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
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
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