BOBBY GOLD by Anthony Bourdain. Read this in manuscript last
night. It's terrific. A modern Fawcett Gold Medal. 128 pages
of non-stop action. I've avoided Bourdain up till now,
largely because my wife claims he's the coolest person she's
ever met. Well, that was dumb, but I'll be making up for it
by getting his backlist pronto. I confess, also, that the
idea of celebrity chef writing hardboiled crime fiction
didn't sit too well in my judgemental little brain. The
reality is that Bourdain is a hardboiled crime writer who
just happens to be able to cook. At least, that's my opinion
based on this little gem. I'm sure that he's also very
cool.
BOBBY GOLD is the story of a young Jewish hood. His story is
told chronologically, beginning with the day he was caught
with a large volume of cocaine hidden in his car. Bobby goes
to prison. He doesn't rat on his partner, Eddie, who, while
Bobby is serving his time, becomes a major player in the
underworld. Eight years later Bobby is released. In prison he
learned how to fight. He pushed weights. He's now six foot
four inches of solid muscle. Eddie gives him a job as head of
security at one of his clubs. Eddie uses him to pass on
messages to people who owe Eddie money. There's a fantastic
scene where Bobby is sent to break the arm of a sixty-two
year old man he's known since he was a kid. It's so damned
good that I have to share a bit of it with you. The old man,
Jerry, has the money for Eddie. But, as Bobby points out,
that's not the point. He should have had it yesterday.
Today's too late. Bobby gives him some pills to act as an
analgesic. While they're taking effect, the two men sit
down.
"They were both quiet for a while, Bobby sipping his Scotch,
gazed idly out the window into JayBee's rear alleyway,
listening to the rain pelt the thick panes of alarmed glass
and the distant whine from the compressors. The Rottweiler,
awake now, poked his head into the room, a filthy squeaky toy
between his massive jaws. Seeing no one interested in playing
with him, the big dog turned and left, the toy making
hiccuping sounds.
"What's the dog's name?" asked
Bobby.
"Schtarker," said Jerry,
uninterested. "That's Yiddish, if you didn't know. People
used to say that about you."
Bobby let that go - consulted his
watch.
"Few more minutes and I'll be ready,
okay?" said Jerry. "I'm startin' to feel them pills."
"No problem," said Bobby. "I don't
have to be at the club for a while. I've got time."
"How's that working out for
you?"
"Good," said Bobby. "It's going
good... I'm head of security now."
"Nice for you."
"Yeah... It's okay."
"You ever get anybody there I'd like?
You know... somebody...somebody I could take Rose to see? She
loves Neil Diamond. You ever get Neil Diamond there?"
"No," said Bobby. "We had.. let's
see.. we had.. Lena Home once...we had Vic Damone and Jerry
Vale. We had him."
"Yeah? Good?"
"Yeah...they were good. You know...
not my kind of music, but good."
"Bobby... if you ever get anybody
there...you know...that Rose would like...I'd appreciate it.
If you could get us in. She'd love that. If I actually took
her out sometime. They got the dinner and the dancing and
everything over there, right?"
"Yeah...the whole deal. And the
food's not bad."
"Lamb chops? I like a good lamb
chop."
"Yeah...we got that."
"Beautiful!"
"I'll put you on the list any time
you want to bring her," said Bobby.
"Eddie...He ain't gonna mind?"
"As long as you fucking pay on time,
Jerry, he won't give a shit. You can do the fucking
hokey-pokey on the table - he won't care - he's never there
anyway. Just call me when you want to come."
"Thanks....I appreciate that."
"So," said Bobby. "You ready?"
"Shit," said Jerry, exhaling
loudly.
"Take off your glasses,
Jer'...'
"You gotta do that?"
"Do what?"
"The face... You gotta do the
face?"
"Jerry..."
"I dunno...I thought...maybe just the
arm would be enough..."
"Jerry..." repeated Bobby, standing
up.
"Awright...awright...Jesus
fuck...Lemme get a tissue at least."
"I brought a handkerchief," said
Bobby, reaching again into his jacket, this time for a neatly
folded cotton square. "Here. Keep it."
"Always prepared," muttered Jerry,
sourly. He removed his glasses and put them carefully on the
desk. "They teach you that in the Boy Scouts? What did you
used to have to say? "A Boy Scout is...trustworthy, loyal,
helpful, friendly, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave,
courteous, kind, clean and - ""
Bobby hit him across the nose with
the back of his hand. Quickly. It was a sharp, precise blow
that knocked Jerry into his chair-back.
"Shit!" said Jerry, honking a red
streak onto his shirt front, then covering his face with the
handkerchief. He rocked silently in his chair for a moment
while Bobby looked around the room for a fat enough book to
finish with.
"Get it over with!" said Jerry. "Do
it now... while I'm distracted!" He rolled up his shirt
sleeve.
Bobby found what he was looking for -
a thick, hardbacked copy of MOLLUSKS AND BIVALVES OF THE
NORTH ATLANTIC, and quickly placed the book in front of Jerry
on the desk. Jerry knew the drill. He compliantly laid his
thin, blue-veined arm against the spine so that the hand was
raised, then closed his eyes. "Do it!" he said."
If that doesn't whet your appetite...Well, I don't know.
There's no pleasing some folk. The rest of the book? Bobby
finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into trouble, pissing
off people who you shoudn't piss off, and having to think
fast to save his skin.
I don't have a publication date for this, but it should be
within the next couple of months. Anybody read BONE IN THE
THROAT or GONE BAMBOO?
Al
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