Bobby Gold Stories (2 page)

Bobby hit him across the nose with the back of his hand. Quickly. It was a sharp, precise blow that knocked Jerry into his
chair-back.

"Shit!" said Jerry, honking a red streak onto his shirt front, then covering his face with the handkerchief. He rocked silently
in his chair for a moment while Bobby looked around the room for a fat enough book to finish with.

"Get it over with!" hissed Jerry. "Do it now .. . while I'm distracted!" He rolled up his shirt sleeve.

Bobby found what he was looking for — a thick, hardback copy
of Molluscs and Bivalves of the North
Atlantic,
and quickly placed the book in front of Jerry on the desk. Jerry knew the drill. He compliantly laid his thin, blue-veined
arm against the spine so that the hand was raised, then closed his eyes. "Do it!" he said.

When Bobby brought his fist down on Jerry's radial ulna — the thinner of the two bones between wrist and elbow — there was
a muffled snap, like a bottle breaking beneath a pillow.

"Ohhh . . . " moaned Jerry, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes.

"Oh . . . Bobby . . . that hurt. Fuck me . . . it hurts . . ."

"It's over now, Jerry," said Bobby. He wanted to comfort the old man now - wished he could put his arms around his shoulders
— even kiss him on the cheek like he'd had to as a child.

"It hurts," said Jerry. "It hurts worse than I remembered." Bobby went out and found a clean apron on top of a locker. When
he got back, Jerry was still rocking back and forth, the injured limb held close to his body, his eyes still closed.

"C'mon, Jerry. Here we go," said Bobby. He fashioned a serviceable sling out of the apron, helped the old man's arm into it,
then primly adjusted it around his neck.

"Motherfuck!!" said Jerry, through clenched teeth. "It's hot. It feels hot . . . and it hurts . . ."

"Hey . . . It's over," was all Bobby could think of to say.

"Yeah . . . thanks," said Jerry. "Thanks for breaking my arm." A thin dribble of blood ran from one nostril, collecting on
his lip. The whites of his eyes were turning red — as intended. Bobby felt the urge to lean over and blot the nose with a
tissue, but resisted.

"It could have been those kids from Arthur Avenue, Jerry," said Bobby, lamely.

"Yeah . . . you're right. He coulda sent the kids," said Jerry, bitterly. "I love this! Like I'm supposed to be grateful?
You broke my fucking arm!!"

"What hospital you want to go to? I can drop you at St. Vincent's, you want."

"Fuck you, Bobby. I'll walk over to Roosevelt."

"St. Vincent's is better . . . You won't have so much of a wait, Jerry. It's cleaner. C'mon . . . I'll take you in a cab .
. ."

"Get the fuck outta here Bobby, okay?"

"It's raining, Jerry . . ."

"I know it's fucking raining, Bobby Gold . . . Stop it, already . . . You did what you hadda do. Now get the fuck outta here
and leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, Jerry. It's my job. This is what I do . . ."

Jerry looked up at him with sudden and unexpected clarity. "I know . . ." he said. "That's what's fucked up about you, Bobby.
You are sorry. You got no fucking heart for this shit — but you do it anyway, don't you?" He turned his face away, as if looking
at Bobby disgusted him. "What the fuck happened to you, for fuck's sake? Nice Jewish boy . . . educated . . . and you're beatin'
on old men — your uncle . . . your own mother's brother, for a fuckin' living. Some fuckin' life you got, Bobby . . ." His
voice cracked, barely audible. "Little Bobby Goldstein, all grown up. Your father — he must be very proud . . ."

Bobby flinched. "Fuck you, Jerry . . . I wouldn't have to do this shit — you paid your debts on time. Don't start talking
about family — the way you live - all right?"

"Awright . . . I'm sorry," said Jerry. "I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have said that . .." He looked out the window, voice steadier
now, and sadder. "Who am I to judge a person?"

It was coming down hard on 9th Avenue when Bobby and Jerry emerged from JayBee Seafood. The old man was looking drugged and
dreamy now, his eyes pinned from the Demerol, mouth slack at the corners.

"Let me get you a cab," offered Bobby for the last time, signaling with his hand.

Jerry waved him away. "You take it. I'm not fucking helpless here, Bobby. I can take care of myself. I was having guys busted
up worse than this when I was half your age — those two guinea cocksuckers he sent the last time? Next week, the very next
week — from my hospital bed — I call Eddie and have him send those two down to see some other schmuck owes
me
money — so I ain't gonna curl up and die cause I gotta stand up for another ass-kicking, all right? Now get lost, you little
pisher . . . tell that midget gonniff cocksucker you work for he can send somebody over tomorrow to pick up the money. Now
leave me alone . . ."

When Bobby left him, standing hatless and coatless in the rain, looking up 9th Avenue toward Roosevelt Hospital, the old man
was weeping. Bobby saw him holding the handkerchief to his nose as his cab pulled away from the curb. He watched him through
the raindrop patterns of the cab window as Jerry slowly started to walk, one foot in front of the other, shoulders hunched
protectively over the broken arm, growing smaller in the distance.

BOBBY THE DIPLOMAT

B
obby Gold in work clothes — black sport jacket, black button-down dress shirt, skinny black tie, black chinos and comfortable
black shoes — pushed open the double doors onto the mezzanine level of NiteKlub. Below, on the dance floor, heads were bobbing
in the smoke and the strobes, the heavy bass tones from the half-million-dollar sound system vibrating through the concrete.
Fifty feet away, on his left, the mezzanine bar was doing big business, stacked three-deep with customers. He saw Del, the
mezz security man, hurrying toward him.

"Bobby! This is outta control! Have you seen this?"

Bobby looked around, saw, as his eyes adjusted to the light, what was happening.

They were kids. The whole fucking crowd. Not one of the customers clamoring for drinks over the upstairs bar looked to be
over seventeen. They were everywhere: chunky girls with teased hair wearing camisoles, skinny boys with baggy jeans and sneakers
that glowed in the dark — teenagers, shirtless, dressed up, dressed down, in makeup, wearing wigs, sunglasses, drag, full
nightclub battledress — and they were running wild. In pairs, in packs, eyes lit with X, with booze, with animal tranquilizers,
ketamine, Mom's pilfered Valiums, ephedrine, mushrooms and God knows what else. Every one of these little bastards was a potentially
ticking time bomb. At the small bar, they signaled noisily for Long Island Iced Teas, Kamikazes, tequila shooters, Lite beers
and rum and cokes. Bobby could scarcely believe it.

"You gotta do something about this," said Del, in despair. "And look . . ." he added, "check this out." He drew Bobby over
to the booths running along the mezzanine wall and yanked back a curtain to reveal a short blond girl, legs in the air on
the middle of a dinner table, her drunken boyfriend in a warm-up jacket grunting over her, his pants down around his ankles.
Another boy sat slumped in a chair by her head, unconscious, his mouth open, snoring. The girl looked right up at Bobby with
uninflected, porcine little eyes. She was chewing gum.

"They're going at it everywhere," said Del, disgustedly. "I found two in the air-conditioning room before. More in the dry
goods area. They're fucking all over the place like little bunnies. Can you believe this shit?"

A young girl in a brassiere and blue jeans hurried past them, fell to her knees and vomited into the base of a potted palm.
"Remind me to never have kids," said Del.

"You have kids, don't you?" said Bobby, reaching for his radio.

"Yeah . . . well, remind me to not let them grow any more."

Bobby trotted to the lobby, calling into his radio for Tiny Lopez on the street security detail.

"Tiny! . . . What's your twenty?"

"I ousside, man. Whassup?" said Tiny, a three-hundred-eighty-pounder whom Bobby had placed out front for crowd control.

"We're shutting it down. Tell the friskers. I'll let them know at the desk," said Bobby. He squeezed past a long line of kids
who were ascending the main staircase, signaled the downstairs bartenders that something was up, drawing a finger across his
throat to give them the sign to stop serving. The lobby was packed. It took him two solid minutes to make it the last few
yards to the front desk, where Frank, a silver-haired charity-case pal of Eddie's, was stamping hands, standing next to two
young promoters in shiny sharkskin suits. Bobby shouted to the security men at the door to close it down, alerted Tiny to
what was going on over the radio, and had the two friskers move together to block off access at the choke point.

"Shut the doors," he said, "Nobody gets in."

One of the promoters was in green sharkskin, the other, orange. Green sharkskin looked up. "What the fuck, man?" he said.
"What are you doing?"

Bobby pushed through the crowd of bodies until he towered over him.

"That's it. Show's over," he said. "I'm shutting it down."

"What?" exclaimed orange suit.

"You heard me," said Bobby, struggling to keep his voice under control. "Frankie," he said, "who's been carding these people?"

Frank nodded at the two promoters, neither of whom looked to be of age themselves. "Eddie said they was in charge of the door.
They . . . they said that Eddie said it was okay."

"What the fuck you think you're doing here?" Bobby demanded of green suit — clearly the alpha male of the two. He saw right
away that the kid was going to get up in his face. Orange suit moved closer, shoulders back, trying to look bigger than he
was. Bobby outweighed both of them together.

"Whass goin' on?" said orange suit in a whiny voice. "Why we stopping?"

"You costin' us money, bro'," protested green suit.

Bobby slapped him across the face and he fell against the wall like a stunned trout. He grabbed a fistful of sharkskin with
his right hand and a fistful of sharkskin with his left and dragged the two promoters into the cloakroom where it was a little
quieter, pushed them both up against the coat racks.

"What kind of fuckin' jerks am I talkin' to here?" he demanded.

"What the fuck you talkin' about?" said green suit. Orange suit was too shaken to talk.

"Eddie said — "

Bobby slapped him again.

"Let me explain something to you, asshole," said Bobby, speaking softly.

"This is a business. What do you think's gonna happen — one a these girls you letting in here goes home late, drunk outta
her mind, her parents find her puking all over the doorstep with jiz all over her dress?"

"We're straight with Eddie, man. This is our event!" ventured orange suit, finding a little courage.

"Yeah? You know what I think Eddie said?" said Bobby. "I think he said that you two morons promote the event. That's what
I think he said. I think he said that you two do the advertising. That you get the door and we get the bar. That's what I
think he said. I don't think he told you two shit stains to let every fifteen-year-old in the five boroughs in the door without
carding them. I don't think he asked you twerps to get his liquor license pulled for him!"

"He's gettin' fifteen percent a the door!" howled green suit. "This is costing us money, bro'!"

"Listen carefully," said Bobby. "And watch my hands. Because if I want any more shit outta you, I'm gonna squeeze your fucking
head . . . Nobody else is getting in this place until everybody in the club has been carded and checked and all the minors
are out of here. You two are half smart? You'll step outside yourselves and make the announcement that everyone is expected
to produce valid ID. Not those knock-offs you can buy a few blocks over. We're talking driver's license, passport, photo fucking
ID, got it? I'm having my people go through this club to check everyone who's already here. Anyone under twenty-one is out.
The sooner we get that done, the sooner we can all go back to making money. Is that understood?"

The two promoters looked at their shoes, humiliated.

"I want to talk to Eddie," said green suit.

"You want to talk to Eddie?" said Bobby, incredulous. "Here," he said, offering green suit his cell phone. "I'll give you
the number. You can call him right now. Interrupt the man's business and explain to him why he's gonna get sued when one of
these underage teeny-boppers plows Daddy's Lexus into a bus load a fucking nuns. You want to explain that? Tell him not to
worry? That you got it under control? That you definitely ain't gonna put his business in jeopardy, get his license yanked?
That he can count on you two to make sure he doesn't wake up tomorrow and see his fucking picture on the cover of the
Post?
. . . Here!" Bobby said, shoving the cell phone under green suit's nose. "C'mon, tough guy. Call him."

"Fuck it, man," said orange suit.

Green suit just glared at him while Bobby continued holding the phone under his nose. When he finally averted his gaze, Bobby
turned his back and walked away, giving instructions into the radio.

After calling in additional security from the exits, Bobby put together a flying squad to move about the club, checking ID
and escorting those without to the doors. He moved about the club, overseeing the operation - and everywhere he went there
was trouble. Outside the Blue Room, he saw his man Rick holding a struggling youth in a full nelson. Rick had a red welt over
his right eye, and was having a hard time controlling the kid without hitting him. A teenage girl was crying on a banquette
while her boyfriend was being subdued. A bottle was thrown, and another security man rushed towards the source.

"Little bastard cold-cocked me," said Rick, through bloody teeth, as he frog-walked the kid down the stairs. "He must weigh
eighty pounds!"

"Get him out," sighed Bobby. "And try not to humiliate him in front of his girlfriend. He might come back with a slingshot."

Another security man, Melvin, with a bad gash over his nose, carried a young man in overalls down the stairs, yelling, "Coming
through!" Furniture was kicked over. More bottles were thrown. Bobby radioed the sound booth and told the head of tech to
shut off the music and turn up the house lights.

It took nearly an hour to clear the club. When it was over, only a small group, those who'd actually been twenty-one, huddled
by the bar, waiting for it to reopen. Half of Bobby's security team of thirteen able-bodied men and one woman had been scratched,
punched, hit with flying objects or in some way injured. Before reopening the bars, Bobby positioned two extra people in the
street and doubled the force at the door — in case some of the ejected kids came back with retribution in mind.

When things were finally under control, an older-looking crowd filing into the entrance in orderly fashion — first frisked,
then escorted through the metal detectors, then carded, money taken and hands stamped, Bobby looked up to see Frank gesturing
worriedly at the door with his chin, pointing out two men who were standing patiently at the head of the VIP line.

One of them was a crew-cut hard case in a turtleneck and trench coat. The other was a fiftyish gent with snow-white hair,
thin lips and flashing brown eyes in a dark suit and camel-hair overcoat. Tommy Victory. Bobby could see the kid in the green
suit smirking at him from nearby. Bobby went right over to Tommy, knowing this was trouble, and respectfully offered a hand.

"Tommy. How are you?" he said.

"Bobby," said Tommy, looking irritated. "I understand there was a problem here." He looked around for a second, said, "Is
there someplace we can talk?"

"Yeah, sure," said Bobby.

He took the two men upstairs and through the Blue Room into the tiny office the banquet department used during the day — and
closed the door behind them. Tommy plunked himself down behind the banquet manager's desk without bothering to take off his
coat and gestured for Bobby to sit across from him. The big man with the crew cut stayed on his feet, remaining behind and
slightly to the right of Bobby, his hand resting ominously on his shoulder.

"My nephew called me a while ago," said Tommy. "I'm in the middle of a late supper with some friends . . . and the kid calls
me. He says you hit him. Is that true, Bobby?"

Bobby could feel crew cut's hand tighten on his shoulder.

"Which one's your nephew, Tommy?" Bobby asked.

"Kid inna green suit. He says you smacked him around."

"If I'd known he was your nephew, Tommy, I would have been a little more diplomatic," said Bobby. "I would have called you
directly."

"So what's the problem here, Bobby?" asked Tommy. "Why you go and have to put a hand on my nephew? What he do? He's a good
kid!"

"Tommy . . . They were letting in children. Fourteen, fifteen years old. They coulda got our license yanked. There were teenage
girls upstairs getting fucking gangbanged on the dinner tables. It was outta control."

"So? So you hadda hit the kid?"

The crew-cut bodyguard's hand started to move around. Bobby could smell his aftershave.

"Tommy," said Bobby. "I'd like very much for us to talk about this like men. Straighten out any misunderstandings. Make amends.
Whatever. But, with all due respect to you? If this cocksucker behind me doesn't take his hand offa my shoulder like right
now, I'm gonna snap it off at the wrist and shove it up his ass."

Bobby could feel anger and alarm running like a current through crew cut's hand. He was getting ready to turn around, when
Tommy smiled and put up a hand.

"Richie," he said. "Give the man some room." Then he laughed, a long wheezy laugh. "He'd do it, you know. Bobby here? He's
one crazy, bad-ass motherfucker. Am I right, Bobby?"

Richie didn't seem so sure. Though he'd released his grip on Bobby's shoulder, he still loomed close.

"More room," said Tommy. "Give him some space to fucking breathe. Believe me. You don't want to fuck with this guy. Friends
a mine was upstate with this testadura. He's got some sorta kung-fu shit or something. Studied fucking medicine whiles he
was up there - like . . . where the bones are and shit. So he knows how to fuck a guy up. He's like a ox, this guy."

"He don't look like much to me," said Richie. The first words out of his mouth.

Bobby said nothing, his eyes on Tommy.

"Think?" said Tommy, smiling. "Tell that to Terry Doyle. You remember Terry? The middleweight champeen? He was up on a rape
charge when Bad Bobby was there. Terry liked dark, young, good-looking fellas like Bobby here — and this was before Bobby
was big like he is now. OP Ter' tried to help Bobby wash his back in the shower one day — him and a bunch a his pals. They
say he felt like a fuckin' dishrag when they came for him. Sounded like a bag fulla chicken bones when they loaded what was
left a Terry onto the fuckin' gurney - wasn't no bone over a foot long that wasn't busted. His head looked like a beach ball
you let the air outta. You don't want to tangle with this guy, Richie. Just leave it at that. I got confidence we can straighten
this out."

"Thanks, Tommy," said Bobby.

"I still say you didn't have to smack the kid," said Tommy. "That just isn't right. It's disrespectful. A few kids drinkin'
. . . gettin' rowdy . . . That's still no reason."