The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [23]
"I'm thinking about it," said Nikki, squaring off, giving him a hard, confrontational look.
Bobby turned crimson. Ordinarily, in such circumstances — not that there had been any circumstances like this in recent memory — his first instinct would have been to stand up, walk over to this Eric guy and squeeze his carotid for him, maybe lift him up off the ground by his throat, give him a few smacks, a few pointed words. But this wasn't about him at all. Nobody was watching him. All the cooks were paying attention to a contest of wills between Nikki and the sous-chef, anxious to see how things were going to turn out. There was something else going on here, too, Bobby saw. All kinds of history — beyond a simple struggle for control. The other cooks looked worried, protective, defensive; Lenny and Billy actually moved closer to the lone woman behind the line, defending her — lonely, but also, somehow . . . hurt.
Eric threw down the stack of dupes with a look of disgust and a "Fuck it," and stalked back to the locker area.
"This okay?" said Nikki, bringing Bobby his meal.
"It looks . . . wonderful," said Bobby. "I hope I didn't get you in trouble." He was trying to get the blow job comment, and Nikki's response, out of his mind.
"Fuck him."
Bobby took a bite of fish with his fork. "It's amazing," he said.
Nikki hopped up onto the stainless-steel worktable and watched him as he chewed, a look of almost clinical detachment on her face. After he took another bite, she leaned forward, reached over and tore off a little piece with her fingers, popped it in her mouth and tasted, pleased with herself. Leaning forward the way she was, Bobby got a good look straight down the valley between her breasts, every tiny bead of sweat coming suddenly, vividly, into focus, Bobby wanting suddenly, and in the most terrible way, to lick them off. Instead, he took a bite of fish, a little risotto. It truly was amazing.
"Really, really good. Thanks. So much," he said, trying desperately not to stare at her tits anymore, focussing intently on her eyes.
"Bon apetit," she said, hopping down off the table and removing her apron. She crumpled the food-smeared cotton/poly object into a tight ball and hurled it casually across the kitchen, where it dropped neatly - all air - into a laundry bin. "Three points," she muttered.
The other cooks were melting away one by one. Bobby and Nikki were almost alone in the large kitchen, when, looking like she was getting ready to leave, she turned back to him and asked, "What are you doing later?"
Flustered, Bobby found himself saying that he was working — which was patently obvious.
"Until three," he finally managed to say.
"You got a girlfriend or something?"
"Uh. No," said Bobby, no phrase book available for this conversation. Totally at sea.
"So. You want to meet me later for a drink?" she asked. Just like that.
Bobby hadn't had a "date" since before prison. "After work?" he asked, feeling terribly tongue-tied. "I uh . . . okay. Sure. That would be nice."
There. He'd said it.
"Sooo . . . I'll go home. Shower all this fish jiz off, change — and I'll see you back here at three . . . Meet you out front." With that she turned her back and was gone.
She had a drink at the mezz bar on the way out. The bartender there never denied her anything. She'd fucked him in the dry goods area at the last Christmas party - an experience she was unlikely to repeat. His cock, she remembered dimly, leaned noticeably to the left. And he'd smelled of patchouli. The glass in her hand suddenly empty, she had another one, as she felt, strangely enough, nervous about her imminent meeting with the mostly silent and (they said in the kitchen) dangerous Bobby Gold.
"You know what that guy does?" Lenny had said in the locker room, his voice lowered to an insistent whisper. "He's like a bone man! He busts