Tom knew better than to push, but gradually over the following weeks he began to educate Nicky on the life of Eric Lindenhurst Hall. Tom, a born storyteller, and Nicky, an attentive listener, spent the long winter evenings practicing these talents. It proved to be a chore for neither; Tom liked nothing better than to expound on his favorite topic and Nicky always enjoyed hearing about people whose comings and goings were deemed important enough to be reported by the press.
Strangely enough, as they relived Eric Hall’s life in bits and pieces, Tom and Nicky got to know each other more intimately than years of living together could have achieved. Tom spoke of Eric in the light of his own experiences and often compared Eric to himself in order to make his point. Nicky, in turn, interpreted Tom’s words and responded to them as could only one who had been raised in such a unique manner. They were analyst and patient, with Eric playing the part of a Rorschach inkblot in which each saw himself.
“It was never the money that I envied Eric,” Tom said, “It was the security. When I was small I thought my grandmother was very, very old and I think I worried about what would happen to me if she died. Once I came home from school and she was asleep on the couch, something she had never done, and I was petrified. I stood over her, staring down, not even realizing that she couldn’t be dead because she was breathing. No, I had to shake her and wake her up before I was convinced. Then I had diarrhea for two days and couldn’t leave the house.”
“I never felt insecure,” Nicky responded. “Just lonely. I guess we each focus in on our most obvious need. God knows I should have felt insecure. At least your grandmother was a flesh-and-blood relation; I had no one.”
The lessons, if they could be called that, were never formal occasions. They arose naturally, in general conversation, and Tom allowed them to take whatever direction interested Nicky at that given moment. Tom’s tests were more a joke, a game whose rules only they knew, than an accurate measure of what Nicky was learning. Walking through the park on a chilly Sunday morning Tom would suddenly ask, “Who did you room with at prep school?”
“The first year, Ken Brandt and Dicky Culver. Then we went two to a room. Dicky and me, Ken and…I don’t remember.”
“Neither do I, if I ever knew. Who did you date when you were at Yale?”
“Everyone.”
“Who was your special girl?”
“Ronnie, for Veronica, Attwood, with two T’s.”
“Did you have an affair with her?”
“I never discuss my sex life.”
If Nicky was disinterested one wouldn’t know it from his answers.
He was becoming as much an expert on Eric Hall as was Tom Bradshaw. And then one day they crossed the park to the East Side and Tom felt like a general taking an inexperienced recruit on a reconnaissance mission. They were in enemy territory and at any minute one of the enemy could materialize. Tom was becoming as childishly excited about his caper as he had induced Nicky to become.
“Don’t get upset if I suddenly wrap my scarf around your face.”
“Try it and I’ll kick you in the balls.”
“For one raised by British tutors you certainly have a colorful vocabulary.”
“What the hell are you talking about? I was raised on East Ninety-second Street by my parents, grandparents and a Scotch nanny.”
Tom put his arm around Nicky’s shoulders, hugged him, and held him like that as they marched up Fifth Avenue and turned east on, naturally, Ninety-second Street.
They stood across the street from a mansion that had been built at the turn of the century when the very rich could indulge themselves in townhouses that rivaled the châteaux of France. Its width was that of four New York brownstones, at least, and it was five stories high. Red brick, casement windows and two oak doors replete with brass knockers completed the picture of elegance as gleaned by the robber barons of the nineteenth century.
“What do you think?” Tom asked.
“It’s a castle.”
“If you knocked on that door and the old lady who lives there opened it she would faint on the spot.”
“I don’t think I want to do that to an old lady.”
“You’re right. We’ve got to use a more gentle approach.”
“Let’s get out of here.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like your house?”
“Come on, she might be looking out the window.”
Now why didn’t I think of that, Tom pondered as Nicky dragged him back toward Fifth Avenue.
One night during dinner Tom cautioned Nicky, and not for the first time, on the one kink he feared would upset all their plans.
“Dicky Culver,” he exclaimed. “That’s the bastard we have to worry about.”
“You really dislike him, don’t you.”
“I don’t dislike him, Nicky, I hate the fuck.”
“Why?”
“Because his pomposity is second only to that of his wife. They think they’re Mr. and Mrs. King Shit whom the world should stop and bow to whenever they walk by. Have you heard how rotten the weather has been in Palm Beach? I’m so glad.”
Nicky suppressed a smile. “What you mean, Tommy, is that they spotted you for a four-flusher from day one and you can’t stand it.”
“Not they…her. Dicky doesn’t have two brain cells that mesh. You see, Dicky thought Eric was his private property and off with the head of anyone who trespassed.”
“And you trespassed.”
Tom let out a sound that was something between a moan and a grunt. “Eric liked me. We had a few good times together. We went to a movie once and had a few drinks on very rare occasions. Christ, Culver thought I had married the guy.”
“So he started calling you names.” This was Nicky’s meat-and-gravy-type talk. He loved hearing about the episodes in people’s lives that showed them interacting, especially in the heat of passion, with other people. For him it was the page of a novel come to life.
“He would have, if he had known what names to call me, but all he could do was sizzle like a lit fuse connected to nothing. Then Amy came up to the campus one weekend, met me, and told Culver I was social shit. Almost ten years later she still hasn’t changed her mind.”
“From what you’ve told me about Eric I’m surprised he was so buddy-buddy with someone like Dicky Culver.”
“I don’t think Eric ever saw that side of Dicky. Hell, he had no reason to. But they were buddy-buddy, from the first grade till ever after. Listen, it was once hinted around school that they knew each other in the Biblical sense.”
“Do you think they did?”
“Maybe some friendly jack-off sessions when they were kids but nothing after that. Shit, Eric had taste.”
“I think we should be more worried about Amy than Dicky,” Nicky suggested.
“How right you are. They’ve always reminded me of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson and you know which one is Sherlock. Christ, when she starts on the trail of something she’s like a fucking bloodhound. Did I tell you how she started to give me the needle about not knowing a single girl I had an affair with? You would think every woman in town had to call Amy the minute they spread their legs for someone.”
Nicky was really enjoying himself. “She suspects you’re a closet case, Tommy, and she’s going to sniff you out. Do you know what a bloodhound could do if it ever got its teeth on your nuts?”
“You are getting to be the most verbally graphic bastard I have ever had to listen to and I’m not a closet case, you know what I think of them.”
“What did Shakespeare say about the gentleman who doth protest too much?”
“I think Shakespeare had his own problems.”
“That reminds me, I had a real bad nightmare last night.”
“Really, do you remember it?”
“Do I ever. I was in this strange room with a monkey who was sitting at a typewriter, pounding away, and I walked up to him to see what he was writing.…“
Tom was rocking with laughter. “And what was he writing, smart ass?”
“I’ve been sitting at this fucking machine for a million years and I have to take a piss. HELP!!!”
Tom was laughing so hard he could hardly speak and when he did the words came out in short gasps. “Nicky…I…love you…I really do.”
“And I feel the same way about you, so why don’t we cut this Eric Hall crap, chuck the hundred million and live happily ever after in blissful poverty.” Nicky spoke with such sincerity that Tom almost…almost…conceded to the plea.
“But why can’t we have the money and each other?”
“Why? Because Eric Hall won’t live here, that’s why. He’ll live in that mansion across the park. And from what I understand Eric Hall will be lionized by a sweet old lady and a hundred friends, not to mention lawyers and bankers, so he won’t be able to come and go as he pleases. Tom, I’ll be right back where I fucking started from.”
“But it won’t last forever. Just until the old —”
Nicky nodded. “Go on and say it. Just until the old lady dies. I don’t want a relationship predicated on someone’s death. I got my freedom because Uncle Alexis died and I still feel guilt about that.”
“Well, don’t. People die, especially old people, that’s a fact of life. Get used to it, Nicky, and grow up.”
And so it went, give and take, and Nicky Three gave as much as he took. You can’t say he doesn’t try. Tom had once used those words to describe Nicky and now he realized how true they were. Nicky Three was a fighter and whether this came to him from heredity or was the result of Alexis Romaine’s upbringing Tom didn’t know but he certainly felt, on more than one occasion, the thrust of this side of Nicky’s nature.
Tom was streetwise; Nicky intelligent. Tom was clever and Nicky was shrewd. Were they enemies Nicky would have won the battle of wits hands down, but they weren’t enemies, they were friends…and more. Nicky, above all else, was a romantic. He was the hero of his novels and movies: steel on the outside and butter on the inside. Tom had merely to appear offended and the steel bent. Tom had merely to touch the nape of Nicky’s neck and the butter melted. The intellect is slave to the emotion. Tom would win.
“What about the newspapers and television and all those tabloids I see on the newsstands,” Nicky began on another occasion. “They’ll cover the Eric Hall saga as if it were the second coming and they won’t let it alone until they ferret out every detail. Heir Returns From The Grave. Rich Kid Rises From The Waves. And one of those buggers will say I’ve been living in the belly of a whale for the past two years.”
“You should have been a copywriter, Nicky.”
“And you should have been committed.”
“The media is going to be our number one ally. Have you ever watched the news on television? It’s ten percent fact and ninety percent show biz. Two pretty guys and a gal; one black, one white and one yellow, bringing you live soap opera every night at six and eleven. Babies falling out of windows, cancer patients being denied medical treatment, slumlords raising rents, everything but Uncle Tom and Little Eva sweeping out the cabin. Of course they’ll cover the Eric Hall story and play it for all it’s worth, but they won’t toss Eric back into the Atlantic. Their audience wouldn’t stand for it. What they’re handing out is “there but for the grace of God go I” and hope. You will be their hope item for two days, and that’s it, two days. The news does not do reruns. Then you’ll be as forgotten as last year’s Washington scandal.”
“Suppose they want to interview me?”
Tom answered with a sigh, “You’re going to be Eric Lindenhurst Hall. What they want doesn’t mean shit. Mrs. Lindenhurst can pick up the phone and instantly be connected with the president of this nation. They can ask for an interview but they won’t get one and if they get annoying the old lady will make that phone call and believe me, they will annoy no more.”
“But what about the people who know me now?” Nicky tried a different approach. “The doormen at the apartment on West End Avenue and some neighbors I used to say a few words to when we met.”
“Nicky, when Eric Hall drowned his picture made the front page of every newspaper in New York and, I’m sure, most of the papers in the United States and Europe, not to mention the television coverage. Has anyone, besides me, ever told you you look like Eric or asked you if you were Eric?”
Nicky was genuinely surprised and impressed. “I never thought of that. No, they haven’t.”
“Of course not. People don’t memorize press photos or images they see briefly on television. That’s what advertising and public relations are all about: constantly bombarding the public with a product or its name until the customer does become familiar with it. Even movie actors don’t get recognized on the street after one film. Hell, it takes years and a lot of press before they do. If your doormen or your old neighbors see you in the newspapers or on television they might say he looks like someone who used to live here, but I doubt even that.”
Tom had a point and Nicky knew it. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Not maybe. I am right. Let me show you something I’ve been saving just for this moment.” Tom went into the bedroom and came back holding a press photo. He handed it to Nicky. “What do you see?”
“A man…about our age, give or take a few years. Curly hair, glasses, wearing a t-shirt…that’s what I see.”
“Who is he?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Should I?”
“You should if you think the few people who know you will recognize you as Nicky Three when you appear as Eric Hall. This, Nicky, is a photo of Laurance Rockefeller, as rich as Eric Hall and from a family even more celebrated than the Lindenhursts. His father also happened to be the governor of this state for a dozen years. He was lost in the jungles of New Guinea and never found. This picture made the front page of every newspaper in the world.”
“I remember when it happened,” Nicky said, “so I must have seen that picture.”
“I’m sure you did and so did most of the people in this town, but show it to any of them and I’ll give you a hundred bucks for every person who knows who he is and you won’t make a penny. Fleeting images, Nicky, fleeting…no one remembers because no one gives a shit. Now are you convinced?”
“Christ, you’ve thought this out,” was all Nicky would say. “You’ve researched it to death.”
“No, Nicky, I researched it to life. Remember that, we’re going to bring Eric Hall back to life.”
“But why, Tommy. Tell me why and no bullshit.”
“Because I want us to have it all. A bastard and a recluse by accident of birth climbing right to the top of the heap. It was thumbs down from day one for us and I’m going to take that thumb and stick it straight up…straight up Dicky Culver’s ass.”
“You’ve got an axe to grind and you’re using me as the wheel.”
“Come here, Nicky, come sit next to me.”
Nicky made himself comfortable on the couch and Tom took Nicky’s hand into both of his. “When I was little,” Tom began, “and when I was not so little, I used to dream or fantasize about this faceless person, strong and all powerful, who was always there when I needed him and he never let me down. He was my personal angel, but a sexy one, if you know what I mean.”
“Why didn’t he have a face?”
“I don’t know. I tried to give him one a few times but I never liked the end result. It just wasn’t him and I knew it. Does that sound crazy?”
“Nothing we think is crazy, it’s only crazy when we start acting out the weird stuff that goes on in our heads.”
Tom nodded in agreement. “I always thought he would one day show me how to get everything I’ve always wanted. I didn’t know how or when but I knew that sooner or later it would happen. When I saw you that first time, and even after I got to know you, I still didn’t know that the time had come. I told you what Dicky told me about Mrs. Lindenhurst being a little senile, but even then the plan didn’t occur to me. I thought of it gradually, fits and starts mostly, and always when I was alone or getting ready to go to sleep.
“I had wanted Eric and I want you and I suddenly saw a way to have you both. Try to understand this, Nicky; a totally impossible desire became as obtainable as a hot dog at a ball park. Then I knew, I was certain, that it was the omen I had been waiting for all my life. The chance for the impossible dream to become a reality. If I turn my back on it my faceless superman will turn his back on me.”
The emotion of Tom’s words was transmitted through the viselike grip in which his hands held Nicky’s. They sat quietly for several minutes, not looking at each other but each more aware of the other than they had ever been. “And where do I fit in?” Nicky finally broke the spell.
“Maybe you’re the man without a face.”
“Did you ever pin Eric’s face on your hero?”
“Yes.”
“And it didn’t work, did it?”
“No,” Tom admitted.
“Then mine won’t either; it’s the same face.”
Tom dropped Nicky’s hand and turned from him, speaking to the single lamp which illuminated the quiet room. “If you don’t want to do it we’ll just forget the whole fucking thing.”
“I think you can’t see his face because you’re afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of finding that you’re looking into a mirror.”
§ § § §
Nicky gave Tom a bottle of Moet for his birthday, a cashmere sweater and a Superman doll with a tiny paper bag covering its head. Tom was delighted. “The story of my life. Thanks, Nicky, it’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
“But that’s only the beginning.” Nicky was in high spirits.
“More? What is it?”
“For dinner: onion soup, frog’s legs, your choice of wine and chocolate mousse for dessert.”
Tom was flabbergasted. Nicky’s culinary skills to date fell in the general category of boil and broil. “You made that? How?”
Nicky held up one finger. “I dialed the best French restaurant in town and made a reservation for eight o’clock, so shower and dress, Mr. B., we’re going on the town.”
“But—”
“No buts, ifs, or whys. I don’t give a shit who sees me, in fact I think it’s about time I was seen. It’s your birthday and I’m going to celebrate.”
It was the first time outside their bedroom that Nicky had asserted himself and Tom knew better than to object. After all, he was doing it for Tom and the chances of running into friends of Eric Hall’s on just one night out seemed very remote. The best French restaurant in town? Tom tried hard to look as if he were about to enjoy a happy birthday celebration in his honor.
But he did enjoy it. Tom’s luck in keeping Nicky Three a secret held firm because Nicky’s idea of the best French restaurant in New York hardly coincided with that of Tom’s friends. It was a small, family-run place on the West Side which Nicky and Marie Romaine had sometimes frequented and, if it wasn’t the best it was by no means the worst…in fact, it was very good. Tom enjoyed watching Nicky as much as he did his dinner. He reminded Tom of the boy who had left Nebraska for the green pastures of Yale…it now seemed like a hundred years ago. It was one of the few public places Nicky had been to and was somewhat familiar with, a fact that caused him to act like the man-about-town he was not. He had obviously memorized the very small menu and ordered without referring to it. He asked for the wine list but here Nicky knew just what he was doing. Alexis Romaine had not taken Nicky to the better places but he had brought the best into Nicky’s life. The wine was superb, and very expensive.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” Nicky asked, lighting a cigarette. He had actually bought his own pack and this, more than anything else, told Tom that he was witnessing a new Nicky.
“I wasn’t sore at you.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“It’s just your thick head that makes me mad.”
Nicky held up his hand. “We won’t discuss it. A moratorium has been declared on the resurrection of Eric Hall. He’ll remain between this world and the next until further notice.”
“Don’t say that,” Tom shuddered, “it gives me the creeps.”
“I wish it would give you some sense.”
“You’re getting to be a cocky bastard.’
“It’s a new me, Tommy, and I’m going to show you just how cocky I can be.”
Arriving home they opened the Moet, carried it into the bedroom and drank while they undressed. They sat on the bed, each holding a wineglass while Nicky poured their refill. “Some for you, some for me and some for…him.” With an air of abandon and his blue eyes dancing in this head, he poured the expensive champagne on himself.
“What the hell are you doing?…No, Nicky…no…no…”
“Yes, Tommy…yes…yes.”
“It’s my birthday for God’s sake, I’m the honored guest.”
“You gave me yours for Christmas and I’m returning the favor, although you must admit I know how to wrap a present.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you love it.” Nicky raised his glass. “Cheers, Tommy.”
Tom saluted in return but before he had a chance to take a sip Nicky removed the glass from his hand. “The glasses are for me, “Nicky stretched out on the bed, “and this is for you.”
“I’m not interested,” Tom said, looking more interested than Nicky had ever seen him look before.
“Then why is that little fellow staring at the ceiling?”
“Little? Ha. I don’t have to feed it wine to make it grow.”
Nicky beckoned with his fingers. “Come on, Tommy “
“It’s my fucking birthday.”
“I know…so go on and blow out the candle.”
They lay in perfect bliss in the dark room. From somewhere a million light-years away the sound of traffic moving up and down Central Park West drifted over their heads. Nicky stirred, reached to the foot of the bed and pulled a blanket over their naked bodies.
“It’s freezing in here.”
“I think I found the bottom of the pit,” Tom whispered.
“What?”
“Nothing, Nicky, nothing at all. Is there any more champagne?”
“No. You poured the rest of it on my —”
“Shut up and come closer, I’m freezing.”
“Is this close enough?”
“Hmm. Christ, you must have been saving it for a week.”
“A week and a day, exactly. That’s when you stopped talking to me.”
“You mean I have to wait a week and a day before it happens again?”
“Give me a half hour.”
“I’m counting.”
Two days later, on Nicky’s birthday, Tom arrived home from work empty-handed. Nicky tried not to look disappointed but didn’t manage it very well. “Aren’t you going to ask me where your present is?”
“It’s better to give than to receive but…since you mentioned it, where’s my present?”
“Tomorrow morning, at ten sharp, you will go down to Bleecker Street and accept graciously,” Tom gave a courtly bow, “my present.”
Nicky covered his heart with his hands. “Oh, Tom…the Dukedom of Little Italy, it’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“Now he’s a stand-up comic. You’re going to like this one, Nicky. You’re going to like it a lot.”
“Bleecker Street? What’s there?”
“A job, Nicky, and it has your name on it.”
Nicky was too stunned to react. He stared at Tom with his mouth slightly ajar and a suspicious look in his eyes. “You’re kidding?”
“No.”
Then he reacted by jumping up and down like a two-year-old. “I have a job. How, who, where, what…everything, tell me everything.”
“Relax and fix us a birthday drink. I’m going to wash and then I’ll tell all.”
“Now! I want to know now,” Nicky shouted.
“Let me get comfortable,” Tom said, starting to march into the bedroom and pulling off his tie as he went. “The Dukedom of Little Italy. You’re a shit, Nicholas, a shit.”
Nicky had been begging Tom since the first day of the new year to help him find a job. It was an obsession that had replaced his longing to meet Tom’s friends. Tom kept putting him off, telling Nicky that it wouldn’t be easy to find an opening for someone who had never worked a day in all his twenty-eight years and the excuse did have some merit. However, he was really playing for time: time to construct the final phase of his plan, the discovery of Eric Hall, and to place Nicky in a position that fit the scenario. But from the first day Nicky had insisted on paying his own way, out of the money left to him by Marie Romaine, and he had contributed one-half of the rent, food bills, utilities and everything else it took to live in New York. Tom accepted the arrangement because to do otherwise would demean a very proud young man. The situation gave Tom more spendable income than he had ever had before but they both knew that it couldn’t go on forever. In fact, the way Nicky spent money, the end of the line was closer than the coming of spring. Hence, a job for Nicky was of prime importance.
And even here Tom’s luck held firm. A restaurant owner had come to the bank seeking a business loan and Tom had gotten in on the negotiations. He told the owner a little something about Nicky and asked if he would take him on as a waiter.
Nicky sipped his drink. “You conned him, Tom. You made it sound like no job for Nicky, no loan from the bank.”
“Would I do that?”
“You would, and for once I don’t give a shit. I have a job. A real job. Happy birthday, Tommy.”
“No, Nicky, it’s your birthday. Christ, you’re going ape.”
“If that means I’m ecstatic then I’m going ape.”
“You don’t mind being a waiter?” Tom asked timidly.
“Why should I? It’s an honest job. Uncle Alexis told me most of the Russian nobility became waiters in Paris and New York after the revolution.”
“Uncle Alexis had a one-track mind.”
Nicky was too excited to care that Tom had once again zapped Uncle Alexis. “I’m going to work,” he kept repeating. “I’m going to speak to more people in a day than I’ve probably talked to in my whole life!”
“You’re going to be a waiter, not an analyst. Don’t push, Nicky.”
“Do you think I can do it, Tom?”
“What’s to do? They’ll show you the ropes, which will take all of two hours, and then you’re on your own. I told him you were inexperienced.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he never met an experienced waiter.”
“What should I wear?” Nicky’s question was directed more to himself than to Tom.
“Black pants, white shirt, black tie and not your damn Gucci loafers. You’re going to be a waiter waiter, not a Russian nobility waiter. People don’t tip waiters who can afford Gucci loafers.”
“Tips? Christ, I forgot all about tips. I’ll be making money.”
“That’s the general idea, now go find your birthday present.”
“Where? I’ve been searching the apartment all day.”
“Try the hamper in back of the bedroom closet.”
“What did you get me, a pair of dirty jockey shorts?”
“No…but I should have.”
The following evening Tom came home to an empty apartment. It was a strange feeling; Tom had lived alone practically since he had left Nebraska yet now, after two months of living with Nicky, he couldn’t imagine going back to his solitary existence. For the first time he fully realized the implication of Nicky’s major complaint about becoming Eric Hall. Nicky would be living in the mansion on Ninety-second Street and not in the one-bedroom apartment off Central Park West. But why did Eric have to live with his grandmother? He was a big boy and a rich one, he could live any place he wanted to live and with a roommate if it pleased him.
Tom’s spirits rose. Every problem had a solution when money was no object.
Nicky got in at midnight, exhausted and radiant with joy. “I did it. I did it,” he announced. “The owner loves me and so do the customers.” Nicky was literally gushing. “They think I’m Italian because I can speak it.”
“You can speak Italian?”
“Sure. And French.”
“How much did you make?”
Nicky pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and some loose change. Together they counted the take. “Fifty-four bucks,” Tom exclaimed. “I don’t believe it. How long did you work?”
“I did dinner. Six to eleven.”
“Fifty-four bucks in five hours, tax-free? For a five-day week that’s two hundred and seventy bucks a week and no Uncle Sam. What the hell am I doing at the bank?”
“And Terry said it was a slow night. Wait till the weekend.”
“Who’s Terry?”
“One of the waiters. He sort of trained me and he’s not always a waiter. He’s an actor.”
“Nicky, nine out of ten waiters in this town are actors and the other one is working his way through medical school. Is he handsome?”
“Who?”
“Terry, who else?”
“No…he’s beautiful.”
“Did he put the make on you?”
“Shit, it’s an Italian restaurant in Little Italy, not a fucking gay bar.”
“Little Italy be damned, it’s the heart and balls of Greenwich Village, and you didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t even know if he’s gay.”
Tom rolled his eyes skyward. “An actor who’s working as a waiter and you don’t know if he’s gay. Is a priest who works for the Pope a Catholic?”
“I think you’re jealous and I like it.”
“I’m looking out for your interests. You’re a baby.”
“The bartender is looking for a roommate and he asked me to audition.”
“Screw the bartender.”
“That,” answered Nicky, “is what he has in mind.”
“Tell him to fuck off.”
“The bartender? Never. The bartender is the waiter’s best friend. He makes the drinks, fast and strong, and the drinks are what ups the bill and the bigger the bill the bigger the tip.”
Tom moaned. “He’s a fucking professional.”