"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."
"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. Tomm
y 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
Bobby 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."
The Bobby Gold Stories Page 3