Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [60]
Nicky spends most of his days wishing he were anywhere but Nostradamus, or at least doing anything else. Three years experience, and he’s still a busboy, despite his pleas to Victor Gold, who treats him like a fucking retard. Still, Nostradamus is the hottest place in Philly, so where else is he going to go on his night off? Plus, he and his workmates have made a game out of sneaking drinks to spite Victor, who parks his yellow Maserati right outside and cocks around, convinced he’s got the world licked.
Such is life for Nicky at twenty-four, living rent-free, at least for now, in a nearby brownstone, thanks to his older brother Chris Krios, the lawyer, whose face is everywhere in this city—in the subways, on the sides of busses. No recovery, no fee. This week Chris said it’s time for Nicky to pony up, be his own man—this in spite of busboy tips he knows don’t even cover living expenses. “You don’t want to end up like Dad,” Chris let slip. “Hopeless, I mean.” Not dead, which goes without saying. “A man needs to move forward in life.” Tough love. You should be happy, Chris always tells him, working at any one of Victor Gold’s restaurants—it’s a great company, he says, as if Nicky’s poised for some rags-to-riches story of his own. We’re brothers, Chris says, to remind Nicky that they share the same DNA; that if the one son can make it, so can the other; that he’s not a chip off the old block. People’s lives can change for the better, Chris insists, just as quickly as they can change for the worse.
Nicky doesn’t want to get too high, so he takes one last hit, pinches the tip with moistened fingers, and tucks the half-joint, the last of his dwindled stash, back into Moby Dick, which he swore he was going to finish this summer. He flips up the collar of his black silk shirt and fakes a roundhouse kick at the mirror, his eyes looking badass.
Chris got Nicky in the door with Victor Gold. The rest is up to you, Chris always says. I can’t ask him to make you a bartender. You create your own luck. Chris and Victor were college roommates, and they both have the Midas touch. Chris bought the brownstone for peanuts, now uses the rent he collects from three downstairs units to pay the mortgage on the condo he just picked up on Spring Garden. Victor’s a whole other story. He must have opened Nostradamus on a dare, Nicky jokes, to prove once and for all to the city, or just to his own world-class ego, that he could create another gastronomical goldmine out of the least appetizing concept—this time serving up Gothic fare in a renovated church a block south of Eastern State Penitentiary.
Night after night, unimaginably lovely creatures, local celebrities, sports stars, and wannabe hipsters in their thirties and forties, and maybe even fifties for all Nicky can tell, find this veritable morgue hiding in residential Fairmount; many of them have the requisite wit, donning sexy vampiric getups—tight leather, flared collars, ruffled shirts, spiked jewelry—downing drinks with names like Edgar Allan Poetini and Exorcism on the Beach. Ordinarily Nicky lies low, winding invisibly through the crowd, carrying plates soiled with remnants of blackened this or deviled that, head down, in the standard black-T-shirt-and-jeans busboy uniform, but tonight he’s playing along, monster shades and all, at least until the sun goes down.
“I saw you snake my fucking eyeliner yesterday,” pale-eyed Janet says the second Nicky snags the corner spot at the half-full bar, best view in the house, where Victor usually sidles up late-night. “I thought you were just playing around, but you snaked it.”
“Shit.” Nicky hops off the stool and pats down the pockets of his slim-fitting cargo pants. He pulls out his cell phone and