The Bobby Gold stories - Anthony Bourdain [9]
It took nearly an hour to clear the club. When it was over, only a small group, those who'd actually been twenty-one, huddled by the bar, waiting for it to reopen. Half of Bobby's security team of thirteen able-bodied men and one woman had been scratched, punched, hit with flying objects or in some way injured. Before reopening the bars, Bobby positioned two extra people in the street and doubled the force at the door — in case some of the ejected kids came back with retribution in mind.
When things were finally under control, an older-looking crowd filing into the entrance in orderly fashion — first frisked, then escorted through the metal detectors, then carded, money taken and hands stamped, Bobby looked up to see Frank gesturing worriedly at the door with his chin, pointing out two men who were standing patiently at the head of the VIP line.
One of them was a crew-cut hard case in a turtleneck and trench coat. The other was a fiftyish gent with snow-white hair, thin lips and flashing brown eyes in a dark suit and camel-hair overcoat. Tommy Victory. Bobby could see the kid in the green suit smirking at him from nearby. Bobby went right over to Tommy, knowing this was trouble, and respectfully offered a hand.
"Tommy. How are you?" he said.
"Bobby," said Tommy, looking irritated. "I understand there was a problem here." He looked around for a second, said, "Is there someplace we can talk?"
"Yeah, sure," said Bobby.
He took the two men upstairs and through the Blue Room into the tiny office the banquet department used during the day — and closed the door behind them. Tommy plunked himself down behind the banquet manager's desk without bothering to take off his coat and gestured for Bobby to sit across from him. The big man with the crew cut stayed on his feet, remaining behind and slightly to the right of Bobby, his hand resting ominously on his shoulder.
"My nephew called me a while ago," said Tommy. "I'm in the middle of a late supper with some friends . . . and the kid calls me. He says you hit him. Is that true, Bobby?"
Bobby could feel crew cut's hand tighten on his shoulder.
"Which one's your nephew, Tommy?" Bobby asked.
"Kid inna green suit. He says you smacked him around."
"If I'd known he was your nephew, Tommy, I would have been a little more diplomatic," said Bobby. "I would have called you directly."
"So what's the problem here, Bobby?" asked Tommy. "Why you go and have to put a hand on my nephew? What he do? He's a good kid!"
"Tommy . . . They were letting in children. Fourteen, fifteen years old. They coulda got our license yanked. There were teenage girls upstairs getting fucking gangbanged on the dinner tables. It was outta control."
"So? So you hadda hit the kid?"
The crew-cut bodyguard's hand started to move around. Bobby could smell his aftershave.
"Tommy," said Bobby. "I'd like very much for us to talk about this like men. Straighten out any misunderstandings. Make amends. Whatever. But, with all due respect to you? If this cocksucker behind me doesn't take his hand offa my shoulder like right now, I'm gonna snap it off at the wrist and shove it up his ass."
Bobby could feel anger and alarm running like a current through crew cut's hand. He was getting ready to turn around, when Tommy smiled and put up a hand.
"Richie," he said. "Give the man some room." Then he laughed, a long wheezy laugh. "He'd do it, you know. Bobby here? He's one crazy, bad-ass motherfucker. Am I right, Bobby?"
Richie didn't seem so sure. Though he'd released his grip on Bobby's shoulder, he still loomed close.
"More room," said Tommy. "Give him some space to fucking breathe. Believe me. You don't want to fuck with this guy. Friends a mine was upstate with this testadura. He's got some sorta kung-fu shit or something. Studied fucking medicine whiles