Bobby Gold in work clothes — black sport jacket, black button-down dress shirt, skinny black tie, black chinos and comfortable black shoes — pushed open the double doors onto the mezzanine level of NiteKlub. Below, on the dance floor, heads were bobbing in the smoke and the strobes, the heavy bass tones from the half-million-dollar sound system vibrating through the concrete. Fifty feet away, on his left, the mezzanine bar was doing big business, stacked three-deep with customers. He saw Del, the mezz security man, hurrying toward him.
"Bobby! This is outta control! Have you seen this?"
Bobby looked around, saw, as his eyes adjusted to the light, what was happening.
They were kids. The whole fucking crowd. Not one of the customers clamoring for drinks over the upstairs bar looked to be over seventeen. They were everywhere: chunky girls with teased hair wearing camisoles, skinny boys with baggy jeans and sneakers that glowed in the dark — teenagers, shirtless, dressed up, dressed down, in makeup, wearing wigs, sunglasses, drag, full nightclub battledress — and they were running wild. In pairs, in packs, eyes lit with X, with booze, with animal tranquilizers, ketamine, Mom's pilfered Valiums, ephedrine, mushrooms and God knows what else. Every one of these little bastards was a potentially ticking time bomb. At the small bar, they signaled noisily for Long Island Iced Teas, Kamikazes, tequila shooters, Lite beers and rum and cokes. Bobby could scarcely believe it.
"You gotta do something about this," said Del, in despair. "And look . . ." he added, "check this out." He drew Bobby over to the booths running along the mezzanine wall and yanked back a curtain to reveal a short blond girl, legs in the air on the middle of a dinner table, her drunken boyfriend in a warm-up jacket grunting over her, his pants down around his ankles. Another boy sat slumped in a chair by her head, unconscious, his mouth open, snoring. The girl looked right up at Bobby with uninflected, porcine little eyes. She was chewing gum.
"They're going at it everywhere," said Del, disgustedly. "I found two in the air-conditioning room before. More in the dry goods area. They're fucking all over the place like little bunnies. Can you believe this shit?"
A young girl in a brassiere and blue jeans hurried past them, fell to her knees and vomited into the base of a potted palm. "Remind me to never have kids," said Del.
"You have kids, don't you?" said Bobby, reaching for his radio.
"Yeah . . . well, remind me to not let them grow any more."
Bobby trotted to the lobby, calling into his radio for Tiny Lopez on the street security detail.
"Tiny! . . . What's your twenty?"
"I ousside, man. Whassup?" said Tiny, a three-hundred-eighty-pounder whom Bobby had placed out front for crowd control.
"We're shutting it down. Tell the friskers. I'll let them know at the desk," said Bobby. He squeezed past a long line of kids who were ascending the main staircase, signaled the downstairs bartenders that something was up, drawing a finger across his throat to give them the sign to stop serving. The lobby was packed. It took him two solid minutes to make it the last few yards to the front desk, where Frank, a silver-haired charity-case pal of Eddie's, was stamping hands, standing next to two young promoters in shiny sharkskin suits. Bobby shouted to the security men at the door to close it down, alerted Tiny to what was going on over the radio, and had the two friskers move together to block off access at the choke point.
"Shut the doors," he said, "Nobody gets in."
One of the promoters was in green sharkskin, the other, orange. Green sharkskin looked up. "What the fuck, man?" he said. "What are you doing?"
Bobby pushed through the crowd of bodies until he towered over him.
"That's it. Show's over," he said. "I'm shutting it down."
"What?" exclaimed orange suit.
"You heard me," said Bobby, struggling to keep his voice under control. "Frankie," he said, "who's been carding these people?"
Frank nodded at the two promoters, neither of whom looked to be of age themselves. "Eddie said they was in charge of the door. They . . . they said that Eddie said it was okay."
"What the fuck you think you're doing here?" Bobby demanded of green suit — clearly the alpha male of the two. He saw right away that the kid was going to get up in his face. Orange suit moved closer, shoulders back, trying to look bigger than he was. Bobby outweighed both of them together.
"Whass goin' on?" said orange suit in a whiny voice. "Why we stopping?"
"You costin' us money, bro'," protested green suit.
Bobby slapped him across the face and he fell against the wall like a stunned trout. He grabbed a fistful of sharkskin with his right hand and a fistful of sharkskin with his left and dragged the two promoters into the cloakroom where it was a little quieter, pushed them both up against the coat racks.
"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, with a bad gash over his nose, carried a young man in overalls down the stairs, yelling, "Coming through!" Furniture was kicked over. More bottles were thrown. Bobby radioed the sound booth and told the head of tech to shut off the music and turn up the house lights.
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 he was up there - like . . . where the bones are and shit. So he knows how to fuck a guy up. He's like a ox, this guy."
"He don't look like much to me," said Richie. The first words out of his mouth.
Bobby said nothing, his eyes on Tommy.
"Think?" said Tommy, smiling. "Tell that to Terry Doyle. You remember Terry? The middleweight champeen? He was up on a rape charge when Bad Bobby was there. Terry liked dark, young, good-looking fellas like Bobby here — and this was before Bobby was big like he is now. OP Ter' tried to help Bobby wash his back in the shower one day — him and a bunch a his pals. They say he felt like a fuckin' dishrag when they came for him. Sounded like a bag fulla chicken bones when they loaded what was left a Terry onto the fuckin' gurney - wasn't no bone over a foot long that wasn't busted. His head looked like a beach ball you let the air outta. You don't want to tangle with this guy, Richie. Just leave it at that. I got confidence we can straighten this out."
"Thanks, Tommy," said Bobby.
"I still say you didn't have to smack the kid," said Tommy. "That just isn't right. It's disrespectful. A few kids drinkin' . . . gettin' rowdy . . . That's still no reason."
"One of the kids upstairs," began Bobby, "getting poked on the table? I recognized her. It was Christine Failla. She can't be more than fifteen."
Bobby watched the color drain out of Tommy's face.
"Paulie's kid?"
"The same," said Bobby.
"Minchia!!" hissed Tommy, screwing up his face in an expression of distate — and worry. "Jesus Cheerist! . . . I was at her first communion for fuck's sake!"
Bobby shrugged and said nothing, content to let Tommy think things through now.
"You sure it was her?"
"Me and Eddie were at her confirmation. Out on the Island."
"I missed that," said Tommy. "I was in AC that week. Jesus . . . Paulie's little girl. You're sure?"
Bobby nodded gravely. "I saw that, I figured I hadda move fast. What am I gonna do? I can't tell anybody. Your nephew? I don't know who the fuck he is. Even if I did — mean, Tommy . . . What's Big Paul gonna say? He finds out his baby girl is gettin' porked onna dinner table in Eddie's club? A buncha drunken frat boys watchin' the whole thing? I don't think he'd be too happy."
Tommy exhaled loudly and actually shuddered visibly. "You did the right thing, Bobby. You did what you hadda do. Where is that fucking nephew a mine — I'll give him a fuckin' beatin' myself . . ."
Bobby smiled reassuringly. "Forget it. I cleared the club. Everything's cool."
"Jesuss . . ." said Tommy. "Fifteen . . . Listen . . . This goes no further than this room. Nobody . . . and I mean nobody finds out. Paulie hears about this . . . even a hint . . . and I don't even want to think about it.
"My nephew doesn't know, right?" said Tommy, standing up.
"He doesn't know."
"Good. He's a sweet kid — but he's got a mouth on him. His mother didn't hit him enough. That's the problem."
"Kids today," said Bobby.
"No shit."
"So we're straight on this?"
"Sure," said Tommy, making for the door. He stopped and shook Bobby's hand, warmly.
"I'm in your debt."
Later, Bobby stood in nearly ankle-deep litter on the empty dance floor, watching the bartenders break down and count out. He felt badly about besmirching the reputation of a fifteen-year-old girl who — as far as he knew, was safely tucked into bed with her stuffed toys somewhere out on Long Island — and could well have been all night. In truth, he hadn't seen Chrissie Failla since Eddie had pointed her out, years earlier, waiting for the pony ride at Eddie's kid's birthday party in Westchester. But it had been a necessary lie. Tommy V had put him, and Eddie, in a tough spot. Smack a made guy's nephew and people have to make hard decisions. Appearances have to be kept up. Allegiances affirmed and reaffirmed. Somebody somewhere sits down with a bunch of old men who aren't even close to the situation and then somebody has to get hurt.
Bobby knew how that worked.
And it wasn't going to happen here.
Not this time anyway.