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."
"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
Someone 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 ba
throom.
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.
The Bobby Gold Stories Page 4