The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [18]
"Hey . . . It's a special occasion."
This was enough for Nikki. "You're not staying. And I'm not eating."
She avoided looking straight at Jimmy. For all his faults, he had a good body. All the surfing, skiing, in-line skating, handball, golf and tennis (when he should have been in his fucking kitchen) had made Jimmy tan and cut, his stomach ribbed with muscle. Even at thirty-nine, he had a boyish, almost irresistably ingratiating smile that seemed to invite conspiracy and bad behavior . .. He was, thought Nikki, watching him reposition an omelette so that the knife and fork faced her, sort of charming.
He had to go. Now.
"Get dressed and get out, Jimmy," she said. "You can take breakfast to go. Take it home to your wife, or your girlfriend or whoever it is these days you're lying to. Just leave." She sat down on the bed, dizzy again, a sudden stabbing pain in her groin. "Jesus . . . what did you fuck me with? A pineapple?"
Jimmy shook his head, smiling like a little boy who'd just successfully lifted a comic book, and sat down next to her. He brushed his lips against her shoulders. She shook him off.
"Just leave, please."
He began to dress. J. Crew polo shirt, khaki pants, Gap blazer, Cole Haan loafers (no socks of course), a baseball cap with the name of a band on it. God, thought Nikki - how could I have fucked this asshole?
"Whatever you say," said Jimmy, fully expecting, it appeared, that she would change her mind.
"I say," said Nikki. Dressed, at least, Jimmy was easier to despise. She looked at the floor, noted with displeasure the trail of clothes she'd worn last night evidence of her stupidity — a reconstruction of events possible from the shoes kicked into opposite corners, the underwear hanging over the rocking chair. The brassiere must have come off last — it peeked out from under a pillow.
"You're losing your hair," she said.
"I am not!" protested Jimmy. "Bullshit!"
"In the back. You're losing your hair. You're going bald."
"I am not going bald!" insisted Jimmy, zipping up his pants but not going anywhere until this issue was resolved. "I use stuff . . . and it's working!
"It's not working," said Nikki, tossing him a loafer. "Maybe you should get that spray. The skull-paint? Maybe that'll work . . . But the Rogaine? The minoxadyl or whatever it is? It's not taking. Believe me."
"You can be a mean bitch, Nikki."
"Yeah?" said Nikki, lip curling as she moved in close. She was taller than Jimmy by three or four inches — and face to face she looked down into his eyes. "You think you seen mean? Lemme tell you this then, chef . . . I hear one word about this from anybody . . . ever . . . One fucking word about last night — and I'm gonna tell every cook, every waitress, every chef, dishwasher, bartender and busboy in town that yes — I did take you home and fuck you - that I got you drunk, took you home and fucked you. And I'm gonna say that you cry 'Mommy' when you come. I'm gonna say that you came in about two seconds, cried for your mommy, wet the bed in your sleep . . . and left a big tuft of hair on my pillow when you got up in the morning. Now get the fuck out of my apartment, you bald fuck. I gotta go throw up again."
"Are you saying you didn't have a good time?"
"Truth be told, Jimmy? I can't remember one way or the other . . . But I'm sure you were spectacular. Feel better? Now get out."
Jimmy walked to the door and stepped out into the hallway, shaking his head. Nikki slammed the door after him. She heard him on the other side, saying under his breath, "Cunt!"
"Got that right, asshole," said Nikki. She began dressing for work.
Bobby Gold, in black jeans, black, short-sleeved T-shirt and black trainers, walked up the steps of the empty club. On the second floor mezzanine, he heard a toilet flush, waited for whoever it was to emerge. The mezzanine was still a mess from the night before — the maintenance crew still busy waxing the dance floor. The door opened and a girl came out, dressed in chef's whites. Bobby had seen her before in the kitchen — they called her the "saute