Pulp - Charles Bukowski [84]
“I really don’t know how to introduce you two because I’m not sure who either of you are,” I told him.
“What kind of dick are you?” Celine asked.
“The best in L.A.”
“Yes? What’s L.A. stand for?”
“Lost Assholes.”
“You been drinking?”
“Recently,” I answered.
Lady Death’s whiskey sour arrived. She slammed it down. Then looked at Celine.
“So, introduce yourself. What’s your name?”
“Spike Jenkins.”
“Spike Jenkins is dead.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
I nodded the waiter over and ordered 3 more drinks.
Then we just sat and looked at each other.
“Now,” I said, “what we have here is a stalemate, a definite stalemate. Meanwhile, I’m buying all the drinks. So, let’s make a little bet and the one who loses buys the next round.”
“What kinda bet?” asked Celine.
“Oh, something simple, like how many numbers on your driver’s license. I mean the numbers which indicate the license itself.”
“Sounds stupid,” said Celine.
“Be a sport,” I said.
“Don’t be chicken,” said Lady Death.
“Well, I’ll have to guess,” said Celine.
“Take a shot,” I said.
“Give it your best, baby,” said Lady Death.
“O.k.,” said Celine, “I’ll say 8.”
“I’ll take 7,” said Lady Death.
“I’ll take 5,” I said.
“Now,” I said, “let’s look at our licenses, let’s have a look.”
We dug them out.
“Ah,” said Lady Death, “mine has 7!”
“Damn it,” I said, “mine has 7.”
“Mine has 8,” said Celine.
“That can’t be,” I said, “here, let me have a look.”
I reached out and took his license. I counted.
“Yours has 7. You counted the letter which precedes the numbers. That’s what you did. Here, look…”
I handed the license to Lady Death. There were 7 numbers and also some other information: LOUIS FERDINAND DESTOUCHES, b. 1894-.
God damn. I began to tremble all over. Not large trembles but good sized ones. With great will power I brought them down to a rather continuous shiver. All too much. It was him, sitting there with us at a table in Musso’s in an afternoon which was leaning toward the 21st century.
Lady Death was ecstatic, that’s all, ecstatic. She looked truly beautiful, glowing all over.
“Gimme my god-damned driver’s license,” said Celine.
“Sure, big boy,” said Lady Death, smiling, handing it back.
“Well,” I said to Celine, “looks like both you and I lost. So we’ll flip a coin to decide who buys, o.k.?”
“Sure,” said Celine.
I got out my lucky quarter, flipped it up in the air and yelled at Celine: “Call it!”
“Tails!” he yelled.
It hit the table and sat there. Heads.
I picked up the quarter and put it back into my pocket. “Somehow,” I said to Celine, “I have a feeling that this isn’t going to be your day.”
“It’s going to be my day,” said Lady Death.
And like that, the drinks arrived.
“Put these on my tab,” Celine told the waiter.
We sat there with our drinks.
“Somehow I feel like I’ve been taken,” said Celine.
He slugged his drink down.
“They warned me about you L.A. creeps.”
“You still practice medicine?” I asked him.
“I’m gettin’ out of here,” he said.
“Ah, come on,” said Lady Death, “have another drink. Life is short.”
“No, I’m gettin’ the hell out of here!”
He tossed a 20 on the table, got up and walked toward the exit, then was gone.
“Well,” I said to Lady Death, “he’s gone…”
“Not quite,” she said.
There was a sound, the sound of screeching brakes. There was a loud thump, like metal hitting flesh. I jumped up from the table and ran outside. There in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard was the still body of Celine. A fat woman in a big red hat, who had been driving the ancient Olds, got out and screamed and screamed and screamed. Celine was very still. I knew that he was dead.
I turned around and walked back into Musso’s. Lady D. was gone. I sat back down at the table. My drink was untouched. I took care of that. Then I just sat there. The good die old, I thought. Then I just sat there some more.
“Hey, Jenkins,” I heard a voice, “all your friends are gone. Where’d all your friends go?”
It was the Loomer. He was still there.
“What’re you drinking?” I asked.
“Rum and coke.”
I got the waiter. “Two rum and cokes,