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crapper.”
    Max lit a skinny cigar and returned to studying my résumé. “Okay,” he said finally, blowing out smoke and looking up at me. “I’m reading here under Additional Training. You’re also an MMA black belt?”
    “I know self-defense. That’s correct.”
    Another puff. Another cloud of smoke in my face. “And you went from L.A. to New York City and became a detective for five years. Is that how it went?”
    “Right.”
    “After the detective business and the poetry you returned to Los Angeles and became a telemarketer. And then you took the money from phone sales and opened a car rental agency?”
    “That’s pretty much it.”
    More smoke in my face.
    “So, look, Max,” I said, fanning the shit away, “can I ask you something? Can we cut to the chase here? I need this job. I’m a motivated guy and I want to let you know that I’ve got the chops you’re looking for. Bottom line, I can sell.”
    “I hear that, but I need you to be straight with me, JD. Woody mentioned that you guys go to AA together. Was your drinking why you changed jobs and blew off a couple of good careers? Was that it?”
    “The answer is yes.”
    “So you’ve flamed out?”
    “I’m in recovery. It isn’t easy for me to talk about this stuff. I’m a good salesman and I need a decent job to support myself.”
    “And now you’re drug-free? No booze? No bad habits?”
    “For over a year.”
    “So you burned your life down and now you’re looking for a way up and out. You want a shot at the car business?”
    The conversation had just become too personal. This guy had climbed too far up my ass and I didn’t like it. I was being “honest” for the first time in my life in a job interview and it was being used against me. I had a strong desire to lean across his desk, knock the skinny cigar out of Max’s mouth, then grab him by his faggot paisley tie and punch him until I could see blood—a lot of blood.
    “Okay, look,” I said, “Do you mind if we bottom-line this conversation? I can sell. I can sell anything. I can sell horseshit to quarter horses. You give me a shot at this deal and I’ll prove it to you. I’m a natural.”
    I got up from my chair again and held out my hand in my best imitation of Woody O’Rourke. “So how about it, Max? Do we have a deal?”
    Max got to his feet, too, but he didn’t shake. “Okay, here’s how I see it: you’re a friend of Woody’s. He’s been our top guy for months. Basically you have a good background in selling and if Woody says you’re okay, then that’s good enough for me. I’ll give you a shot.”
    But Max still didn’t shake my hand. Instead, his attention wandered to a notebook on his desk. He flipped it open and looked down at a list of what looked like upside-down license plate numbers. “Sherman Toyota supplies a demo car to all our salesmen. You’ll get yours tomorrow. We pay straight commission every two weeks.”
    “Woody told me about the demo car and I know there’s no guarantee,” I said.
    “How’s your driving record and arrest record?” Max asked. “Sherman does a background check.”
    I’d been worried that the question would come up and my head began to pound. I had to lie. It was my first and only lie in the interview. My DUIs would surely disqualify me from the job, although one was old enough to have come off my driving record. The last one had been reduced from a felony DUI. There were other things too: I had a jacket with the NYPD, but that wouldn’t come up in any California DMV search. My pal Woody had assured me that Sherman Toyota almost never does a background check for the first three months. By then, if I was selling well at the dealership, I might even be able to buy my own car and the problem would be moot. I wouldn’t need their demo car.
    “It’s fine,” I told Max.
    Of course the demo car was the reason I wanted the job in the first place—otherwise I’d be stuck in Malibu forever with Mom and Coco and their