The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [36]
"I'm not opening a restaurant with you, Lenny, I said that. I always said that."
"I thought you were kidding. I thought . . . Jesus, Nikki," says Lenny. "I thought you liked me. I thought. You know . . ."
Nikki just shakes her head and then leans forward and gives Lenny a sisterly hug. He tries clumsily to kiss her but she turns her head away, avoiding his mouth.
"I see. I see what it is now," says Lenny. "I'm outta here tonight. I'm outta here tonight before you fucking tell the fucking ape-man and blow everything. You . . . you . . . fucking whore!"
Nikki is up in a flash. She reaches back and pops Lenny a good one in the right eye that knocks him back into his seat. Two customers look up quizzically but immediately look away as Nikki glares right back at them and Lenny bursts into tears.
Nikki cradles Lenny in her arms on the hardwood floor of her tiny apartment. They're both still in their coats. Lenny is still crying, his nose running profusely, chest heaving with suppressed sobs. Nikki is petting the back of his head like he's a child, saying, "That's okay . . . that's okay." Though, of course, nothing is okay now.
The money has been divided, Nikki keeping only a relatively small share — getaway money should things really turn sour. It's morning already — and Nikki can't remember a time the cheeping birds and early morning garbage trucks have sounded so sinister. Lenny's money is in an airline bag, ready to go.
"You should get out of here," says Nikki. "Take your money, get on a train. Go someplace nice and live a little. Get yourself a fucking girlfriend. You're a rich guy, now, Lenny. You'll have to beat them off with a stick."
"I want you to be my girlfriend," snivels Lenny, his face collapsing all over again.
"That ain't gonna happen, Lenny," says Nikki, wiping tears off his receding chin with her sleeve.
Lenny gone, morning commuter traffic in full swing outside her window, Nikki lays on her bed, staring at the ceiling. This was something she never should have become involved in. "Story of my life, right?" she says out loud.
Her cut, still in the nearly empty duffel bag, sits on the floor — more an affront than a windfall. It isn't the prospect of cops she is worried about. Or the chaos and paranoia and whatever else awaits her when she goes in for work today — if she goes in for work today. It wasn't Eddie Fish — who always struck her as a pathetic little shrimp anyway — or what he might do. She could stand up to an interrogation. She'd hide the money somewhere and she'd ride it out. She doesn't feel guilty about taking money from a dishonest shithole like NiteKlub - probably go out of business in a few months anyway (a la carte dinners were getting slower and slower and the party business was drying up for the season). The owners had already skimmed their money out, that was for sure. Only a matter of time till they were all out of work. They deserved it. They'd probably barely notice the money had gone missing. One night's fucking receipts — okay, there had been a disconcertingly large amount in there this time —but what would really happen now? It isn't getting caught that bothers her. She wasn't going to get caught. It isn't guilt. Or fear — not much anyway. Who'd suspect a chick? Especially now, with Lenny gone? She closes her eyes and tries to forget about the whole thing — pushing the office, the safe, the bag of money on her floor out of her mind. But something keeps intruding. Keeps waking her up, eyes wide open, her breathing getting faster, a painful, swelling ache in her chest.
It's Bobby.
That bothers her. It really does.
BOBBY TAKES IT ON THE LAM
Bobby Gold, in a hastily thrown on black leather jacket, white T-shirt, black denims and sandals, a Heckler and Koch pistol between his legs, stomped on the gas and blew right