Bobby Gold Stories (7 page)

BOBBY AT THE BEACH

B
obby Gold in a black Speedo, his hair still wet from the surf, took a long sip of beer and looked at the pigeons.

"Rats with wings," he said. "Beach should be for seagulls. Not pigeons."

"Lighten up, grouchy," said Nikki. "It's a city beach. City beach? City birds."

"I just don't get why people feed them," said Bobby, watching an old man in a walker sprinkle breadcrumbs on the boardwalk.
"I mean — it's not like they don't get any food. You ever see a starving pigeon?"

"Cooked a few pigeons in my time," said Nikki, wiping sweat from between her breasts. She was wearing a tiny little bikini.
Color: black — in deference to Bobby, the two of them pale in their dark suits, dark sunglasses and dark hair.

"Yeah? How do they taste?"

"Like chicken."

The beach was crowded. It was Sunday and barely a foot of sand wasn't occupied with beach chairs, umbrellas, brightly colored
blankets, volleyball players, inflatable rafts, body boards and sunbathers. Bobby and Nikki sat on the edge of the boardwalk,
drinking beer from plastic cups and staring out to sea.

"I could live at the beach," said Nikki. "If I had enough money? I could definitely live at the beach. Not this beach . .
. More like Cape Cod, maybe the Jersey Shore."

"Maybe. I could see that. Not Florida."

"No. Definitely not Florida." Nikki drained the last of her beer, crumpled her cup and hurled it into a trash can a few feet
away.

"Nice shot," said Bobby.

"Three points."

"Two," said Bobby.

"I'm thinking of doing something illegal," said Nikki, apropos of nothing.

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I need money. I want money. I'm thinking about a career change."

"From saucier to what? Arsonist? Home invader? Bank robber?"

"No . . . I don't know yet. I'm looking for an opportunity. To you know - steal or something. I want to steal a lot of money
and then retire to the beach."

"You don't expect me to —"

"No way! Please . . . I was just sayin'."

"And I ain't setting you up with anybody either. What are you fucking thinking? Who put this shit in your head? You been talking
to somebody at the Club?"

"No. I just saw a movie on TV last night.
Bonnie
and Clyde?
It looked like fun."

"You watch the end? They get killed at the end."

"Not that part. The taking the money part. The driving around real fast in cars part."

"You'll get grabbed. Believe me. Some genius, some fellow criminal mastermind'U snitch and you'll go to prison. You don't
want to go to prison. I'm telling you. You may get plenty of sex there — but the food blows."

"I know, I know. Don't worry . . . I don't know . . . I just want to do something illegal."

"You want to do something illegal?" said Bobby, standing up and taking her hand. "Come with me . . ."

He led her down the wooden ramp to the beach, walking quickly to the right, Nikki hurrying to keep up. It was slightly less
crowded at the rear, mostly volleyball players waiting their turn.

"Where we going?" said Nikki.

"Just come on. We're going to do something that's illegal in all fifty states. We're gonna break the law, break the law."

"Yeah?" said Nikki, interested.

After about four hundred yards, Bobby stopped, looked around, and ducked under the boardwalk, yanking Nikki after him.

"Oh," she said. "I think I get it."

He stuck out a finger and pushed her back onto the cool sand, got down on all fours and pulled off her top.

"People can see us," she giggled.

"Public lewdness. Indecent exposure," said Bobby. He peeled down her bikini bottom, flipped her over and put his tongue up
her ass. "Sodomy," he added. She jerked like she'd been hooked up to a car battery, moaned and rolled over again, grabbing
Bobby's hair to pull his face into her crotch. Bobby's cock protruded almost entirely out of his Speedo. He peeled the Speedo
off and lay down next to her.

"I'm gonna get sand in my cunt," she said, throwing a leg over him and working him inside. "Go away, kid!"

A teenager with a volleyball was standing transfixed, a few yards from the edge of the overhanging boardwalk. He blushed and
scampered away.

"Corrupting the morals of a minor," muttered Bobby, pushing into her as far as he could go.

BOBBY GETS SQUEEZED

B
obby Gold, in black Ramones T-shirt, black denims and black Nikes, smeared bone marrow on toast and sprinkled sea salt on
it before taking a large bite. His mouth was still full when the man came over and stood by his table, looking at him.

"What the fuck are you eating?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow and finished chewing. The man was tall, about forty-five, with the tired, mean face of an old cop.
He wore blue slacks with knife creases, new, white running shoes, and a V-neck T-shirt with a windbreaker over it. His Glock,
Bobby guessed, under his left kidney, beneath the T-shirt. There was another gun, something smaller, in an ankle holster on
the right. From the man's expression, he did not look like he was going to shoot Bobby — or arrest him. At least not today.

"Bone marrow," said Bobby, swallowing. "It's wonderful."

"Yuck!" said the cop. "I can't believe you eat that shit."

Blue Ribbon Bakery on Bedford Street in the Village was not a place Bobby expected to see cops. Cops ate out in packs, usually
at cop-friendly places where raised voices, heavy drinking and the occasional freebie were not unheard of. Blue Ribbon was
not like that. This cop had either recognized him from his sheet - or, more likely, come looking for him. Bone marrow was
a secret pleasure — something Bobby usually indulged in alone. He'd never told Eddie about the place, afraid of being embarrassed,
and Nikki couldn't get through a meal without smoking, so he always came here alone. It pissed him off that the cop had clearly
decided to brace him here.

"Do I know you?" said Bobby.

"No. I don't think so," said the man, taking a seat at the corner two-top.

"Have a seat," said Bobby. "I guess."

"Do I look like a cop?"

"Yes. You do," said Bobby. "It shows all over."

"Yeah," said the cop. "That's what my wife says."

"Is there a problem?" asked Bobby. "I done something wrong?"

"This is a social visit," said the cop. "For now, anyway." He snapped his fingers for a waiter — who was visibly displeased
at being summoned in such a fashion — and ordered a coffee.

"Bad Bobby Gold," said the cop. "I'm Lieutenant James Connely of the Organized Crime Strike Force. Your name keeps popping
up in an investigation we're taking part in and I thought we'd have a chat."

"Investigating what? I'm a doorman. I work security at NiteKlub. Anything we have to report we report to Midtown South."

The cop waved away what Bobby was saying, ignored it completely. "Please? Okay? We both know the drill, okay? You're nice
and polite. You make it look like you're honestly attempting to answer my questions — but you're confused by them because
of your immaculate state of innocence. I make some suggestive remarks. Then you simply tell me to fuck off — talk to your
lawyer — and how dare you interrupt my bone marrow. Either way you tell me shit and play Dumbo. Okay? Either way you listen.
'Cause you're curious."

"I'm curious?"

You should be. Things are happening. Things that are gonna be affecting you and that nice job you have. Or should I say jobs?"

"You gonna tell me what you're talking about? Or we just gonna play I Know More Than I'm Tellin'? You win, by the way."

"I'm gonna tell you. I'm gonna tell you right now," said the cop, not acknowledging the arrival of his coffee. He didn't even
look at it. "That little freak you work for? Mr. 'Eddie Fish'? We're picking up that this goof is gonna get himself greased
any minute now. Did you know that? I hear you're close. Like brothers, you're so close. Did you know how bad things were?"
Bobby just shook his head slowly and kept his mouth shut.

"Eddie is no longer in such good odor with his former associates. People are talking. They're saying Eddie has been unreliable
lately. Making a pest of himself. They say that he's popping pills which make him stupid — or should I say more stupid — and
some people, apparently have had quite enough. He hasn't been showing up at sit-downs. You know that? They don't like that
out there, you know. They really take that the wrong way. They ask a person to come in for a nice talk and he doesn't, they
start getting all sorts of ideas. Eddie hasn't been keeping his appointments."

"Maybe he's been sick. I don't know."

"He's not sick. Eddie's suckin' that glass dick. He's poppin' a fuckin' drugstore full a goofballs — he's sitting around his
fuck-pad on Sutton Place in his undies and ordering take-out. You know that. The man is toast. Tommy V is running the show
for him at the club. Did you know that? Of course not. You wouldn't notice something like a new boss, would you Bobby?"

Bobby just shrugged.

"Shrug all you like. Don't mean shit to me. Alls I'm tellin' you is that your old pal is finished. As soon as he steps out
for a sandwich or a blow job, somebody's gonna do him. They got a patch a land-fill all picked out for him. And my question
to you is: what do you, Bobby 'Gold,' ne Goldstein, gonna do then? You gonna work for Tommy? You think they gonna let you
live?

"You, they're actually scared of. Eddie's just annoying. What do you think is gonna happen, they drive out Eddie to his final
resting place? They gonna let his bestest friend, Big Bad Bobby, live on? Bad Bobby who, they say, did two big bastards up
in prison there? The guy they call when somebody needs his bones busted? Eddie Fish's oldest and closest friend and fellow
tribe member? You don't think they're worried you might want to do something stupid like take revenge when Eddie goes? You
got no job security in what you been doing, Bobby. I can tell you that for free."

"I can't say I know what you're talking about," said Bobby.

"I know you can't say," said the cop, smiling. "But you know. You know exactly what the fuck I'm talking about."

The cop took a long sip of his coffee and let out a grateful sigh. "That's good," he said. "That's good coffee."

"What do you want?"

"Gee. What do you think I want?"

"You want me to snitch. You want me to wear a wire. You want to be my new best pal so you can keep me out of jail, keep me
from going to prison. You want to provide me with a new secret identity, large-breasted women, a house in Arizona next to
Sammy Bull's. You want me to call you late at night and breathe heavily into the phone so you can go round up miscreants,
arrest people I know. You want me to start giving Tommy V long lingering looks so I can get close to him and then tell you
what he dreams about. Forget it. Nobody tells me shit. I don't give a shit about Eddie. And I'm retiring . . ."

"Retiring?" laughed the cop. "Retiring? What are you gonna do? What can you do — other than bust people up into nice little
pieces?"

"I'll find something. I can always work security."

"What security? Who's gonna hire you? You're an ex-con! You can't get bonded. Nobody who's not mobbed-up is gonna give you
a fuckin' job. What are you gonna do? Stand next to an A TM machine the middle of the night? What are you gonna put on the
application where it says last place worked? NiteKlub? People gonna say, 'Oh, that's the place where that Eddie Fish got killed!'
Your boss. Not too good at your job, they might think. Forget it. You'll be screwed. You'll be dunking fucking fries at Chirpin'
Chicken."

"I was thinking of going back to school," said Bobby, telling the truth for the first time.

"Now that's nice. That might work," said the cop. "I saw your old transcript, you know. You weren't stupid once . . . Had
a nice future up there until you got grabbed driving for Eddie. Eddie skated on that scot-free didn't he? And what does he
do when his old pal, the guy who went to prison for him, gets out? He hires him as a fucking bouncer. He makes his old buddy
into a trained ape. You could have been, what? A doctor? You were pre-med, right? Things coulda turned out real different
for you, you hadn't started listening to Eddie."

"Eddie had nothing to do with it," said Bobby, irritated. That episode of his life was a sore point, as Connely clearly was
aware.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Einstein," said the cop. "That's what you said then. It got you five years. You think your friend Eddie
could have done eight to ten? I don't care how early you got out. He woulda snitched off everybody he ever knew. He snitched
you off, didn't he?"

"Bullshit!"

"Oh yeah? Think? Listen up, moron. Wake up and smell the coffee. How do you think they picked you up with that carload a dope,
genius? You think they're that smart up there? You just looked suspicious - so they pulled you over, happened to have a warrant?
Eddie got grabbed two days earlier. He traded the load — and your ass — for a nice cushy community service, licking envelopes
at some friend of his daddy's office. His father put it together for him. You didn't know that?"

"He had nothing to do with it."

"I got the fucking arrest record. Eddie Fish, detained while enjoying the services of a prostitute and found to be in possession
of a controlled substance. You want to see the CI report? The one where he put it all on you? Told the nice troopers what
kind of car you'd be driving and where and when? You surround yourself with bad people, Bobby. You're not a good judge of
character."

"Fuck off. This conversation is over," said Bobby. "You want to talk more, call my lawyer."

"Awww . . . Is that any way to be? With an uncertain future in front of you - and a new girlfriend - I thought at least you'd
want to listen."

At the mention of Nikki, Bobby slowly moved his hand across the table and pushed the cup of coffee onto the cop's lap.

"Ooops. Terribly sorry," said Bobby, without any attempt at conviction in his voice.

Connely stood up and separated the wet fabric of his pants from his crotch, shaking his head.

"That wasn't nice," he said. "These are Haggar slacks. Not polyester. All cotton. I'll never get that stain out."

"I know the feeling," said Bobby.

It was the people doing the little things around Eddie who saw him at his worst: the drivers, the waiters, bartenders, the
doormen who saw him stumble home late, the deli owner at the corner who sold him ice cream when he was too high to talk, the
clerk at the video store who rented him pornos. Eddie didn't notice them - so he figured they didn't notice him. They did.
The elevator man had seen plenty. Bobby saw that as soon as he stepped inside the gold-and-mirror-paneled chamber and told
him what floor he wanted. The man rolled his eyes, repeated the floor and pressed the button. Bobby took the ride in silence,
still not sure what he was going to do.

The cop had been telling the truth, of course. Bobby could see that now. It's no accident that the rich seemed untouchable.
They never hesitate to sacrifice their friends.

The thing to do was to kill him. That's what Eddie would have done, same situation. It's what Tommy V would do — probably
what he's going to do, thought Bobby. Right upstairs, charge inside the apartment, pick that treacherous little fuck up by
the armpits and throw him off the balcony - thirty-four floors down. Emotionally, it was the right thing, in that it was the
traditional thing to do when betrayed. And intellectually . . . it might be the right thing too. Eddie was a terrible liability
right now. Had been for a while. There were plenty of people who would be happy — even grateful — to see him go. The fat men
out in Brooklyn would not be unhappy — that's for sure. As a career move it was almost a necessity, the way things were going.
Still want that nice job at the club? Want those fat stacks of unaccounted-for bills to keep coming? No problems with the
Italian contingent? A life free — or at least freer — of aggravation? Kill the midget. Hit him once, right on the Adam's apple,
pick him up and throw him out the fucking window. Say something Arnold or Clint as he goes down, something like, "Have a nice
flight," or, "See you on the street."

The bell tone rang once when the elevator arrived at Eddie's floor. Bobby looked at the elevator man and mused on whether
he would choose to remember him. He glanced at the corner of the ceiling where he knew the camera would be. The window wouldn't
do. He heard music from inside the apartment, Curtis Mayfield, "Little Child Running Wild" . . . knew that Eddie was in a
sentimental mood, playing records from the good old/bad old days. Bobby leaned on the bell, heard the music turn off and the
shuffle of feet.

Eddie was dressed in a silk bathrobe, no shirt, dress pants — the bottom half of a charcoal-gray pinstriped suit. He wore
no shoes or socks and he hadn't shaved or bathed in days. Bobby was shocked at how bad he looked - usually, no matter what
he was doing, Eddie remembered to get a haircut, have himself shaved if his hands shook. This was not like him. There was
a white crust at the corners of his mouth, and the eyes were wild, jangly little pin-pricks surrounded by dark, raccoon-like
circles.

"It'sh you," he said, opening the door and then tottering back to a leather couch. "Just thinking about you . . . about school."
Bobby looked around the apartment. There were half-empty take-out cartons everywhere: an uneaten turkey sandwich from a deli
on top of the wide-screen TV, a half-order of Pad Thai on the cocktail table, bags of Cheetos and chips which had been torn
open at the sides, Chinese spread across the floor, a completely melted box of Eskimo Pies forgotten in the sink at the bar.
Eddie was drinking single-malt Scotch and washing it down with Coronas. He must have - at one point —thought about limes.
There were two of them on the cocktail table next to the remote control.
The Wizard
of Oz
was on the tube, volume down. Eddie turned up the music again: "Freddie's Dead" this time.

"I hate the flying monkeys," said Eddie, swatting at something that wasn't there on his face. "Always hated those fucking
monkeys. Remember that time we dropped acid and went to see this?" Bobby remembered. Eddie and he and two girlfriends had
gone to see it at the college auditorium, tripping their tits off. One of the girls, Eddie's he thought, had never seen it
before. The acid was really starting to kick in when the flying monkeys started getting busy, tearing up the scarecrow and
tossing his limbs about, grabbing Dorothy and the dog. The girl couldn't handle it. Started bugging right there. They'd had
to leave. Fortunately Eddie had had some thorazines. They'd cooled her right out. Yes, it was Eddie's date, Bobby remembered.
He'd gone back to his dorm with the other girl. They'd listened to Roxy Music and John Cale and then she'd given him a memorably
dry-mouthed blow job in his small, overheated room. She'd smelled of sweat and patchouli, he recalled. He hadn't been able
to come. Hadn't been able to sleep. Just laid there in the dark, the girl's arm across his chest, watching the explosions
of color behind his eyes, heart racing.