Bobby Gold Stories (3 page)

"One of the kids upstairs," began Bobby, "getting poked on the table? I recognized her. It was Christine Failla. She can't
be more than fifteen."

Bobby watched the color drain out of Tommy's face.

"Paulie's kid?"

"The same," said Bobby.

"Minchia!!" hissed Tommy, screwing up his face in an expression of distate — and worry. "Jesus Cheerist! . . . I was at her
first communion for fuck's sake!"

Bobby shrugged and said nothing, content to let Tommy think things through now.

"You sure it was her?"

"Me and Eddie were at her confirmation. Out on the Island."

"I missed that," said Tommy. "I was in AC that week. Jesus . . . Paulie's little girl. You're sure?"

Bobby nodded gravely. "I saw that, I figured I hadda move fast. What am I gonna do? I can't tell anybody. Your nephew? I don't
know who the fuck he is. Even if I did — mean, Tommy . . . What's Big Paul gonna say? He finds out his baby girl is gettin'
porked onna dinner table in Eddie's club? A buncha drunken frat boys watchin' the whole thing? I don't think he'd be too happy."

Tommy exhaled loudly and actually shuddered visibly. "You did the right thing, Bobby. You did what you hadda do. Where is
that fucking nephew a mine — I'll give him a fuckin' beatin' myself . . ."

Bobby smiled reassuringly. "Forget it. I cleared the club. Everything's cool."

"Jesuss . . ." said Tommy. "Fifteen . . . Listen . . . This goes no further than this room. Nobody . . . and I mean nobody
finds out. Paulie hears about this . . . even a hint . . . and I don't even want to think about it.

"My nephew doesn't know, right?" said Tommy, standing up.

"He doesn't know."

"Good. He's a sweet kid — but he's got a mouth on him. His mother didn't hit him enough. That's the problem."

"Kids today," said Bobby.

"No shit."

"So we're straight on this?"

"Sure," said Tommy, making for the door. He stopped and shook Bobby's hand, warmly.

"I'm in your debt."

Later, Bobby stood in nearly ankle-deep litter on the empty dance floor, watching the bartenders break down and count out.
He felt badly about besmirching the reputation of a fifteen-year-old girl who — as far as he knew, was safely tucked into
bed with her stuffed toys somewhere out on Long Island — and could well have been all night. In truth, he hadn't seen Chrissie
Failla since Eddie had pointed her out, years earlier, waiting for the pony ride at Eddie's kid's birthday party in Westchester.
But it had been a necessary lie. Tommy V had put him, and Eddie, in a tough spot. Smack a made guy's nephew and people have
to make hard decisions. Appearances have to be kept up. Allegiances affirmed and reaffirmed. Somebody somewhere sits down
with a bunch of old men who aren't even close to the situation and then somebody has to get hurt.

Bobby knew how that worked.

And it wasn't going to happen here.

Not this time anyway.

BOBBY EATS OUT

B
obby Gold in black Armani suit (from a load hijacked out of Kennedy), skinny black tie, black silk shirt and black Oxfords
sat on the banquette of 210 Park Grill and looked uncomfortably at Eddie Fish's sourdough dinner roll. Eddie had torn the
thing apart but hadn't eaten any; the bits of bread and crust lay scattered on his plate like an autopsied crime victim. When
the drinks came, vodka rocks for Bobby, Patron straight up with a side of fresh lime juice for Eddie, Bobby drained his in
two gulps, exhausted already.

At thirty-eight years old, Eddie Fish had not once in his life had to wash his own shirt, clean an ashtray, pick up after
himself or take public transportation. He was a little man; five-foot-four in heels, and impeccably dressed today: a charcoal
gray pinstriped suit from an English tailor, ultra-thin Swiss timepiece, hand-painted silk tie, shirt from Turnbull and Asser,
and Italian shoes made from unborn calfskin. His nails were buffed and polished, and his hair, trimmed twice a week by the
same man who'd cut his father's, was neat and curiously untouched by gray. Eddie Fish's skin was golden brown, burnished by
strong Caribbean sun, and his pores were clean and tight after a morning visit to his dermatologist. He looked pretty much
like the man he imagined himself to be: a successful businessman, a nice guy, a democrat and a citizen of the world.

"They love me here," said Eddie Fish, one arm over his chair back, motioning for a waiter.

"Can't you just pick something and order?" pleaded Bobby, knowing it was hopeless.

"I need a minute," said Eddie, his eyes darting around inside his head like trapped hamsters.

The waiter arrived and asked if they were ready to order.

"Would you like a few moments to decide?" inquired the waiter politely after Eddie ignored him, his nose buried in the menu.

"No . . . no. Stay," commanded Eddie.

For Eddie Fish, menus were like the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Rosetta Stone, the Kabbalah and
Finnegans Wake
all rolled into one impenetrable document. There were hidden messages, secrets that had to be rooted out before it was safe
to order. There was, there had to be, Eddie was convinced, some way of getting something better, something extra — the good
stuff they weren't telling everybody about. Somebody somewhere was getting something better than what appeared here. Someone
richer, taller, with better connections was getting a little extra and Eddie was not going to be denied.

Brow furrowed, the muscles in his jaws working furiously, he scrutinized each item on the menu, each listed ingredient, his
eyes moving up and down the columns, then back again.

Bobby had decided on onglet medium-rare thirty seconds after picking up the menu and he looked around the room, killing time,
waiting for Eddie. It was mostly women here; long-legged ones with foreign accents and faces pulled tight, a few weedy-looking
men who looked like their moms had dressed them. They were packed in three-deep at the bar, a host hurrying to air-kiss new
arrivals. Their waiter, still waiting on Eddie, looked nervously at the rest of his rapidly overflowing station.

"The oysters . . . " began Eddie. "Where are they from ?"

"Prince Edward Island, sir," replied the waiter. "Nova Scotia. They're excellent."

"You have any Wellfleet oysters?" inquired Eddie, looking grave. Bobby nearly groaned out loud. Eddie wouldn't have known
a Wellfleet oyster if one had climbed up his leg, fastened itself on his dick and announced itself in fluent English. He must
have seen them on another menu.

"I'm sorry, sir. No. We don't have them," said the waiter. "We only have the Prince Edward Island's."

"And . . . what kind of sauce do they come with?" asked Eddie. "I don't want any cocktail sauce . . . that red stuff. I don't
want that."

"They're served with a rice-wine wasabi vinaigrette," said the waiter.

"Like it says on the fucking menu . . ." he could have added.

"Uh huh . . ." said Eddie, processing this last bit of information, wondering no doubt if the waiter was trying to trick him
somehow. Wasabi . . . Wasabi . . . Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

Bobby saw something being resolved. A decision had been made on the oyster question. "Can you ask the chef to make me some
of that sauce with the shallots in it? What do you call that? Mignonette! I want mignonette sauce. It's like . . . red . .
. red wine vinegar and shallots . . . and some black pepper. The shallots — you gotta chop 'em up real small. Can you do that?"

"Mignonette," repeated the waiter, thinking visibly. Which would be worse, thought Bobby: telling Eddie fucking Fish, known
gangster associate, that he couldn't have the fucking mignonette with his oysters — or approaching a rampaging prick of a
three-star chef in the middle of the lunch rush and telling him to start hunting up some shallots and red wine vinegar?

"I'll have to ask the chef, sir," said the waiter. "But I'm pretty sure we can do that for you."

By the time he started in ordering his entree, Eddie had kept the waiter at his elbow for five full minutes, the rest of the
poor man's station shooting daggers at him from their tables. Eddie, oblivious to Bobby's discomfort, began the tortuous process
of grafting together elements from different menu items, designing an entree for himself, figuring out the way it should be
served, instead of the way everyone else was getting it. Only fools, as Eddie liked to say, settled for less.

"The hanger steak. How is that prepared?"

"With saffron cous-cous, sir," said the waiter. "It's pan-seared, then roasted to order and served with a reduction of Cote
de Rhone, demi-glace and caramelized whole shallots. It's very good." The waiter's offer of an opinion doomed that selection.
Eddie wasn't having any.

"And the tuna?"

"That's grilled rare . . . served with roasted fingerling potatoes, braised fennel . . . and a citrus herb reduction," said
the waiter, the first hint of frustration creeping into his voice. It made no impression on Eddie. The poor bastard could
hop up and down holding his crotch, get down on one knee and bark like a dog — it wouldn't make any difference to Eddie, who
seemed to slip into some kind of a fugue-state when ordering from a menu.

"Okay . . . Okay . . ." pondered Eddie. "How about . . . let me . . . get . . . the . . . the monkfish. The saddle of monkfish."

"One monkfish," repeated the waiter, gratefully, the clouds beginning to part, one foot already pointed towards the kitchen.

"But . . . let me have that with . . . with the sauce from the hanger steak," said Eddie. "And like . . . the roasted finger
potatoes. That sounds good . . . And what came with the tuna? What was the vegetable with that?"

"Uh . . . braised fennel," stammered the waiter. Bobby saw the light go out in his eyes. He got it now. He understood, finally,
what was happening. Eddie was never letting him go. All hope was gone. This vicious, malevolent little creep wasn't going
to be happy until his whole station was up in arms, until his other customers were so pissed off they tipped ten percent,
until the chef was pushed to the point of murder. Chefs blame waiters for the sins of their customers, the waiter was probably
thinking —and this chef, when he saw Eddie Fish's order, was going to unscrew his head and relieve himself down his neck.

"Forget the monkfish," said Eddie, changing tack, "Let me have the turbot instead. Yeah. I'll have the turbot. It's fresh?"

"Yes, sir," said the waiter. "It came in this morning."

"Then I'll have the turbot. Grilled . . . with the balsamic reduction and baby bok choy from this pork dish here . . ."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter, picturing his imminent dismemberment in the kitchen.

"Wait!" commanded Eddie, as the waiter began to turn away. "Before you bring the fish . . . could you lemme have a Caesar
salad?"

"I'm sorry sir," said the waiter. "We don't have - "

Eddie was not deterred. He'd expected this. "It's simple. You tell the chef, take some egg yolks . . . and some garlic. Fresh
garlic . . . and some anchovies . . ."

It went on like this . . . and on. It always did. Bobby had known Eddie since college. Nearly twenty years — and every meal
was like this. When the order was, at long last, finally taken, the waiter dispatched to the kitchen to meet his fate, Eddie
was still looking at the menu, unsatisfied. He'd study it for a few more minutes, to see, Bobby thought, where he might have
gone wrong, doing an after-action report in his head, analyzing where he might have missed something. By now, Bobby had completely
lost his appetite. The customers at the tables around them glared, murmuring in French. Bobby, easily the largest man in the
room, felt like a circus bear, staked in place, trapped and uncomfortable.

Eddie straightened his tie and put down his menu.

"Isn't this place great? You can't get reservations here. Six month wait."

"You murder these waiters," said Bobby.

"Are you kidding me? They love me here!" said Eddie, shooting his cuffs, then rubbing his hands together in anticipation of
his oysters and his Caesar. "You know how much I tip when I come here?"

Yeah, thought Bobby. Twelve percent.

Knowing the back-of-the-house of the restaurant business as he did, Bobby could well imagine how much they loved Eddie Fish
here. They probably had a nickname for him. Catching sight of Eddie, moving brusquely across the dining room to his favorite
table (without waiting to be seated), they probably said, "Oh, shit! Here comes that malignant little shit! Please, God .
. . Not my station! Not my station . . ." Or, "Here comes the Pomeranian. Look out! That cocksucker can keep his twelve percent.
You take that table. I'm NOT waiting on that fuck."

What the chef thought of the troublesome Mr. Fish, Bobby could only imagine. Considering what havoc he played with the man's
scrupulously thought out menu, Bobby would be surprised if there wasn't some small way in which the chef revenged himself.
If he hadn't already hocked a big, fat phlegm-ball into one of Eddie's from-scratch Caesars, he was clearly a man of Herculean
endurance.

Bobby recalled overhearing one of the NiteKlub cooks, talking about what one could do to a particularly hated customer's food.

"Copper oxide, dude," the cook had said. "You can get it in, like, hobby shops, for chemistry sets. You sprinkle that shit
in somebody's food, bro'? They gonna slam shut like a book - then it's lift-off time! We're talking projectile vomiting! We're
talking explosive diarrhea — that motherfucker's going off like a fucking bottle rocket!"

"What's so funny?" said Eddie, noticing Bobby smiling serenely. His oysters had arrived, and he speared one with a fork, ran
it around in his mignonette.

"Nothing," said Bobby, startled out of his reverie. "I was just thinking."

"Oh yeah? . . . Well, think about this: I got something for you to do tonight."

"What?"

"A tune-up. You gotta go out to Queens and see a guy."

"I work at the club tonight."

"Yeah? Well, get somebody to cover for you. This guy needs a talking-to right away."

"Shit, Eddie . . . You don't have anybody else? I'm over this shit. I don't want to do it anymore."

"I don't have anybody big enough. This guy is a fucking gorilla. You should see him. He looks like a fucking building with
feet. And tattoos. You never seen so many. I think this goof's been in jail."

"What he do, Eddie? He doesn't sound like a customer."

"He's not. I brought the Jag in to be fixed — this guy," said Eddie, pushing away his plate of oysters, only half of them
eaten. "He was supposed to put in a new carburetor. New, Bobbie. New. My regular guy comes back from vacation, takes a look
under there, says it's a reconditioned piece a equipment. Fucking guy ripped me off."

"So? Call him up. Tell him what a dangerous man you are. Tell him to put a new fucking carburetor in for Chrissakes . . .
What's the problem?"

"This guy doesn't listen to reason. We had a few words on the phone. I make a few suggestions. He tells me to go get fucked.
He's a real hard-on this guy. A tough guy. A Nazi. No shit!"

"A Nazi?"

"He has, like, swastikas all over his neck — on his arms. I saw this character when I brought the car in, I couldn't believe
it."

"Why you going to Nazi fucking mechanics, Eddie?"

"He came recommended. What? I don't care for the guy's politics. I don't give a fuck he's got Yasser Arafat, John Tesh, Willie
Nelson tattooed on his fucking face — he was cheap. And this other guy said he was good. It's a fuckin' chop shop he runs
out there. Tommy V's crew brings him some cars now and again. You know . . ."

"Great. I gotta go all the way out to Queens. Get into it with some fucking hero from AB — "

"AB?"

"Aryan Brotherhood, Eddie. It's a jail thing. Guy's flashing swastikas all over his body, he's probably AB."

"Oh . . . Then you probably know the fucking guy. It'll be like old home week. Go break his kneecaps and reminisce about the
good old days. I can't have this asshole getting over on me, Bobby. It's bad for business. People talk, you know? Tommy's
people hear this fucking animal talking about how he pulled one over on me — where does it end? Next thing you know, I'm taking
it up the ass from every deadbeat fuck in town."