Bobby Gold, in black Ramones T-shirt, black denims and black Nikes, smeared bone marrow on toast and sprinkled sea salt on it before taking a large bite. His mouth was still full when the man came over and stood by his table, looking at him.
"What the fuck are you eating?"
Bobby raised an eyebrow and finished chewing. The man was tall, about forty-five, with the tired, mean face of an old cop. He wore blue slacks with knife creases, new, white running shoes, and a V-neck T-shirt with a windbreaker over it. His Glock, Bobby guessed, under his left kidney, beneath the T-shirt. There was another gun, something smaller, in an ankle holster on the right. From the man's expression, he did not look like he was going to shoot Bobby — or arrest him. At least not today.
"Bone marrow," said Bobby, swallowing. "It's wonderful."
"Yuck!" said the cop. "I can't believe you eat that shit."
Blue Ribbon Bakery on Bedford Street in the Village was not a place Bobby expected to see cops. Cops ate out in packs, usually at cop-friendly places where raised voices, heavy drinking and the occasional freebie were not unheard of. Blue Ribbon was not like that. This cop had either recognized him from his sheet - or, more likely, come looking for him. Bone marrow was a secret pleasure — something Bobby usually indulged in alone. He'd never told Eddie about the place, afraid of being embarrassed, and Nikki couldn't get through a meal without smoking, so he always came here alone. It pissed him off that the cop had clearly decided to brace him here.
"Do I know you?" said Bobby.
"No. I don't think so," said the man, taking a seat at the corner two-top.
"Have a seat," said Bobby. "I guess."
"Do I look like a cop?"
"Yes. You do," said Bobby. "It shows all over."
"Yeah," said the cop. "That's what my wife says."
"Is there a problem?" asked Bobby. "I done something wrong?"
"This is a social visit," said the cop. "For now, anyway." He snapped his fingers for a waiter — who was visibly displeased at being summoned in such a fashion — and ordered a coffee.
"Bad Bobby Gold," said the cop. "I'm Lieutenant James Connely of the Organized Crime Strike Force. Your name keeps popping up in an investigation we're taking part in and I thought we'd have a chat."
"Investigating what? I'm a doorman. I work security at NiteKlub. Anything we have to report we report to Midtown South."
The cop waved away what Bobby was saying, ignored it completely. "Please? Okay? We both know the drill, okay? You're nice and polite. You make it look like you're honestly attempting to answer my questions — but you're confused by them because of your immaculate state of innocence. I make some suggestive remarks. Then you simply tell me to fuck off — talk to your lawyer — and how dare you interrupt my bone marrow. Either way you tell me shit and play Dumbo. Okay? Either way you listen. 'Cause you're curious."
"I'm curious?"
You should be. Things are happening. Things that are gonna be affecting you and that nice job you have. Or should I say jobs?"
"You gonna tell me what you're talking about? Or we just gonna play I Know More Than I'm Tellin'? You win, by the way."
"I'm gonna tell you. I'm gonna tell you right now," said the cop, not acknowledging the arrival of his coffee. He didn't even look at it. "That little freak you work for? Mr. 'Eddie Fish'? We're picking up that this goof is gonna get himself greased any minute now. Did you know that? I hear you're close. Like brothers, you're so close. Did you know how bad things were?" Bobby just shook his head slowly and kept his mouth shut.
"Eddie is no longer in such good odor with his former associates. People are talking. They're saying Eddie has been unreliable lately. Making a pest of himself. They say that he's popping pills which make him stupid — or should I say more stupid — and some people, apparently have had quite enough. He hasn't been showing up at sit-downs. You know that? They don't like that out there, you know. They really take that the wrong way. They ask a person to come in for a nice talk and he doesn't, they start getting all sorts of ideas. Eddie hasn't been keeping his appointments."
"Maybe he's been sick. I don't know."
"He's not sick. Eddie's suckin' that glass dick. He's poppin' a fuckin' drugstore full a goofballs — he's sitting around his fuck-pad on Sutton Place in his undies and ordering take-out. You know that. The man is toast. Tommy V is running the show for him at the club. Did you know that? Of course not. You wouldn't notice something like a new boss, would you Bobby?"
Bobby just shrugged.
"Shrug all you like. Don't mean shit to me. Alls I'm tellin' you is that your old pal is finished. As soon as he steps out for a sandwich or a blow job, somebody's gonna do him. They got a patch a land-fill all picked out for him. And my question to you is: what do you, Bobby 'Gold,' ne Goldstein, gonna do then? You gonna work for Tommy? You think they gonna let you live?
"You, they're actually scared of. Eddie's just annoying. What do you think is gonna happen, they drive out Eddie to his final resting place? They gonna let his bestest friend, Big Bad Bobby, live on? Bad Bobby who, they say, did two big bastards up in prison there? The guy they call when somebody needs his bones busted? Eddie Fish's oldest and closest friend and fellow tribe member? You don't think they're worried you might want to do something stupid like take revenge when Eddie goes? You got no job security in what you been doing, Bobby. I can tell you that for free."
"I can't say I know what you're talking about," said Bobby.
"I know you can't say," said the cop, smiling. "But you know. You know exactly what the fuck I'm talking about."
The cop took a long sip of his coffee and let out a grateful sigh. "That's good," he said. "That's good coffee."
"What do you want?"
"Gee. What do you think I want?"
"You want me to snitch. You want me to wear a wire. You want to be my new best pal so you can keep me out of jail, keep me from going to prison. You want to provide me with a new secret identity, large-breasted women, a house in Arizona next to Sammy Bull's. You want me to call you late at night and breathe heavily into the phone so you can go round up miscreants, arrest people I know. You want me to start giving Tommy V long lingering looks so I can get close to him and then tell you what he dreams about. Forget it. Nobody tells me shit. I don't give a shit about Eddie. And I'm retiring . . ."
"Retiring?" laughed the cop. "Retiring? What are you gonna do? What can you do — other than bust people up into nice little pieces?"
"I'll find something. I can always work security."
"What security? Who's gonna hire you? You're an ex-con! You can't get bonded. Nobody who's not mobbed-up is gonna give you a fuckin' job. What are you gonna do? Stand next to an A TM machine the middle of the night? What are you gonna put on the application where it says last place worked? NiteKlub? People gonna say, 'Oh, that's the place where that Eddie Fish got killed!' Your boss. Not too good at your job, they might think. Forget it. You'll be screwed. You'll be dunking fucking fries at Chirpin' Chicken."
"I was thinking of going back to school," said Bobby, telling the truth for the first time.
"Now that's nice. That might work," said the cop. "I saw your old transcript, you know. You weren't stupid once . . . Had a nice future up there until you got grabbed driving for Eddie. Eddie skated on that scot-free didn't he? And what does he do when his old pal, the guy who went to prison for him, gets out? He hires him as a fucking bouncer. He makes his old buddy into a trained ape. You could have been, what? A doctor? You were pre-med, right? Things coulda turned out real different for you, you hadn't started listening to Eddie."
"Eddie had nothing to do with it," said Bobby, irritated. That episode of his life was a sore point, as Connely clearly was aware.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Einstein," said the cop. "That's what you said then. It got you five years. You think your friend Eddie could have done eight to ten? I don't care how early you got out. He woulda snitched off everybody he ever knew. He snitched you off, didn't he?"
"Bullshit!"
"Oh yeah? Think? Listen up, moron. Wake up and smell the coffee. How do you think they picked you up with that carload a dope, genius? You think they're that smart up there? You just looked suspicious - so they pulled you over, happened to have a warrant? Eddie got grabbed two days earlier. He traded the load — and your ass — for a nice cushy community service, licking envelopes at some friend of his daddy's office. His father put it together for him. You didn't know that?"
"He had nothing to do with it."
"I got the fucking arrest record. Eddie Fish, detained while enjoying the services of a prostitute and found to be in possession of a controlled substance. You want to see the CI report? The one where he put it all on you? Told the nice troopers what kind of car you'd be driving and where and when? You surround yourself with bad people, Bobby. You're not a good judge of character."
"Fuck off. This conversation is over," said Bobby. "You want to talk more, call my lawyer."
"Awww . . . Is that any way to be? With an uncertain future in front of you - and a new girlfriend - I thought at least you'd want to listen."
At the mention of Nikki, Bobby slowly moved his hand across the table and pushed the cup of coffee onto the cop's lap.
"Ooops. Terribly sorry," said Bobby, without any attempt at conviction in his voice.
Connely stood up and separated the wet fabric of his pants from his crotch, shaking his head.
"That wasn't nice," he said. "These are Haggar slacks. Not polyester. All cotton. I'll never get that stain out."
"I know the feeling," said Bobby.
It was the people doing the little things around Eddie who saw him at his worst: the drivers, the waiters, bartenders, the doormen who saw him stumble home late, the deli owner at the corner who sold him ice cream when he was too high to talk, the clerk at the video store who rented him pornos. Eddie didn't notice them - so he figured they didn't notice him. They did. The elevator man had seen plenty. Bobby saw that as soon as he stepped inside the gold-and-mirror-paneled chamber and told him what floor he wanted. The man rolled his eyes, repeated the floor and pressed the button. Bobby took the ride in silence, still not sure what he was going to do.
The cop had been telling the truth, of course. Bobby could see that now. It's no accident that the rich seemed untouchable. They never hesitate to sacrifice their friends.
The thing to do was to kill him. That's what Eddie would have done, same situation. It's what Tommy V would do — probably what he's going to do, thought Bobby. Right upstairs, charge inside the apartment, pick that treacherous little fuck up by the armpits and throw him off the balcony - thirty-four floors down. Emotionally, it was the right thing, in that it was the traditional thing to do when betrayed. And intellectually . . . it might be the right thing too. Eddie was a terrible liability right now. Had been for a while. There were plenty of people who would be happy — even grateful — to see him go. The fat men out in Brooklyn would not be unhappy — that's for sure. As a career move it was almost a necessity, the way things were going. Still want that nice job at the club? Want those fat stacks of unaccounted-for bills to keep coming? No problems with the Italian contingent? A life free — or at least freer — of aggravation? Kill the midget. Hit him once, right on the Adam's apple, pick him up and throw him out the fucking window. Say something Arnold or Clint as he goes down, something like, "Have a nice flight," or, "See you on the street."
The bell tone rang once when the elevator arrived at Eddie's floor. Bobby looked at the elevator man and mused on whether he would choose to remember him. He glanced at the corner of the ceiling where he knew the camera would be. The window wouldn't do. He heard music from inside the apartment, Curtis Mayfield, "Little Child Running Wild" . . . knew that Eddie was in a sentimental mood, playing records from the good old/bad old days. Bobby leaned on the bell, heard the music turn off and the shuffle of feet.
Eddie was dressed in a silk bathrobe, no shirt, dress pants — the bottom half of a charcoal-gray pinstriped suit. He wore no shoes or socks and he hadn't shaved or bathed in days. Bobby was shocked at how bad he looked - usually, no matter what he was doing, Eddie remembered to get a haircut, have himself shaved if his hands shook. This was not like him. There was a white crust at the corners of his mouth, and the eyes were wild, jangly little pin-pricks surrounded by dark, raccoon-like circles.
"It'sh you," he said, opening the door and then tottering back to a leather couch. "Just thinking about you . . . about school." Bobby looked around the apartment. There were half-empty take-out cartons everywhere: an uneaten turkey sandwich from a deli on top of the wide-screen TV, a half-order of Pad Thai on the cocktail table, bags of Cheetos and chips which had been torn open at the sides, Chinese spread across the floor, a completely melted box of Eskimo Pies forgotten in the sink at the bar. Eddie was drinking single-malt Scotch and washing it down with Coronas. He must have - at one point —thought about limes. There were two of them on the cocktail table next to the remote control. The Wizard of Oz was on the tube, volume down. Eddie turned up the music again: "Freddie's Dead" this time.
"I hate the flying monkeys," said Eddie, swatting at something that wasn't there on his face. "Always hated those fucking monkeys. Remember that time we dropped acid and went to see this?" Bobby remembered. Eddie and he and two girlfriends had gone to see it at the college auditorium, tripping their tits off. One of the girls, Eddie's he thought, had never seen it before. The acid was really starting to kick in when the flying monkeys started getting busy, tearing up the scarecrow and tossing his limbs about, grabbing Dorothy and the dog. The girl couldn't handle it. Started bugging right there. They'd had to leave. Fortunately Eddie had had some thorazines. They'd cooled her right out. Yes, it was Eddie's date, Bobby remembered. He'd gone back to his dorm with the other girl. They'd listened to Roxy Music and John Cale and then she'd given him a memorably dry-mouthed blow job in his small, overheated room. She'd smelled of sweat and patchouli, he recalled. He hadn't been able to come. Hadn't been able to sleep. Just laid there in the dark, the girl's arm across his chest, watching the explosions of color behind his eyes, heart racing.
"What the hell's the matter with you, Eddie?" he said, sitting down across from his old friend. "Your life looks like it's turning to shit."
"It is shit," said Eddie. "Fuckin' guineas ruinin' my fuckin' life. Got the IRS crawlin' up my ass, got Tommy's people tryin' to put me outta business, the cops with their noses up my ass, and my wife . . . my wife's takin' the kids and the house."
"Maybe you're taking a few too many pills, Eddie? You thought of that?"
"I know. I know. I need them. I got a preshription. The doctor says I gotta take them."
"Which doctor?" Eddie always had five or six writing scripts for him at any given moment. His fucking dermatologist wrote him Demerol and Dilaudid and Ritalin and Tranxene. Bobby looked at his friend and boss, sagging into the couch in his bare feet and stained dress pants, and knew he was looking at a dead man. What could Eddie say now that would make him feel any better? "I'm sorry"? Seeing Eddie dead would give Bobby no pleasure at all. He could easily just reach over — the state he was now — pinch off his nose with one hand, clamp the other hand on his mouth and watch him go. Eddie was too fucked up, too out of shape to put up much of a struggle.
"This place smells like a Chinese whorehouse," said Bobby, getting up and sliding open the glass doors to the balcony. "Jesus! Get some fucking air in here." He stepped out onto the balcony, looked out across the East River and the Coca-Cola sign and Yankee Stadium. It was freezing cold, a few snowflakes floated down and then up again with the updraft from the street. Eddie joined him after a few seconds, his robe wrapped tightly around him, his hand gripping fabric under his chin. Eddie collapsed into a chaise lounge, spilling his drink.
"I'm fucked," said Eddie. "Unless something happens to Tommy, I got no future. You gotta make him go away, Bobby. You gotta do him."
"I gotta do Tommy Victory, Eddie?" spluttered Bobby. "You want me to do Tommy? A made fucking guy? What good is that gonna do, Eddie? What the fuck good is that gonna do for anybody?"
"Show them who to respec'," said Eddie, eyes nearly closed. "Show them who they're fuckin' with . . ."
"That'll work. That'll work great. How long you think they gonna let you live after that? Are you outta your fuckin' mind? You gotta get permission do something like that - and you ain't ever getting permission, Eddie. You even ask, they'll kill you right there. When's the last time those guys ever sided with a Jew over a guinea?"
"Bugsy Seigel," shouted Eddie. "Meyer Lansky!"
Two Jews.
"Uh . . . give me a minute . . . " mumbled Eddie. "I'll think of one."
"It never happened, Eddie. Never. And you ain't no Meyer Lansky. You're a fuckin' stumblebum. You're an unreliable, stuttering, drooling, out-of-control fuck-up with his hand in the fucking cookie jar — and you ain't earning enough - you haven't been earning enough for a while - to make them overlook it any more."
"Fuck you! What do you know? You don't know me, man . . ."
"I know you, Eddie. I know you in my fucking bones. I known you since I was a skinny kid. I know you for eight fucking years in the jug, smellin' dirty socks and dried jiz and loose farts, you asshole. You sold me out. You fucking dropped a dime on me. And I ain't killing nobody for you no more and I ain't hurtin' nobody no more for you. You can pop your fuckin' pills and drink your fuckin' Coronas and fuck your he-shes and do whatever you want to do 'cause you're not even worth me killing anymore. You're dead already. Worse than dead. Look at yourself!"
Eddie just lay there, staring out into space from under heavy lids. Bobby could hear him breathe, a thick, rasping sound. A few seconds later, he was asleep.
Bobby took a yellow cab over to 9th Avenue, the Bellevue Bar at 39th, and found a seat at the end. He should probably call Tommy, arrange a sit-down, work out an arrangement in keeping with the new, inevitable restructuring. He should have killed Eddie. Rented a car, taken him out for a drive. Problem over. Anybody still loyal would understand. And Eddie's enemies would appreciate the gesture. But he just didn't have it in him.
There'd be people trying to kill him soon, Bobby understood. If he said nothing. Met with no one. Did nothing. If he just sat here every day, drank himself into insensibility day after day, let them do what they had to do — let the gears turn, the world outside go on without him - sooner or later, someone would come through that door and kill him too.
Nobody at the bar talked to him. When Bobby nodded, the bartender came over and gave him another drink. Soon he was drunk, tapping his fingers to the jukebox. "Love Comes in Spurts," Richard Hell and the Voidoids. He was deciding whether he wanted to try and live, about what would have to be involved. He'd need a gun. And a car. And money. He had the airweight and the H&K in the floor safe of his apartment, with a stack of emergency money totalling about 50K. He could get a car no problem. Just a phone call and a taxi to Queens. His Aryan "brothers" would help — for a while — where the Italians would be unsympathetic. He wouldn't kill Eddie. He wouldn't set him up. But he'd leave him to the wolves this time.
His cell phone rang and he heard objects noisily knocking together on the other end. A second later, "Pusherman" off the Curtis Mayfield album was playing over the receiver. Eddie, in a sentimental mood, playing him tunes over the phone. The soundtrack to better times.