The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [3]
"Is it that time again?" said Jerry, feigning surprise.
"I'm afraid so," said Bobby.
Jerry sat back in his cracked leather swivel chair and sighed. "So I guess this means I gotta take a beating . . . Is that right, Bobby? I gotta take a beating?"
Bobby just nodded, regretting everything that got him here and everything that was going to happen. He felt as trapped as the old man. It had been like that lately — the feeling bad part. Even with the tough guys, the mouthy, think-they're-smart assholes who he'd straightened up in recent weeks — the big-shouldered power-lifters who'd thought they didn't have to pay because of their hulk-sized chests and their bad attitudes - Bobby no longer took pleasure in proving otherwise. The technical satisfactions of a job well and precisely done just didn't cut it anymore — replaced by a growing sense of . . . shame — a tightening in the stomach.
Jerry Moss was sixty-two years old. He'd had, as Bobby well knew, two heart attacks in the past year, and a recent bypass operation. His last trip to Florida, the old man had come back with a small melanoma on the left cheek which had had to be surgically excised. And he was suffering as well from conjunctivitis, shingles and a spastic colon. He was falling apart by himself.
"How bad does it have to be?" asked Jerry, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
"It's got to be an arm — at least," said Bobby, controlling his voice. Any hint of reluctance now would give the old man hope — and there wasn't any. "That's what he said. An arm. And, of course, the face. You know how that is . . . There's gotta be something for show."
The old man winced and shook his head, studying his desk top. "That's just fucking great . . . I guess it don't matter I got the money now, does it? I mean . . . shit, Bobby - he knows I'm gonna pay . . ."
"He knows that, Jerry."
"I mean . . . Bobby . . . Boobie . . . I got the money right here. I can pay now, for fuck's sake. This second. It's right there in the safe."
"Jerry . . . he doesn't care," said Bobby, sleepwalking through this part, trying to think about a faraway beach, running an advertising jingle through his head, wanting to get it over with. "It's not about that and you know it. I'm not here to collect. You're late. That's the point. That he had to ask."
"An arm . . . " mulled Jerry. "Shit!" He looked pensively down at his body, as if taking inventory. "That's just great . . . That's just . . ." He struggled for a word . . . came up with ". . . boffo."
"What can I say?" said Bobby, shrugging.
"You could say, 'Forget it,'" said Jerry, more exasperated than frightened. "You could say, 'What the fuck' and walk away from it . . . That would be a nice fucking thing to say . . ."
"Never happen," said Bobby. "Not today." He lit a cigarette and sat down across from Jerry. He could see the fear starting to come on, welling up visibly now behind the old man's glasses, sweat forming on Jerry's upper lip as the memory of the last time Eddie had had to send him a message began to come back.
That time had been awful, Bobby knew. He'd been on vacation and Eddie had sent two oversized kids from Arthur Avenue to do the job, and predictably, things had gotten out of hand. They'd whaled the shit out of Jerry for fifteen minutes —beaten him within an inch of his life. If memory served, they'd broken both of the old man's legs, his collar-bone, forearm, nose and instep — then smashed his teeth so badly he'd had to have them all replaced. He now wore complete upper and lower plates — they made him whistle slightly when he spoke.
"How many times has it been now, Jerry?" asked Bobby — though he knew the answer. "I mean .. . esus . . .
"This'll make four," replied Jerry, almost defiantly, poking his chin out slightly — a bit of business that didn't quite make it as bravado.
"It's