The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [8]
"What kind of fuckin' jerks am I talkin' to here?" he demanded.
"What the fuck you talkin' about?" said green suit. Orange suit was too shaken to talk.
"Eddie said — "
Bobby slapped him again.
"Let me explain something to you, asshole," said Bobby, speaking softly.
"This is a business. What do you think's gonna happen — one a these girls you letting in here goes home late, drunk outta her mind, her parents find her puking all over the doorstep with jiz all over her dress?"
"We're straight with Eddie, man. This is our event!" ventured orange suit, finding a little courage.
"Yeah? You know what I think Eddie said?" said Bobby. "I think he said that you two morons promote the event. That's what I think he said. I think he said that you two do the advertising. That you get the door and we get the bar. That's what I think he said. I don't think he told you two shit stains to let every fifteen-year-old in the five boroughs in the door without carding them. I don't think he asked you twerps to get his liquor license pulled for him!"
"He's gettin' fifteen percent a the door!" howled green suit. "This is costing us money, bro'!"
"Listen carefully," said Bobby. "And watch my hands. Because if I want any more shit outta you, I'm gonna squeeze your fucking head . . . Nobody else is getting in this place until everybody in the club has been carded and checked and all the minors are out of here. You two are half smart? You'll step outside yourselves and make the announcement that everyone is expected to produce valid ID. Not those knock-offs you can buy a few blocks over. We're talking driver's license, passport, photo fucking ID, got it? I'm having my people go through this club to check everyone who's already here. Anyone under twenty-one is out. The sooner we get that done, the sooner we can all go back to making money. Is that understood?"
The two promoters looked at their shoes, humiliated.
"I want to talk to Eddie," said green suit.
"You want to talk to Eddie?" said Bobby, incredulous. "Here," he said, offering green suit his cell phone. "I'll give you the number. You can call him right now. Interrupt the man's business and explain to him why he's gonna get sued when one of these underage teeny-boppers plows Daddy's Lexus into a bus load a fucking nuns. You want to explain that? Tell him not to worry? That you got it under control? That you definitely ain't gonna put his business in jeopardy, get his license yanked? That he can count on you two to make sure he doesn't wake up tomorrow and see his fucking picture on the cover of the Post? . . . Here!" Bobby said, shoving the cell phone under green suit's nose. "C'mon, tough guy. Call him."
"Fuck it, man," said orange suit.
Green suit just glared at him while Bobby continued holding the phone under his nose. When he finally averted his gaze, Bobby turned his back and walked away, giving instructions into the radio.
After calling in additional security from the exits, Bobby put together a flying squad to move about the club, checking ID and escorting those without to the doors. He moved about the club, overseeing the operation - and everywhere he went there was trouble. Outside the Blue Room, he saw his man Rick holding a struggling youth in a full nelson. Rick had a red welt over his right eye, and was having a hard time controlling the kid without hitting him. A teenage girl was crying on a banquette while her boyfriend was being subdued. A bottle was thrown, and another security man rushed towards the source.
"Little bastard cold-cocked me," said Rick, through bloody teeth, as he frog-walked the kid down the stairs. "He must weigh eighty pounds!"
"Get him out," sighed Bobby. "And try not to humiliate him in front of his girlfriend. He might come back with a slingshot."
Another security man, Melvin,