Bobby Gold, in a blue funk, sat slouched back deep in the stained couch, one leg slung over a torn armrest, drinking vodka. Timmy Moon, behind the stick, washed glasses and hummed along to Junior Walker on the jukebox, ignoring the sole customer at the bar — a fastidiously dressed old man in an ancient suit, currently snoring into a puddle of beer. There were two gum-ball machines in the corner, leased, Bobby knew, from Metro Vending — Eddie's company. A joker-poker machine blipped and clicked and beeped against the far wall under the chain-link-fenced piece of glass that had once been a picture window. No one had been able to see through the grime-encrusted square for decades. The poker machine, occupied at this moment by a pencil-necked building super named George, was also Eddie's (Magic Carpet Entertainment Inc.) as was the cigarette machine near Bobby, and the condom machine in the bathroom. Bobby had once joked with Eddie about the condom machine, pointing out that "no one at Timmy's has had an erection for years." The beer in the taps was from a distrubutor associated with Tommy Victory (dba Zenith Distributors), and the vodka Bobby was drinking — what was it — his sixth, seventh? — was from Xanadu Beverage Inc. — also Eddie's - in partnership with Tommy, of course.
Timmy, now lighting another Parliament from the end of its predecessor, did the occasional work for Tommy V — as he had for Tommy's father before him. Part of a long and glorious tradition of murder-for-hire going back three generations of Moons. Timmy's son, James, Bobby had recently heard, had been arrested for menacing and possession of a handgun. Bobby remembered seeing James, only a few years earlier, hanging out with his friends on the corner, skateboards and baggy pants and new, white sneakers, wool caps pulled down low over their eyes, in conscious emulation of Latino prison gangs Bobby knew only too well.
The music changed to U2, a development as predictable as the over-aerated Guinness in Timmy's taps, or the wet mass of toilet paper clogging Timmy's toilets, or the inescapable outcome of an evening spent drinking at Timmy's: a hangover, a nose clogged with undissolved mannitol and unexplained cuts and bruises. The place smelled of vomit and Lysol, something one got used to after a while, and the sweat of the old men who drank up their social security checks there in the afternoons. It was nighttime now, late night, the high-end crowd. Soon, the place would be crowded with bartenders and waiters and cooks, come over after last-call had been announced at more legitimate establishments.
Bobby was punishing himself. He was feeling bad — angry that he'd allowed his hopes to rise, something he'd been very careful not to do since being upstate. This was the price, he thought glumly, of allowing yourself to believe in other people. This is what happens.
All day and into the evening, he'd tried, really tried, not to look in the kitchen — or anywhere in the direction of the kitchen. He'd convinced himself he wasn't hovering by the door at four o'clock when Nikki was scheduled to come in —and he'd pretended to himself that he neither cared nor wondered when she hadn't shown up for her shift. There'd been a short stab of pain every time the door opened and it wasn't her. And when it was clear that she wasn't coming it only made things worse, because now, not only was he wondering why she'd led him on and then not shown up as promised, but where she could be right now — and what she might be doing.
He felt sick. And the vodka wasn't making things better. Bobby lay his head back on the couch and stared up at the painted-over tin ceiling, Sam Cooke on the box now, angry, angry about how all this had snuck up on him unasked for.
Two hairy bastards in leather jackets and work boots came into the bar holding a car radio, slapped it on the bar in front of Timmy and demanded to know how much he'd pay for it.
"Not interested, gentlemen," said Timmy, not inquiring if the two would care for a drink.
"How 'bout you, buddy? You want a radio? It's a Blaupunkt. Get fifty bucks for it. Sell it to you for twenny, my man."
"Fuck off," said Bobby, not bothering to even look.
"What you say to me?" said the larger of the two - a bearded asshole with a much broken nose and dried blood caked under one eye.
"He tole you to fuck off," said the other one.
"Get the fuck outta my bar," said Timmy, holding a cut-down 10-gauge now, what was left of the barrel resting on the bar. A few inches away the sleeping man continued to snore, undisturbed, such was the relaxed, even mellifluous tone of Timmy's request.
"What's the matter with you?" said Timmy after the two had left. "Why are you provokin' a pair a cunts like that?"
Bobby held up his glass, motioning for more vodka, but Timmy shook his head and came around the bar. "You ain't drinkin' here tonight, Bobby Gold," he said. "You're stinkin'. . . and you're lookin' to get yourself jammed up for no good reason that I can see. So be a good guy and fuck off home. Don't you got a cat or somethin' to look after? You ain't doin' nobody any good being here tonight."
He began wiping down the cable-spool table in front of Bobby with a wet bar rag. It was the nicest Bobby had ever seen him. Even drunk, he could see that.
See? He did have friends, he thought to himself, as he picked his way to the door. Timmy Moon. Greatest guy on earth. A man who cared. Looking after him like that, making sure no harm came to him. Concerned. Fuck everybody else.
Bobby careened out the door and walked right into Nikki.
"Who a there, cowboy," she said. "I've been looking for you."
The Apex Coffee Shop was off the lobby of a run-down tourist hotel on 48th Street. Bobby drank burnt coffee and tried to focus on the plate of eggs in front of him.
"Eat it," said Nikki, across from him. "You'll feel better. Jesus, you were drunk. I've never seen you that way."
Bobby said nothing, just poked at his eggs with his fork. He hadn't said anything at all since she'd found him, just let her lead him like a trained camel a few blocks away to the overlit coffee shop, watched as she'd ordered for him, sat there until the food arrived, looking at her.
She was in a black leather motorcycle jacket, jeans and a T-shirt, but something was different about her. She was wearing makeup — a little around the eyes, he thought — and was that lipstick? He thought it was.
"I'll wait till you sober up a little before I apologize," she said, tearing off a piece of toast with short but polished fingernails, the nails cut or chewed in parts, her hands pocked with pink welts.
"I'm okay now," said Bobby. "You don't have to apologize. For what?"
"For not making it last night. I'm not like that," she said, looking away and fumbling for a cigarette. "I got loaded," she said. "Pissed fucking drunk . . . and I fell asleep."
"It happens," said Bobby, trying to be noncommittal. "No big thing."
"Irregardless . . . It happened to me," said Nikki, reaching across the table and taking his hand. "And I'm sorry." She squeezed his fingers and withdrew her hand awkwardly. "You know, not for nothin' —but I got all dressed up and everything. I put on a fuckin' dress."
She laughed suddenly, Bobby smelling vodka on her for the first time, realizing that she too was drunk. "I even waxed my cat," she said, an unbecoming half laugh, half derisive snort escaping from her mouth.
"Your what?" said Bobby — picturing his own cat, shorn of hair, trying to imagine her putting up with such a thing.
"My pussy, jerk," said Nikki, lowering her voice. "First date and all. I wanted to make a good impression."
Bobby didn't know what to say. He stared into his coffee, feeling dizzy, imagining the cleft between her legs devoid of hair, partially groomed, au naturel . . . When she pretended to pick a piece of lint off the sleeve of her jacket, betraying a welcome nervousness, he said, "Fully waxed? Or like . . . only some?" astonished that the question had escaped his lips.
"I left a little bit over the top," said Nikki, standing up and calling for the check.
"C'mon. I'll show you."
"Where we going?" he asked, seeing things more clearly, yet somehow even more out of control. "Where you live?"
"Let's go to your place," she said, tugging him west. "You live near here right? The door guy —the big one - said so."
Making a mental note to fire the loose-lipped doorman, Bobby stopped in his tracks and considered things. No one had ever been inside his apartment. He tried to picture it, as if for the first time, trying to imagine what it would look like to an outsider.
"I need to look at your record collection," she said, taking his arm in hers and leaning against him. "I see any Billy fuckin' Joel in there and this ain't gonna happen."
"Jesus? What you got in here? Fort Knox?" complained Nikki, her hands inside Bobby's jacket as he fumbled with the last lock - a custom-made deadbolt put together for him by an Albanian thief when he'd moved in. The place was clean, he knew. Any guns or cash or "evidence of wrongdoing," as he'd once heard such things referred to, were — as always — securely put away in the concealed floor safe. But Bobby was embarrassed when he flicked on the light. There was something too severe, almost fanatical, about his apartment, he knew. The too-clean, too-polished hardwood floors, the raw brick walls, the always-dusted sound system, the set of free weights neatly arranged in the corner and the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. His mattress, squared away as usual and tight as a snare drum, rested on a low unfinished wood platform, a copy of Grey's Anatomy on the simple, mail-order nightstand. The refrigerator, he knew, was empty save for a V-8 and a few wedges of leftover pizza in the freezer.
But there was no Billy Joel to be found, he comforted himself. Returning from a long piss in the too-clean bathroom, he found Nikki smiling by his collection of old vinyl, a copy of the first Modern Lovers album in her hand.
"You're an interesting man," she said, putting the record back in its place, alphabetically between Harold Melvin and Ennio Morricone. She got up, sat down on the bed and began peeling off her clothes, Bobby instinctively looking away for a second before returning his gaze to her sleek, well-muscled back as she bent over to remove her shoes, the crack of her ass, the way her dark hair moved around on her naked shoulders.
"Can you, like, get the light?" she asked, sliding under the covers. "If you're too drunk to fuck, we can do that tomorrow. Right now, I just want to sleep with you." She sat upright for a second, an innocuously worried look crossing her face. "If that's okay?"
Bobby undressed in the bathroom. Took a long shower, washing the stink of Timmy's couch off himself; stood there in the bathroom, forlornly looking at himself in the mirror. He hadn't looked at himself like this in a long time.
When he emerged from the bathroom, in robe and boxer shorts, she was asleep. The cat, who had materialized after no doubt hiding (she'd never seen anyone other than Bobby since he'd taken her in), snoozing by her head. Bobby folded the robe carefully over the single chair, sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, wondering whether to remove the boxer shorts or not, feeling both silly to have put them back on and uncomfortable about taking them off. Finally he whipped them down, pulled up the sheet and got into bed. Nikki didn't move.
In the middle of sleep, he felt fingers on his chest, Nikki's leg working itself between his, her head moving to rest against his shoulder, the absolutely amazing sensation of her breasts brushing against his stomach. His penis immediately stiffened, raising the sheets. He lay there, motionless and afraid, not sure what to do next. A contented noise — it could have been "Mmmnnn" — came from Nikki's mouth, but that was it. She snuggled a bit closer, then her breathing became more even and she stopped moving entirely. Bobby stared up at complete blackness, tiny flares of color exploding in his head.
"Now that's a penis!" someone was saying. Bobby woke — the room flooded with light from the streakless windows - to see Nikki, resting on one arm next to him, covers pulled down, looking at his cock. He still had a hard-on, a painful one, and he reached instinctively for the covers but she swatted his hand away. She straddled him quickly, leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips, then whispered in his ear. "You're a nice guy, Bobby Gold. Aren't you? That's the big secret, isn't it?"
She reached down to grab hold of him, raised herself up for a second, then impaled herself on his erection. The cat woke up, looking alarmed, and fled.