The count's villa nova restaurant was everything Tommy hated in the world, all in one room. Bad food, bad music, and bad company. It was Embarrassment Central, made worse by the fact that he knew the Count, knew people that hung out there.
It was a big glass box with a bright green awning. The inside was all green carpeting and brass railings and mirrors. The restaurant was frequented by hordes of blue-haired tourists who chewed with their mouths open and left 10 percent tips, as well as a smattering of local wise guys from Sally's crew, enjoying the benefits of their investment. The place was always packed with groups of theater-goers who came over to Soho in their buses after some off-off-Broadway show; came over to see the Count, whom they remembered from that TV show, the comedy about the vampire who's really kind of a nice guy, looking after the cute kid, that little boy, what was his name?
The Count still got work. Whenever they shot a gangster movie of the week or a cop show in New York and they needed an authentic-looking Mediterranean-type wise guy, they'd call the Count. Any time you needed a somewhat lovable shylock, a huggable hit man to dress up a scene, somebody to say "dis and dat" and "youse guys" and "yeah, boss" like he meant it, the Count was your man.
God knows, thought Tommy, standing outside the front door, he certainly dresses the part. Twenty years playing exaggerated wise guys since his vampire show got canceled had spurred the Count to new heights of cartoonish wise-guy attire, a hideous overblown version of the people Tommy had been around, in one way or another, his whole life. Tonight, the Count wore a bright red sport coat, shirt open mid-chest, and gold chains. And of course, he had the watch, the pinky ring, the white patent leather shoes, the cheap, pleated slacks buckling under his gut.
Tommy looked up at the drawing on the awning of the Count's profile with his vampire cape drawn up around his ears. He sighed loudly and opened the front door. The Count, recognizing Tommy at once, came out from behind the cash register to greet him.
"Tommy, baby! How are ya? I ain't seen you in fuckin' ages," he said. "How's it hangin'?" He reached down to goose Tommy, but Tommy avoided the Count's wrinkled hand.
"How you doin', Sonny," said Tommy.
"Beautiful. I'm doin' beautiful . . . You see me on the tube last night? I was on that cop show, Perps, you see that?"
"No, I missed it. I was workin'," said Tommy.
"So, how's your mother," said the Count. "You son of a bitch, I never see you aroun' no more."
"She's good, she's good," said Tommy.
"Say I said hello for me, will ya? I been meaning to send her over somethin, some food or somethin'. Jesus, Tommy, it's been fuckin' years . . . What are you doin' over there? Sally said you the chef over there, is that right?"
"I'm the sous-chef," said Tommy, wincing.
"Well," said the Count, "Not for long, right, Tommy? One a these days you make your move, you'll be the one runnin' things, right?" He clapped Tommy on the shoulder and winked at him.
"So," said Tommy, eager to change the subject, "How's things, how's business?"
"You know," said the Count, "Usual bullshit. Your uncle's here, right over there inna corner table, with Skinny."
Tommy gulped. He hadn't known about Skinny.
"You gonna eat somethin', Tommy?" asked the Count.
"I don't know, I ate at work."
"Oooh!" blurted the Count, disappointed. "You should come over for dinner. I ain't seen you over here since we opened. You were here for the opening, right? You was here with that lady a yours, what was her name? Helen?"
"Ellen," said Tommy.
"Right, Ellen. Ellen. Beautiful girl. Where you hidin' her?"
"She went out to L.A.," said Tommy.
"Actress, right?" said the Count, nodding wisely. "All these broads are actresses, now. Well, plenty more where that came from, right?" He winked again.
"Yeah, well . . ."
"So, how you doin' next door? How's business? You doin' awright? Busy?"
"Pretty busy," said Tommy "You know how it is. Summer."
"I know, I know. At least we get the tourists. People remember the show. You know . . ."
"They keep me pretty busy."
"Still, you gotta make time for your friends. I see Sally alla fuckin' time. Still bouncin' aroun' with the same guys. You, I never see. I seen you goin' in and out next door, that's it."
"Gotta keep an eye on the store," said Tommy.
"You should eat here," said the Count. "I oughta be insulted."
"I haven't seen you over at my place either, Sonny. So don't bust my balls too bad. I been busy, you know how it is," said Tommy.
The Count smiled. "I never get outta this fuckin' place. I turn aroun' for a second, they robbin' me blind. I gotta be here every fuckin' minute. I gotta watch these fuckin' guys like a hawk. These fuckin' busboys, the dishwashers . . . Forget about. They smokin' shit in my walk-in, stealin' food with both hands. I caught one a the cooks, this guy is callin' Puerto Rico onna phone yesterday, he musta been on there half an hour talkin' to the whole family."
"Wacky world of food service, right?"
"Yeah," said the Count, his mind elsewhere. He remembered where he was. "Well, I better let you go. I see your uncle over there, givin me the evil eye. You shouldn't keep him waitin."
"He's just wondering where his food is."
"Nah. He got his food already," said the Count. "It's been great talkin' to ya, Tommy. I'll see ya later. Lemme know—you decide you want somethin' to eat, I'll send over a waiter."
Tommy walked over to Sally's table and sat down across from him on a green leather banquette. A bored waiter, looking wilted and unwashed in his dirty white dress shirt and black clip-on bow tie, appeared at his elbow. Tommy waved him away.
"You're not gonna eat, kid? Well, fuck you," said Sally. He was wearing a burgundy jogging suit, his hair shining under the bright track lighting. He leaned protectively over a huge oval plate of gummy-looking deep-fried calamari drowning in a lake of red sauce.
Sitting further down the banquette, next to Tommy, was a tall, cadaverously thin man in his forties with bad teeth. He wore a jacket and tie, and he had sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes and a protruding brow and cheek bones that gave his head a skull-like aspect.
"You remember Skinny," said Sally.
"Hi, Skin," said Tommy.
The thin man nodded back at him and returned to his plate of scampi. There was a little pile of shrimp tails in the ashtray next to his plate.
"Listen, Tommy," said Sally, serious all of a sudden, "We need your help on somethin."
"Sally, really—" Tommy started to protest.
Sally raised his palm, "No. Tommy . . . Just listen to me here," he said. "It's gotta be you. It's no big deal. Just a little favor."
"Maaan . . . " said Tommy, shaking his head. He noticed Skinny looking at him intently, one eyebrow raised.
"Don't shake your head," said Sally "Don't shake your head. Look at me. Look at me. It's a little favor. A little one. You just gotta stay a little late at the restaurant tomorrow night."
"My restaurant?" asked Tommy.
"What restaurant you think I'm fuckin' talkin' about?" said Sally. "Yeah, your restaurant. The one I fuckin' got you the job at. Your place. You gotta let us in."
"Who's us'?" asked Ibmmy, worried now.
"Just me and Skin and one other guy. We need a place to talk some business," said Sally.
"Why there? Why not over here? Someplace else?"
"We gotta talk about somethin' in private with a guy. Nothin' bad. Someplace everybody in the fuckin' world ain't gonna know my business. We'll be in, we'll be out. We just gotta talk to the guy a few minutes, show the guy a few things and then we leave. No muss, no fuss."
"This is bad, Sally."
"It's not bad. What's bad? What's fuckin' bad? We just need the place for a few minutes. You just gotta open the doors there."
"What about the porters? There's porters there all night," said Tommy.
"The porters are gonna be callin' in sick tomorrow," said Sally, matter-of-factly.
Startled, Tommy thought for a moment. Skinny was still staring at him. "So Harvey knows about this? This is okay with Harvey?"
"Tommy, Tommy. You don't hafta worry about what Harvey knows and what he don't know. He knows you're with me. You're not gonna be gettin in any trouble with that guy or anythin' like that. Just help us out here, this once, and after, you want, we can go back like it was before."
"I think this really sucks," said Tommy. "This really fuckin sucks."
Sally shrugged. "You gotta do it. That's it."
"I don't gotta do anything," protested Tommy. "I'm not with you guys like that. I got somethin' goin' for me over there, I don't wannit to get all fucked up."
"Sometimes you gotta do somethin'," said Sally.
"You have to do things over there, that's okay. You can't work it out with Harvey? You got somethin' going over there, fine, that's your business. That's you. This is me. I work over there. It's my fuckin' job," said Tommy.
"Well, tomorrow, I'm your fuckin' job," said Sally.
"This sucks," said Tommy. He noticed Skinny exchange glances with Sally.
"You're not gonna get in any trouble. You don't hafta do nothin'.
You just wait aroun' till two-thirty and you let us in the trapdoor. Then you go upstairs, get yourself a cuppa coffee, whatever. That's all you gotta do. Is that so fuckin' much to ask of somebody? Somebody who's family?" Sally shoved a hunk of bread into his calamari sauce and popped it in his mouth.
"It sucks."
"It's a favor," said Sally, still working his jaws on the bread.
"It's a big favor," said Tommy.
Skinny was shaking his head almost imperceptibly now.
"Tommy, what are you fuckin' bitchin' for?" said Sally. "You know you're gonna do it. You gonna have to do the right thing here, you know that, right? I reached out for you one time, Tommy. I got you that fuckin' job you got. You think that Jew dentist give you the job 'cause he likes you? You think he can't hire somebody outta the papers like that? Some French fag who wants the job? I didn't wanna bring it up, but there it is . . . You ain't gonna get in any trouble, that's what's eatin' you. I don't do this thing, it's me that gets in trouble. This is important. It's gotta be done tomorrow. I fuckin' helped you, helped your career, now you gotta help me out. Help out my career. This guy I gotta talk to is gonna be real helpful to my career, you unnerstan'? It's fuckin' that simple."
"Alright," said Tommy. "Alright."
Skinny still looked skeptical.
Sally looked pleased with himself. "Good!" he said. "Now, hows-about somethin' to eat? I'll order you somethin'. You don't gotta pay for it."
"Fuck you, Sally."