Bobby Gold Stories Read Online Free PDF

OUT
    B obby Gold in black Armani suit (from a load hijacked out of Kennedy), skinny black tie, black silk shirt and black Oxfords
     sat on the banquette of 210 Park Grill and looked uncomfortably at Eddie Fish's sourdough dinner roll. Eddie had torn the
     thing apart but hadn't eaten any; the bits of bread and crust lay scattered on his plate like an autopsied crime victim. When
     the drinks came, vodka rocks for Bobby, Patron straight up with a side of fresh lime juice for Eddie, Bobby drained his in
     two gulps, exhausted already.
    At thirty-eight years old, Eddie Fish had not once in his life had to wash his own shirt, clean an ashtray, pick up after
     himself or take public transportation. He was a little man; five-foot-four in heels, and impeccably dressed today: a charcoal
     gray pinstriped suit from an English tailor, ultra-thin Swiss timepiece, hand-painted silk tie, shirt from Turnbull and Asser,
     and Italian shoes made from unborn calfskin. His nails were buffed and polished, and his hair, trimmed twice a week by the
     same man who'd cut his father's, was neat and curiously untouched by gray. Eddie Fish's skin was golden brown, burnished by
     strong Caribbean sun, and his pores were clean and tight after a morning visit to his dermatologist. He looked pretty much
     like the man he imagined himself to be: a successful businessman, a nice guy, a democrat and a citizen of the world.
    "They love me here," said Eddie Fish, one arm over his chair back, motioning for a waiter.
    "Can't you just pick something and order?" pleaded Bobby, knowing it was hopeless.
    "I need a minute," said Eddie, his eyes darting around inside his head like trapped hamsters.
    The waiter arrived and asked if they were ready to order.
    "Would you like a few moments to decide?" inquired the waiter politely after Eddie ignored him, his nose buried in the menu.
    "No . . . no. Stay," commanded Eddie.
    For Eddie Fish, menus were like the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Rosetta Stone, the Kabbalah and Finnegans Wake all rolled into one impenetrable document. There were hidden messages, secrets that had to be rooted out before it was safe
     to order. There was, there had to be, Eddie was convinced, some way of getting something better, something extra — the good
     stuff they weren't telling everybody about. Somebody somewhere was getting something better than what appeared here. Someone
     richer, taller, with better connections was getting a little extra and Eddie was not going to be denied.
    Brow furrowed, the muscles in his jaws working furiously, he scrutinized each item on the menu, each listed ingredient, his
     eyes moving up and down the columns, then back again.
    Bobby had decided on onglet medium-rare thirty seconds after picking up the menu and he looked around the room, killing time,
     waiting for Eddie. It was mostly women here; long-legged ones with foreign accents and faces pulled tight, a few weedy-looking
     men who looked like their moms had dressed them. They were packed in three-deep at the bar, a host hurrying to air-kiss new
     arrivals. Their waiter, still waiting on Eddie, looked nervously at the rest of his rapidly overflowing station.
    "The oysters . . . " began Eddie. "Where are they from ?"
    "Prince Edward Island, sir," replied the waiter. "Nova Scotia. They're excellent."
    "You have any Wellfleet oysters?" inquired Eddie, looking grave. Bobby nearly groaned out loud. Eddie wouldn't have known
     a Wellfleet oyster if one had climbed up his leg, fastened itself on his dick and announced itself in fluent English. He must
     have seen them on another menu.
    "I'm sorry, sir. No. We don't have them," said the waiter. "We only have the Prince Edward Island's."
    "And . . . what kind of sauce do they come with?" asked Eddie. "I don't want any cocktail sauce . . . that red stuff. I don't
     want that."
    "They're served with a rice-wine wasabi vinaigrette," said the waiter.
    "Like it says on the fucking menu . . ." he could have added.
    "Uh huh . .