She was in a black leather motorcycle jacket, jeans and a T-shirt, but something was different about her. She was wearing makeup — a little around the eyes, he thought — and was that lipstick? He thought it was.
"I'll wait till you sober up a little before I apologize," she said, tearing off a piece of toast with short but polished fingernails, the nails cut or chewed in parts, her hands pocked with pink welts.
"I'm okay now," said Bobby. "You don't have to apologize. For what?"
"For not making it last night. I'm not like that," she said, looking away and fumbling for a cigarette. "I got loaded," she said. "Pissed fucking drunk . . . and I fell asleep."
"It happens," said Bobby, trying to be noncommittal. "No big thing."
"Irregardless . . . It happened to me," said Nikki, reaching across the table and taking his hand. "And I'm sorry." She squeezed his fingers and withdrew her hand awkwardly. "You know, not for nothin' —but I got all dressed up and everything. I put on a fuckin' dress."
She laughed suddenly, Bobby smelling vodka on her for the first time, realizing that she too was drunk. "I even waxed my cat," she said, an unbecoming half laugh, half derisive snort escaping from her mouth.
"Your what?" said Bobby — picturing his own cat, shorn of hair, trying to imagine her putting up with such a thing.
"My pussy, jerk," said Nikki, lowering her voice. "First date and all. I wanted to make a good impression."
Bobby didn't know what to say. He stared into his coffee, feeling dizzy, imagining the cleft between her legs devoid of hair, partially groomed, au naturel . . . When she pretended to pick a piece of lint off the sleeve of her jacket, betraying a welcome nervousness, he said, "Fully waxed? Or like . . . only some?" astonished that the question had escaped his lips.
"I left a little bit over the top," said Nikki, standing up and calling for the check.
"C'mon. I'll show you."
"Where we going?" he asked, seeing things more clearly, yet somehow even more out of control. "Where you live?"
"Let's go to your place," she said, tugging him west. "You live near here right? The door guy —the big one - said so."
Making a mental note to fire the loose-lipped doorman, Bobby stopped in his tracks and considered things. No one had ever been inside his apartment. He tried to picture it, as if for the first time, trying to imagine what it would look like to an outsider.
"I need to look at your record collection," she said, taking his arm in hers and leaning against him. "I see any Billy fuckin' Joel in there and this ain't gonna happen."
"Jesus? What you got in here? Fort Knox?" complained Nikki, her hands inside Bobby's jacket as he fumbled with the last lock - a custom-made deadbolt put together for him by an Albanian thief when he'd moved in. The place was clean, he knew. Any guns or cash or "evidence of wrongdoing," as he'd once heard such things referred to, were — as always — securely put away in the concealed floor safe. But Bobby was embarrassed when he flicked on the light. There was something too severe, almost fanatical, about his apartment, he knew. The too-clean, too-polished hardwood floors, the raw brick walls, the always-dusted sound system, the set of free weights neatly arranged in the corner and the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. His mattress, squared away as usual and tight as a snare drum, rested on a low unfinished wood platform, a copy of Grey's Anatomy on the simple, mail-order nightstand. The refrigerator, he knew, was empty save for a V-8 and a few wedges of leftover pizza in the freezer.
But there was no Billy Joel to be found, he comforted himself. Returning from a long piss in the too-clean bathroom, he found Nikki smiling by his collection of old vinyl, a copy of the first Modern Lovers album in her hand.
"You're an interesting man," she said, putting the record back in its place, alphabetically between Harold Melvin and Ennio Morricone. She got up, sat down on the bed and began peeling off her clothes, Bobby instinctively looking away for a second before returning his gaze to her sleek, well-muscled back as she bent over to remove her shoes, the crack of her ass, the way her dark hair moved around on her naked shoulders.
"Can you, like, get the light?" she asked, sliding under the covers. "If you're too drunk to fuck, we can do that tomorrow. Right now, I just want to sleep with you." She sat upright for a second, an innocuously worried look crossing her face. "If that's okay?"
Bobby undressed in the bathroom. Took a long shower, washing the stink of Timmy's couch off himself; stood there in the bathroom, forlornly looking at himself in the mirror. He hadn't looked at himself like this in a long time.
When he emerged from the bathroom, in robe and boxer shorts, she was asleep. The cat, who had materialized after no doubt hiding (she'd never seen anyone other than Bobby since he'd taken her in), snoozing by her head. Bobby folded the robe carefully over the single chair, sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, wondering whether to remove the boxer shorts or not, feeling both silly to have put them back on and uncomfortable about taking them off. Finally he whipped them down, pulled up the sheet and got into bed. Nikki didn't move.
In the middle of sleep, he felt fingers on his chest, Nikki's leg working itself between his, her head moving to rest against his shoulder, the absolutely amazing sensation of her breasts brushing against his stomach. His penis immediately stiffened, raising the sheets. He lay there, motionless and afraid, not sure what to do next. A contented noise — it could have been "Mmmnnn" — came from Nikki's mouth, but that was it. She snuggled a bit closer, then her breathing became more even and she stopped moving entirely. Bobby stared up at complete blackness, tiny flares of color exploding in his head.
"Now that's a penis!" someone was saying. Bobby woke — the room flooded with light from the streakless windows - to see Nikki, resting on one arm next to him, covers pulled down, looking at his cock. He still had a hard-on, a painful one, and he reached instinctively for the covers but she swatted his hand away. She straddled him quickly, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then whispered in his ear. "You're a nice guy, Bobby Gold. Aren't you? That's the big secret, isn't it?"
She reached down to grab hold of him, raised herself up for a second, then impaled herself on his erection. The cat woke up, looking alarmed, and fled.
BOBBY AT THE BEACH
Bobby 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
Bobby 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."
The Bobby Gold Stories Page 7