want."
"Fuck you, Bobby. I'll walk over to Roosevelt."
"St. Vincent's is better . . . You won't have so much of a wait, Jerry. It's cleaner. C'mon . . . I'll take you in a cab .
. ."
"Get the fuck outta here Bobby, okay?"
"It's raining, Jerry . . ."
"I know it's fucking raining, Bobby Gold . . . Stop it, already . . . You did what you hadda do. Now get the fuck outta here
and leave me alone."
"I'm sorry, Jerry. It's my job. This is what I do . . ."
Jerry looked up at him with sudden and unexpected clarity. "I know . . ." he said. "That's what's fucked up about you, Bobby.
You are sorry. You got no fucking heart for this shit — but you do it anyway, don't you?" He turned his face away, as if looking
at Bobby disgusted him. "What the fuck happened to you, for fuck's sake? Nice Jewish boy . . . educated . . . and you're beatin'
on old men — your uncle . . . your own mother's brother, for a fuckin' living. Some fuckin' life you got, Bobby . . ." His
voice cracked, barely audible. "Little Bobby Goldstein, all grown up. Your father — he must be very proud . . ."
Bobby flinched. "Fuck you, Jerry . . . I wouldn't have to do this shit — you paid your debts on time. Don't start talking
about family — the way you live - all right?"
"Awright . . . I'm sorry," said Jerry. "I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have said that . .." He looked out the window, voice steadier
now, and sadder. "Who am I to judge a person?"
It was coming down hard on 9th Avenue when Bobby and Jerry emerged from JayBee Seafood. The old man was looking drugged and
dreamy now, his eyes pinned from the Demerol, mouth slack at the corners.
"Let me get you a cab," offered Bobby for the last time, signaling with his hand.
Jerry waved him away. "You take it. I'm not fucking helpless here, Bobby. I can take care of myself. I was having guys busted
up worse than this when I was half your age — those two guinea cocksuckers he sent the last time? Next week, the very next
week — from my hospital bed — I call Eddie and have him send those two down to see some other schmuck owes me money — so I ain't gonna curl up and die cause I gotta stand up for another ass-kicking, all right? Now get lost, you little
pisher . . . tell that midget gonniff cocksucker you work for he can send somebody over tomorrow to pick up the money. Now
leave me alone . . ."
When Bobby left him, standing hatless and coatless in the rain, looking up 9th Avenue toward Roosevelt Hospital, the old man
was weeping. Bobby saw him holding the handkerchief to his nose as his cab pulled away from the curb. He watched him through
the raindrop patterns of the cab window as Jerry slowly started to walk, one foot in front of the other, shoulders hunched
protectively over the broken arm, growing smaller in the distance.
BOBBY THE DIPLOMAT
B obby 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,
"Fuck you, Bobby. I'll walk over to Roosevelt."
"St. Vincent's is better . . . You won't have so much of a wait, Jerry. It's cleaner. C'mon . . . I'll take you in a cab .
. ."
"Get the fuck outta here Bobby, okay?"
"It's raining, Jerry . . ."
"I know it's fucking raining, Bobby Gold . . . Stop it, already . . . You did what you hadda do. Now get the fuck outta here
and leave me alone."
"I'm sorry, Jerry. It's my job. This is what I do . . ."
Jerry looked up at him with sudden and unexpected clarity. "I know . . ." he said. "That's what's fucked up about you, Bobby.
You are sorry. You got no fucking heart for this shit — but you do it anyway, don't you?" He turned his face away, as if looking
at Bobby disgusted him. "What the fuck happened to you, for fuck's sake? Nice Jewish boy . . . educated . . . and you're beatin'
on old men — your uncle . . . your own mother's brother, for a fuckin' living. Some fuckin' life you got, Bobby . . ." His
voice cracked, barely audible. "Little Bobby Goldstein, all grown up. Your father — he must be very proud . . ."
Bobby flinched. "Fuck you, Jerry . . . I wouldn't have to do this shit — you paid your debts on time. Don't start talking
about family — the way you live - all right?"
"Awright . . . I'm sorry," said Jerry. "I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have said that . .." He looked out the window, voice steadier
now, and sadder. "Who am I to judge a person?"
It was coming down hard on 9th Avenue when Bobby and Jerry emerged from JayBee Seafood. The old man was looking drugged and
dreamy now, his eyes pinned from the Demerol, mouth slack at the corners.
"Let me get you a cab," offered Bobby for the last time, signaling with his hand.
Jerry waved him away. "You take it. I'm not fucking helpless here, Bobby. I can take care of myself. I was having guys busted
up worse than this when I was half your age — those two guinea cocksuckers he sent the last time? Next week, the very next
week — from my hospital bed — I call Eddie and have him send those two down to see some other schmuck owes me money — so I ain't gonna curl up and die cause I gotta stand up for another ass-kicking, all right? Now get lost, you little
pisher . . . tell that midget gonniff cocksucker you work for he can send somebody over tomorrow to pick up the money. Now
leave me alone . . ."
When Bobby left him, standing hatless and coatless in the rain, looking up 9th Avenue toward Roosevelt Hospital, the old man
was weeping. Bobby saw him holding the handkerchief to his nose as his cab pulled away from the curb. He watched him through
the raindrop patterns of the cab window as Jerry slowly started to walk, one foot in front of the other, shoulders hunched
protectively over the broken arm, growing smaller in the distance.
BOBBY THE DIPLOMAT
B obby 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,
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