The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [16]
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,