The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [26]
Bobby was punishing himself. He was feeling bad — angry that he'd allowed his hopes to rise, something he'd been very careful not to do since being upstate. This was the price, he thought glumly, of allowing yourself to believe in other people. This is what happens.
All day and into the evening, he'd tried, really tried, not to look in the kitchen — or anywhere in the direction of the kitchen. He'd convinced himself he wasn't hovering by the door at four o'clock when Nikki was scheduled to come in —and he'd pretended to himself that he neither cared nor wondered when she hadn't shown up for her shift. There'd been a short stab of pain every time the door opened and it wasn't her. And when it was clear that she wasn't coming it only made things worse, because now, not only was he wondering why she'd led him on and then not shown up as promised, but where she could be right now — and what she might be doing.
He felt sick. And the vodka wasn't making things better. Bobby lay his head back on the couch and stared up at the painted-over tin ceiling, Sam Cooke on the box now, angry, angry about how all this had snuck up on him unasked for.
Two hairy bastards in leather jackets and work boots came into the bar holding a car radio, slapped it on the bar in front of Timmy and demanded to know how much he'd pay for it.
"Not interested, gentlemen," said Timmy, not inquiring if the two would care for a drink.
"How 'bout you, buddy? You want a radio? It's a Blaupunkt. Get fifty bucks for it. Sell it to you for twenny, my man."
"Fuck off," said Bobby, not bothering to even look.
"What you say to me?" said the larger of the two - a bearded asshole with a much broken nose and dried blood caked under one eye.
"He tole you to fuck off," said the other one.
"Get the fuck outta my bar," said Timmy, holding a cut-down 10-gauge now, what was left of the barrel resting on the bar. A few inches away the sleeping man continued to snore, undisturbed, such was the relaxed, even mellifluous tone of Timmy's request.
"What's the matter with you?" said Timmy after the two had left. "Why are you provokin' a pair a cunts like that?"
Bobby held up his glass, motioning for more vodka, but Timmy shook his head and came around the bar. "You ain't drinkin' here tonight, Bobby Gold," he said. "You're stinkin'. . . and you're lookin' to get yourself jammed up for no good reason that I can see. So be a good guy and fuck off home. Don't you got a cat or somethin' to look after? You ain't doin' nobody any good being here tonight."
He began wiping down the cable-spool table in front of Bobby with a wet bar rag. It was the nicest Bobby had ever seen him. Even drunk, he could see that.
See? He did have friends, he thought to himself, as he picked his way to the door. Timmy Moon. Greatest guy on earth. A man who cared. Looking after him like that, making sure no harm came to him. Concerned. Fuck everybody else.
Bobby careened out the door and walked right into Nikki.
"Who a there, cowboy," she said. "I've been looking for you."
The Apex Coffee Shop was off the lobby of a run-down tourist hotel on 48th Street. Bobby drank burnt coffee and tried to focus on the plate of eggs in front of him.
"Eat it," said Nikki, across from him. "You'll feel better. Jesus, you were drunk. I've never seen you that way."
Bobby said nothing, just poked at his eggs with his fork. He hadn't said anything at all since she'd found him, just let her lead him like a trained camel a few blocks away to the overlit coffee shop, watched as she'd ordered for him, sat there until the