you mean. About the pubic hair, Mister . . . uh . . .”
“Call me Bobby for chrissakes.”
“The pube, Bobby.”
“Don’t have a trap for those.”
“Apparently not where burgers are concerned.”
Bobby gave it away with five seconds of hesitation.
The man watched him carefully. “Naked women been making those burgers?”
“I never said that.”
“I would like to interview . . .”
“Christ almighty! The economy’s down; the chef stormed out; my lap girls are passing things on you don’t even want to know, and . . . uh . . . shit.”
“Right.” Scribble scribble scribble . . .
“I didn’t just say that.”
“Pretty much.”
“I’m out of luck here.”
“Tell you what, Bobby Whatever. Your license for serving food is hereby revoked for thirty days. There’s a list of things you need to do . . .”
He handed Bobby a sheet.
“And we’ll see you in a month.”
Bobby ran a thin hand through thin hair. “I can’t close the kitchen for a month.”
“Not can’t . . . will.”
Now Bobby’s face was in both hands, dragging them down to his chin, shaking his head. “First my crazy daughter screws up some business out east, and . . . and . . .”
He studied the man closely. “I just had your people in here . . . like . . . a week ago.”
“Sometimes it’s random.”
“Yeah?”
“Keeps everyone honest.”
“You never gave me a business card.”
The lanky inspector fished his wallet out and handed one over, Bobby studying the small print.
“Peter Adamovich? Ukrainian?”
“So it is.”
“This card looks like crap.”
Silence.
Bobby looked up. “Wasn’t there another guy with you? I swear when you first got in here . . .”
Peter tried to make himself look bigger. “I really don’t understand what any of these questions . . .”
Bobby’s hand disappeared to press the little red panic button, his other index finger pointing at Peter. “Don’t fucking move, buddy.”
“Sir, you’re threatening a public health official for the County of Los Angeles, California. I could make one call and have you arrested right here and now, with your business shut down indefinitely.”
Bobby never heard a word, watching his beautiful beast that was Sonny Fixit coming full tilt toward the door, Bobby hitting his door buzzer just as Peter spewed on about Amendment blah blah blah, and then there was silence, Peter very aware of something massive and terminally angry parked next to him.
“This guy came in with someone,” Bobby said, handing the business card to Sonny. “I wanna know where he is right now, and I want you to give Toots this card to run on her computer. See if this dude is really with the County.”
“His bud’s at the loser’s end,” Sonny growled, using a term for certain seats along the runway, near a dark corner. “He’s pounding vodkas and waving bills at Yolanda.”
Bobby looked at Peter and smiled. “Busted.”
Sonny shoved the lanky man hard, sending him to flop clumsily against empty beer cases stacked in a corner.
Bobby watched with interest. “Sonny?”
“It gets better.”
Peter gathered his balance and took a shaky step toward the door, watching both men carefully as Sonny continued. “The same guy was in here earlier, delivering bread for Ronzy. He was snooping around the salad area and shit, then a half hour later, another bread guy shows up with “what the fuck” on his face.”
Bobby looked at Peter. “I told you the chef walked out, but Sonny here has cooking skills, and gets in very, very early to set up. You didn’t plan on that, huh? Shitting all over us with planted mouse turds, to come back and claim problems.”
“Hey,” Sonny said. “Try my chicken cordon bleu.”
Peter tried the door instead, and fooled nobody.
“Buzzer lets you out,” Bobby said.
Sonny smiled ear to ear. “Buzzer lets me in.”
Bobby picked up his phone and speed-dialed The Perpetual Motion, as Sonny kept smiling at Peter. It was not a pleasant smile anymore.
“Victor,” Bobby said, winking at Sonny. “Guess what just happened?”
He listened a minute, saying, “I know, I know my friend, and I sent you a little check to cover expenses.”
He listened some more, nodding and rolling his eyes, asking Victor to repeat a couple things, as the accent was killing him.
“Don’t mention it. I told you my crazy daughter said she called it in; then pulled a quick disappearing act. I’m dying to see what the hell’s going on in her pretty little head.”
He listened, looking at Sonny, who was making faces at Peter.
“Hey!” Bobby said into the phone. “Everything comes around, and some goddamn health inspectors for the county just revoked my license like, forever.”
He listened some more, saying, “I know, I know!” as Sonny whispered, “This is your lucky day,” to Peter, Bobby finally wrapping things up on the phone.
“So you officially shut us down,” Bobby said, hanging-up as he addressed Peter.
“But we didn’t.”
“Guess what, Mister Sunabitch? I don’t need a game from your friends out east, so hit the road and pretend you pranked us back.”
Sonny stopped making faces. “Hey bud,” he said. “Punch me in the face.”
Bobby held a hand up. “Not now, Sonny. Jesus.”
“Bobby. He looks like he can really hit.”
Bobby covered his face. “I’m fucking surrounded.”
Peter started looking nervously at both men. “So you want me to go and pretend we shut you down?”
Bobby’s voice was muffled by hands. “Please.”
“But everyone’s always checking everyone. If they find out -”
“Then they think you’re in with us.”
“And I’m dead.”
Bobby’s hands dropped to show droopy eyes, pulled out of shape by his fingers. “Why are you people so quick to violence? Can’t you just do business without pain and discomfort?”
“C’mon,” Sonny said, tapping his left cheek. “Pound me one right here.”
“Sonny!” Bobby yelled, dropping his hands out of sight. “Take this bastard out back and do what you want, but don’t forget his little friend sitting at the runway.”
Sonny smiled. “When this is over, Peter? You’ll be punching the living hell out of me.”
“Please Sonny . . . there’s been enough violence.”
Sonny turned. “Hey! That’s a line from Humungus in The Road Warrior.”
Bobby hit his buzzer, and Sonny shoved Peter out into the late morning club.
The tired club owner went to his two way mirror and watched Sonny move like Sully in Monsters Inc., huge arms swinging loose as the big man guided Peter toward the loser’s end, then grabbing Peter’s arm as the other hoisted some guy out of his chair like a construction crane, the startled man swinging away and punching Sonny about four times right in the face.
The attacker suddenly cupped his busted hand like it was on fire, Sonny turning to escort both out the front door, blood streaming from his nose and mouth to the biggest smile Bobby ever saw.
“I’m surrounded,” Bobby repeated, reminded of something as he speed dialed Candy’s cell phone, then her room, then her mother’s house in Del Ray.
“Candy call you lately?”
“No,” Trixie said on the other end; shitty disco music playing in the background. “Something going on?”
“You tell me,” Bobby barked, slamming the phone.
He really didn’t like Candy’s mother, but now he was banking on birds of a feather, trying to find his only crazy kid.
To be continued . . .
