The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [4]
Jerry just smiled weakly and shrugged his shoulders — looked out the dirt-streaked window at the rain coming down.
"Nobody likes this, Jerry," said Bobby. "I certainly don't like it. You think I like this shit? Coming here?"
"Oh yeah?" barked the old man, raising his voice so it cracked slightly. "Those two retards he sent over the last time? They liked it, Bobby . . . they liked it fine! Those two behemoths? They had a great fucking time, those two . . . I swear to God . .. the one kid? He's dancing on my fucking stomach? Guy's getting a fucking boner!! Oh yeah . . . Those two . . . they was all over me like a bunch a drunken Cossacks. They fucked me up good those two. Real good . . . They were having themselves a real good fucking time busting me up like a day-old fucking biscuit."
Jerry had gone pale recalling the incident. He tried quickly to buck himself up. "Hey . . . I should look at the bright side, right? At least he sent you this time. I should be grateful. I should be relieved. Am I right or what?"
"I brought some pills," said Bobby, reaching into his wet leather jacket, coming out with a bottle of Demerol. "Take three now. I'll wait . . . I'll wait around for them to kick in, okay? Then it won't hurt so bad . . . That's the best I can do for you, Jerry. The pills . . . they help a lot." He passed the bottle over to Jerry, watched as the old man tilted his head back and dry-swallowed three. He was used to taking medication.
"Drink?" offered Jerry, motioning to a fifth of Dewar's on the dirt-encrusted windowsill. "Since we're gonna be here a while . . ."
"Yeah . . . sure, thanks," said Bobby. He fetched the bottle, poured two drinks after blowing the dust out of two promotional coffee mugs on Jerry's desk. Bobby's mug read "JayBee Seafood" with a cartoon drawing of a leaping salmon on the side. Jerry's mug had a picture of a smiling Fred Flintstone on it, and the words "Yabadaba-Doo!" in bright red block letters.
"Cheers," said Jerry. He poured his drink down in one gulp, coughed, then asked for another. Bobby poured.
"Why don't you just pay the man on time," said Bobby. "Like you said . . . you got the money. Why piss him off like this — for nothing?"
"Liquidity problems," explained Jerry, looking at the younger man like he was explaining the bond market to a pool boy or a gardener. He swept his arm through the air. "Cash flow . . . You know . . . It's ponies and pussy, pussy and ponies," he said. "And the dogs. I went the dog track down there at Hialeah? I don't have to tell you what happened," Jerry smiled weakly. "That ain't ever gonna change, Bobby . . . so why shit anybody? What? Am I gonna tell you it ain't never gonna happen again? C'mon!"
It you say so . . .
"I get to pick the arm?"
"Sure," said Bobby. "Your choice. You pick it."
"I hope I pick better than I pick winners."
"Yeah . . . no shit."
"The left. I think. Yeah - the left," said Jerry. "I'm a lefty, but" — he lowered his voice — "I jerk off with my right."
"Too much information, Jerry. I didn't need to know that."
"What - I'm too old to jerk off? I need that arm! First things fucking first!"
"Whatever you say."
"How long . . . how long you think before I can use it again?"
"Three weeks in a cast," said Bobby, talking about something he knew for sure. "Four weeks tops. And the new casts they're making these days — they're much more lightweight. You'll be able to get around with it sooner."
"Fabulous," said Jerry.
They were both quiet for a while, Bobby sipping his Scotch, gazing idly out the window into Jay Bee's rear alleyway, listening to the rain pelt the thick panes of alarmed glass and the distant whine from the compressors. The Rottweiler, awake now, poked his head into the room, a filthy squeaky toy between his massive jaws. Seeing no one interested in playing with him, the big dog turned and left, the toy making hiccuping sounds.
"What's the dog's name?" asked Bobby.
"Schtarker," said Jerry, uninterested. "That's