Bobby Gold Stories (4 page)

"Peachy. And it's gotta be tonight?"

"Tonight, Bobby. It's gotta be tonight."

Their entrees arrived, but Bobby's appetite was long gone. He picked at his hanger steak, transfixed by the way Eddie chewed
with his mouth open.

"Remember in school?" said Eddie, apropos of nothing, spraying food as he talked. "You weighed, what? One-fifty? One-sixty?
I could have taken you! . . . Remember we were going to take off Kenny — the guy with the Merck coke? You wouldn't do it.
You said he was too big. Remember?"

"Yeah," said Bobby. "I remember."

"That worked out. Jesus, we make money on that or what? I musta put like a six-to-one cut on that shit . . . That worked out
okay."

"Okay?" said Bobby, snarling. "Okay? I got pinched with that shit! I did eight fucking years for that shit! I did your fucking
time! Maybe you remember that part?"

"Oh, yeah," said Eddie, wiping his mouth with the end of a napkin. "I forgot."

Lenny's Auto Parts was located in Long Island City, on a deserted street lined with warehouses and fish wholesalers. Lenny's
was at the very end, by the Long Island rail tracks; a big, unruly yard heaped with compacted and uncompacted cars, mountains
of rusting fenders, windshields, chassis and tire rims, just barely contained by a corrugated steel fence. Next to the house,
a garage with graffit-covered steel shutters. A dog barked somewhere when Bobby got out of his taxi. The light on the second
floor was the only sign of life on the block, a single window situated over a dark office space, approached by a rickety outside
staircase which wound around what looked like it was once a two-family house.

A Harley was parked out front, on a small square of untended lawn, the grass littered with candy wrappers and beer bottles.
Bobby clumped up the stairs, not bothering to be quiet, and banged twice on the door.

The man who answered was enormous, a scowling, fat bastard with redwood-sized arms, a tangled beard with what looked like
bits of potato chips caught in it, and a dense mural of tattoos, both professionally and self-applied, which said, "prison
prison and more prison."

The knocking had clearly awakened the big man. As soon as he opened the inner screen door, his eyes still focusing, the words,
"What is it?" coming out of his mouth, Bobby hit him with a short, chopping right straight into his windpipe. As he staggered
back, Bobby crouched down, feet planted, and as the big, hairy beast struggled for his first gasp of air, gave him a roundhouse
wallop to the temple. He fell flat on his back with a tremendous crash and didn't move.

"What choo do to my brother?" came a voice from the back of the room. Bobby looked to his right, across a shabby, communal
living space littered with beer cans and take-out containers. Sitting in a clapped-out reclining chair, sipping beer from
a tall-boy, was an even larger man — also bearded, also heavily tattooed. Worse, Bobby recognized him.

"Bad Bobby!" said the man. "Dude! You really fucked my little brother up. What brings you to mi casa, bro'?"

"Lenny?" said Bobby, flustered.

"Yeah," said the man in the chair, scratching an iron cross over his thorax. "When you knew me I didn't go by that name. That's
Frank there on the floor. He's gonna be pissed when he wakes up. Got a temper, that boy."

Bobby noticed with dismay the twelve-guage Ithica shotgun leaning against the side of the chair. Fortunately, Lenny seemed
to be making no attempt to reach for it.

" LT . . . LT, can't believe it," said Bobby.

"Right."

"I'll be dipped in shit!"

"Come on in. Siddown, have a beer."

Bobby crossed the room, stepping over the crushed cans, the Styrofoam containers. A TV flickered silently in the corner, two
chubby lesbians going at it with a bright orange dildo on a shag rug on the screen.

"So," said Lenny, when Bobby was sitting down on a rickety lawn chair by a beer-can-covered card table. "You got business
with little brother? Or you got business with me?"

Bobby thought he heard snoring, looked over against the right wall and saw a black woman sleeping on a bare mattress. She
looked pregnant.

"My old lady," said Lenny. "I got a kid too. In the next room. He's got the asthma. Got him hooked up to one a those machines.
Try not to wake him."

"I guess I got business with you," said Bobby, grabbing a warm beer from a half-emptied six-pack on the card table. "LT. I
can't believe it . . ."

"Bad Bobby comes calling. After all this time . . . Who would a thought. Made nice work of little brother too. You look good.
You keeping in shape."

Bobby just shrugged. He was uncomfortable with the situation. LT had been the head of AB at Greenhaven when Bobby had been
up there. He'd taken the then gangly and dangerously unprotected young Bobby under his wing, assigning other gang members
to look after him. They'd become buddies, playing chess in the day room, exercising together in the yard, talking about history
— particularly military history — the fact that LT was essentially a Nazi, and Bobby a Jew, adding a certain playful nature
to their relationship.

"So, what's the problem? And who do I got a problem with?" said Lenny.

"Eddie Fish has a problem," said Bobby. "Something about a carburetor you sold him."

Lenny threw his head back and started to wheeze with laughter, his whole body shaking.

"THAT asshole? You comin' all the way out here — the middle of the fuckin' night — chop down my bro' like a freakin' tree
- over a fuckin' carburetor? Oh, Bobby. I thought things was gonna be different for you when you got out. We all thought you
was gonna go back to school. End up a lawyer or somethin'. Aww, Jesuss. I'm sorry to hear this."

"I'm not too thrilled with how things worked out either," said Bobby, his ears burning. Pity from a 350-pound white supremacist
car thief not going down well.

"Let me clue you in, here, Bobby. That little shit comes out here with that fuckin' Jag a his. Says he wants a deal on a new
carb. I says I got a new carb right in the back. Cocksucker doesn't want to pay for it. You know who I am? He says. You know
who I'm with? Now lissen, Bobby, you know me. I don't give a fuck who he's with . . . I'm with some people too — and when
they come by my shop? They talk nice to me. I ain't nobody's nigger, right, Bobby? So shithead tells me how much he wants
to pay — which is not much. I couldn't get a used carb out of a fuckin' Ford for what he's offerin'. So I tell the kid I got
to clout me one out of this nice XJ I happen to know about. Thing's a year old. Practically new. I give it to this Fish asshole
at fuckin' cost. This kid I got working for me? He's used to taking cars, Bobby. To order. The whole fuckin' car. Not rootin'
around under the fuckin' hood like some kid who's just beggin' to get grabbed. I made a couple a calls to some people and
asked about this Eddie fuckin' Fish that's supposed to be such a big shot? And you know what they told me? 'Fuck him.' Do
what you can. But don't bend over backwards, you know what I mean? I did the right thing." Lenny took a long draught of beer
and shook his head. "What are you doing hanging around with that fuck, Bobby? From what I hear? He's gonna get fuckin' clipped
any day now. The people he thinks he's such friends with? They ain't such good friends." He took another long slug from the
can and stared at Bobby while he finished his thought, eyes getting hard. "Not like us."

On the floor, Lenny's little brother stirred. Holding his throat, he raised up on one elbow and stared at Lenny and Bobby
sitting amiably together. "What the fuck?" he rasped.

"Be cool, bro'," said Lenny, his voice betraying no concern. "You just stay where you is — right there."

"Fuck that!" said not-so-little brother, managing to clamber onto all fours. "I'm gonna —"

"You ain't gonna do nothin', Frankie," said Lenny. "Unless you want me to get outta this chair and give you the biggest asswhuppin'
a your life. You wake the kid and I'm gonna be real mad at you, little bro' . . . Real mad."

"Listen, Bobby," said Lenny. "As you can see, things are gettin' a little tense and all around here. Tell you what. Tomorrow?
You tell that little Christ-killer you work for to come round with his fuckin' Jag. Me and little brother put a nice shiny
new one in for him, no charge. Cause it's you? I'm happy to do it. But after that, I don't want to see him no more. Next time
he comes around here? There might be some folks waitin' for him. Guy's a fuckin' insect. I don't care what he tells you. The
people who count? He's nothin' with them. Only reason he's still alive is some folks figure he ain't worth killin'. Whether
you want to tell him that is up to you, bro'. But you know me. I tell it straight."

"Thanks, LT," said Bobby. "I really appreciate it. You were always good to me. Never understood why .. . But you were always
good to me."

Lenny smiled and leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You ain't a white man, Bobby Gold. That's for sure.
But you almost white. And we white men gotta stick together."

"What about her?" said Bobby, indicating the sleeping black woman on the mattress.

"Oh, that?" said Lenny. "That's love, Bobby. That's a whole different thing."

Bobby nodded as he stood up to go.

"Listen," said Lenny, helpfully. "You better put Frankie over there to sleep for a while on your way out. He's gonna be all
hot and bothered and I don't want him waking the kid or causing a ruckus, he goes followin' you out to the street. Better
he sleeps for a while."

"What?" said Frank, trying to scramble to his feet as Bobby approached him on the way to the door.

"Sorry, Frank," said Bobby. He side-kicked him behind the ear as he passed by, doing it with his toe rather than the heel.
The impact pushed him onto his face. He stayed down.

"Thanks, LT," said Bobby.

"Be good, Bad Bobby . . ."

"I'm tryin'," said Bobby.

BOBBY IN LOVE

S
omeone was snoring. Nikki opened her eyes, instantly aware of a jumbo-sized, king-hell hangover, her mouth tasting of tequila
— afraid to look.

There was a used condom in the ashtray on her nightstand. Nice touch, she thought, pain boring into her skull like a dull
drill-bit. Just perfect. She raised herself onto one elbow, feeling nauseated, pushed some long, brown hair out of her face,
and examined the hand that was resting limply on her bare hip. Seeing the thick, diagonal callus at the base of the man's
index finger, her heart sank. Whoever he was, he was in the business. This was bad. Everybody would know. All the other NiteKlub
cooks; the chef, the sous-chef, even the floor staff —they'd all know about it by tonight.

Nikki knew how these things went in the small, incestuous subculture of cooks and kitchens: first, the initial report, then
the reviews, then additional commentary. Word would spread. Kitchen phones would be ringing all across town. "Did you hear
who the saute bitch went home with last night?"

Who had she taken home anyway?

Nikki turned over, carefully, so as not to wake the sleeping man. She held her breath, then pulled down the covers to take
a look. It was Jimmy Sears.

"Oh, NO!" she yelped, sitting bolt upright now. She delivered a sharp blow to Jimmy's well-muscled shoulder.

"Get up!! . . . Wake up you asshole!! . . . Oh, shit . . . oh, FUCK!!"

"Morning," said Jimmy, sleepily, already looking much too pleased with himself. He rolled over onto his back, a morning hard-on
poking out from under the sheets, rubbed his eyes and stretched. She considered braining him with the lamp. That would keep
his mouth shut. Maybe she could even dispose of the body - bit by bit - if she had her knife kit. She could break him down
like a side of veal. How hard could that be? She knew veal, beef, lamb, venison, chicken, rabbit, pork . . . how different
could human anatomy be? But her knives were at the club, rolled up in their leather case and safely stashed in her locker
- and who was she kidding anyway? This was awful. Of all the rotten people in the world to get drunk with, take home, let
between her legs —this had to be the worst-case scenario.

Jimmy, while cute — and hung like a donkey — was the sleaziest, most loud-mouthed Lothario in the restaurant universe: a braggart,
misogynist, prevaricator and all-around bullshit artist. To make matters worse, he was the NiteKlub chef's arch rival. This
wasn't just an embarrassment. This was treason.

Nikki flashed back to when she'd worked for Jimmy — how she'd heard him, on countless occasions, bragging to his entire crew
how he'd bagged some round-heeled hostess or rebounding bar customer —the excruciatingly clinical details: the way Jimmy would
imitate the noises a girl had made when he'd "walked her around the room like a wheelbarrow," how she'd "looked like a glazed
donut" when he'd blown his load all over her face. The room seemed to tip sideways for a second, and Nikki ran for the bathroom.

She made it to the bowl with no time to spare, hurled yellowish bile into the porcelain, seeing stars. She was in there a
long time, intermittently lying naked on the cold tile floor, and crawling back to the toilet, her stomach muscles convulsing
with the effort of trying to squeeze out what was no longer there. After ten minutes or so, staring up at the ceiling, the
sink making drip drip sounds, she tried listening for Jimmy in the bedroom, hoping he was gone. She thought she heard the
refrigerator door closing.

Memory was returning. She recalled Siberia, last night . . . the crowd at the bar, people jammed around the jukebox, Tracy,
the owner, dancing with a pastry chick from the Hilton, remembered herself on the couch in the back room, drunk on tequila
shots, Jimmy's tongue down her throat — and her with her fingers down the front of his pants, teasing the head of his oversized
dong.

"Please kill me now," she said to the bathroom ceiling, "I'm ready . . . I deserve to die. Please . . . just get it over with
. . ."

When she finally stood up, her vagina hurt. She was horrified by what she saw in the mirror: eyes, mascara-smudged sinkholes,
the skin around them puffy and bruised-looking from throwing up. Her hair was a rat's nest, sticking out at all angles like
it had been teased with a weed-whacker. There were purple marks on her outer thighs where Jimmy, no doubt, had held her while
he'd drilled away with his legendary wonder-penis. She couldn't really remember the sex yet — but then Jimmy would be happy
to remind her.

She swallowed three aspirin, fighting to keep them down while she ran the water, waiting for the room to fill with steam before
she stepped into the shower. She was in there a long time, trying to boil Jimmy Sears out of her pores. When she was done,
she brushed her teeth twice, combed out her hair, wrapped herself chin-to-ankles in a long, terrycloth robe and, finally,
stepped warily back into the bedroom.

Jimmy, still naked, had made breakfast: two perfectly fluffy yellow omelettes sat plated on the kitchenette counter - a spoonful
of pilfered beluga on each one. Jimmy's signature garnish: two antennae-like chive sticks projected up from each mound of
pearly gray fish eggs.

"I was saving that caviar," said Nikki.

"I didn't use it all," said Jimmy, pouring champagne.

"Where'd you get the champagne?"

"I ran out to the corner."

"You got dressed . . . ran to the corner . . . bought champagne, came back . . . and took your clothes off again?" said Nikki,
horrified.

"Hey . . . It's a special occasion."

This was enough for Nikki. "You're not staying. And I'm not eating."

She avoided looking straight at Jimmy. For all his faults, he had a good body. All the surfing, skiing, in-line skating, handball,
golf and tennis (when he should have been in his fucking kitchen) had made Jimmy tan and cut, his stomach ribbed with muscle.
Even at thirty-nine, he had a boyish, almost irresistably ingratiating smile that seemed to invite conspiracy and bad behavior
. .. He was, thought Nikki, watching him reposition an omelette so that the knife and fork faced her, sort of charming.

He had to go. Now.

"Get dressed and get out, Jimmy," she said. "You can take breakfast to go. Take it home to your wife, or your girlfriend or
whoever it is these days you're lying to. Just leave." She sat down on the bed, dizzy again, a sudden stabbing pain in her
groin. "Jesus . . . what did you fuck me with? A pineapple?"

Jimmy shook his head, smiling like a little boy who'd just successfully lifted a comic book, and sat down next to her. He
brushed his lips against her shoulders. She shook him off.

"Just leave, please."

He began to dress. J. Crew polo shirt, khaki pants, Gap blazer, Cole Haan loafers (no socks of course), a baseball cap with
the name of a band on it. God, thought Nikki - how could I have fucked this asshole?

"Whatever you say," said Jimmy, fully expecting, it appeared, that she would change her mind.

"I say," said Nikki. Dressed, at least, Jimmy was easier to despise. She looked at the floor, noted with displeasure the trail
of clothes she'd worn last night evidence of her stupidity — a reconstruction of events possible from the shoes kicked into
opposite corners, the underwear hanging over the rocking chair. The brassiere must have come off last — it peeked out from
under a pillow.

"You're losing your hair," she said.

"I am not!" protested Jimmy. "Bullshit!"

"In the back. You're losing your hair. You're going bald."

"I am not going bald!" insisted Jimmy, zipping up his pants but not going anywhere until this issue was resolved. "I use stuff
. . . and it's working!

"It's not working," said Nikki, tossing him a loafer. "Maybe you should get that spray. The skull-paint? Maybe that'll work
. . . But the Rogaine? The minoxadyl or whatever it is? It's not taking. Believe me."

"You can be a mean bitch, Nikki."

"Yeah?" said Nikki, lip curling as she moved in close. She was taller than Jimmy by three or four inches — and face to face
she looked down into his eyes. "You think you seen mean? Lemme tell you this then, chef . . . I hear one word about this from
anybody . . . ever . . . One fucking word about last night — and I'm gonna tell every cook, every waitress, every chef, dishwasher,
bartender and busboy in town that yes — I did take you home and fuck you - that I got you drunk, took you home and fucked
you. And I'm gonna say that you cry 'Mommy' when you come. I'm gonna say that you came in about two seconds, cried for your
mommy, wet the bed in your sleep . . . and left a big tuft of hair on my pillow when you got up in the morning. Now get the
fuck out of my apartment, you bald fuck. I gotta go throw up again."

"Are you saying you didn't have a good time?"

"Truth be told, Jimmy? I can't remember one way or the other . . . But I'm sure you were spectacular. Feel better? Now get
out."

Jimmy walked to the door and stepped out into the hallway, shaking his head. Nikki slammed the door after him. She heard him
on the other side, saying under his breath, "Cunt!"

"Got that right, asshole," said Nikki. She began dressing for work.

Bobby Gold, in black jeans, black, short-sleeved T-shirt and black trainers, walked up the steps of the empty club. On the
second floor mezzanine, he heard a toilet flush, waited for whoever it was to emerge. The mezzanine was still a mess from
the night before — the maintenance crew still busy waxing the dance floor. The door opened and a girl came out, dressed in
chef's whites. Bobby had seen her before in the kitchen — they called her the "saute bitch" in there, he seemed to recall.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," said Bobby, a little flustered. He didn't spend much time with women — and he was thrown by how good she looked in the
sexless, double-breasted uniform and checked polyester pants. "You're in early aren't you?"

"Yeah," she said. "Prep for the party tonight. I gotta get the stocks going."

"Oh," said Bobby. She was tall — maybe five-ten, with long, dark hair that smelled like it had just been washed and her eyes
— dark, almost Asian-looking — flashed with intelligence. There was the hint of a smile - the slightly sour, self-deprecating
smirk of someone who's had their ass kicked and survived the experience.

"You a fan of classic comedy?" she asked, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"What do you mean?" Bobby asked, "Like what? The Marx Brothers? Fields? Chaplin?"

"I meant more like Lenny Bruce," said the girl. "Remember him?"

"I saw the movie — if that's what you mean. Dustin Hoffman played him, right?"

"Yep," said the girl.

"Good movie."

"Yeah . . . well . . . I don't know how to tell you this — but there's a guy doing a really good Lenny Bruce imitation in
one of the stalls in there," she said, jerking her head in the direction of the bathroom.

Bobby thought no way she meant what he thought she meant. He hurried into the bathroom, walked quickly down to the last stall
- the only one still closed - and leaned against the door. It wouldn't open. When he pushed, it felt as if someone had piled
a stack of flour sacks against the other side.

He entered the next stall, stood on top of the toilet and peeked down over the divider.

She was right about the Lenny Bruce thing. There was a man in there — pants down around his ankles, one sleeve rolled up,
a syringe hanging out of his arm, just below a tightened belt. He was dead, and he was blue, slumped over to one side with
his legs jammed against the stall door, eyes staring straight up at Bobby like a lifeless flounder's.

Bobby got back down from the toilet and went back outside. The girl was smoking, sitting on a banquette, watching for his
reaction. She'd gone in there, he realized, found the body and calmly sat down for a piss, before exiting.

"See what I mean?" she said, smiling.

"It's Lenny all over," said Bobby, unable to take his eyes off of her.

He was in love.