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The Busboy
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When I, David Mills, was fourteen, my life drastically changed for the second time in as many years when I heard about a job at our local country club.
Two years prior, my mother had finally divorced my drunken and abusive father. That had left me, the oldest of three boys, as a quasi-caregiver and general housemaid while my mom worked extremely hard to put food on the table and keep the roof over our heads.
I'd hated it. I'd never asked for a shitty father, and I'd certainly never imagined what sacrifices would have to be made to get him the hell out of our lives and our house.
Mom certainly hadn't gotten much relief; she'd often come home from work exhausted, and then compound everyone's misery by checking to see if me and my brothers had done every single chore she'd assigned us to her satisfaction. She'd been hard on us, but that was because she'd also been hard on herself. Deep down, I'd known she was just scared - scared to fail. I'd done my best, for a kid. At the very least, I'd learned early on how to take care of myself.
By age fourteen, though, I'd had all I could take. Besides the home front, school wasn't going well. I found most of my high school teachers pretentious and some outright disinterested in the job. I did have three instructors - all men - who'd tried to take me under their wing. I suppose they'd seen some potential, but I'd been constantly throwing up roadblocks. That may have had to do with my father, but who knows?
A friend at school had told me the local country club was hiring busboys. I'd told him it probably wouldn't fly because I was too young to work; I'd just started high school a few weeks before he'd approached me. My friend had said that he was fifteen, but had also started at my age. Child labor laws had been looser back then, even on paper. Unbeknownst to me at the time, enforcement of them had been kind of a joke.
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Joe Haidar, the club GM, gave me a ten-minute interview, and I was officially hired. Mom was very upset when I gave her the news. I just shrugged and told her we needed the extra money. I remember she remained sad for a while, but that eventually faded.
Two weeks after my first shift, something else happened. On a Friday night at the local roller rink with some friends, I met Lisa. We skated together and we talked.
We ate nachos at the snack bar, and we talked some more. We knew an awful lot about each other by the time the session ended. Without any premeditation, I gently placed her up against the wall by the exit and leaned in for a kiss. It wasn't my first teenage smooch, but it was the first impromptu one.
Lisa and I began to see each other any Friday or Saturday that I didn't work at my job. Her mother and mine had to drive each of us to the rink. Whenever I was home, especially on weeknights, we talked on the phone. That girl loved to talk, and I was enthralled by her voice. Both our mothers were constantly nagging us to get off the phone. We're talking rotary, with no party line. If anyone was trying to get through, well then tough luck. One day - I don't remember where - I found one of those extra-long twenty-foot cords that connected the receiver to the handset. That allowed me to move through our kitchen, down the hall, and halfway down our basement steps for privacy.
Life was good for the next few years, with a few interesting twists. Six months after I was hired, the club burned to the ground. A cook in the members' Grille Room had left four slices of bacon under the radiant broiler while running to the inventory cage to get another ingredient. The problem was, she weighed three-hundred-eighty pounds and had no 'run' in her. By the time she returned, the fire was already up into the hood system working towards the second floor, despite the Ansul system.
Three of us sat on the grass across the street and watched the fire consume the entire structure in less than two hours. Carlos and his brother Marco Demarcus were the 'pot washers' and food prep guys, among many other talents as I'd later learn.
I expected that would be the end of my job, and that bummed me out for more than just the obvious reason. The owner of the club had made a point of interacting with all of his employees, including the busboys. As we sat there watching the firefighters giving up, I felt bad for the guy who'd lost this place. He'd always conducted himself in a caring and sincere manner, from what I'd seen. I'd found myself wanting to know more about him, and had been fascinated by the framed bio of him, hanging in the front lobby. It told the rags to riches story of a determined man.
Fordie F. Ford was born Forti Shaheen, and he'd emigrated from Lebanon with his family to Minnesota at the age of fourteen. During the second world war, they'd moved to the Detroit area to build rear axles for military vehicles.
At twenty-one, Forti had changed his legal name and decided to try his hand as a car salesman. He'd been very good. By thirty, he'd purchased the top Ford dealership in the heart of the city using his family's savings. The dealership had gotten recognized by The Ford Motor Company year after year, earning the highest rankings in both sales and service. He'd purchased the club in 1962 after having been denied membership into an exclusive Detroit country club near Grosse Pointe.
I was surprised at Ford's approach to the total loss of his club, but based on that bio - which would end up getting quite the update, post-fire - I shouldn't have been. Within four months, the 183,000-square-foot former structure was being rebuilt into a 495,000-square-foot country club and banquet and convention center.
Needless to say, I didn't lose my job. There were literally hundreds of things for a kid like me to do on a project of that magnitude. Just moving the furniture in took two dozen of us an entire month to do.
The whole project took only ten months after the building was up. I was working as hard as I could, and I supposed my bosses on each gig liked my hustle. I kept getting put on new jobs - sometimes with the same guys, sometimes not. By the time the club was almost ready to open, I felt like I'd put a piece of myself into it. I felt proud of it. Ford was a businessman who wanted deadlines met , and he knew that a little bit of investment at the ground floor - not too much, but just enough - could help ensure they were. I'm sure he didn't give a shit about how proud me and the other guys felt, but with our pockets full of bread, we didn't give a shit that he didn't give a shit. It was a great relationship.
Officially opening on January 20, 1975, the River's Bend Banquet Center and Country Club featured eight world-class ballrooms, complete with lavish crystal chandeliers, the smallest of which could handle little meetings or showers of up to seventy-five people. The largest room, The Penthouse, was on the top floor and could handle 2500 people for a served meal, or, theatre-style, up to 6000 for a concert or boxing event. There were five luxury apartments behind that ballroom, three smaller apartments on the first floor for employees, and in the main lobby across from the offices, a full-sized chapel, which was maintained by the local clergy of all denominations.
The kitchen was even more impressive. While each ballroom had its own 'pantry' that was larger than ninety percent of most hotels and stand-alone banquet-center kitchens, the main kitchen was underground, and just the dish-washing area was bigger than most restaurants of the day. The first time we were allowed into the newly-completed facility, I had to stop and count: twenty-seven double-stacked convection ovens. Who needs fifty-four ovens? We did.
The first couple of months after reopening were crazy. That was likely due to the newness and the media attention. Wednesdays and Thursdays, the crew, including me, would move hundreds of tables and thousands of chairs according to the floor charts on the banquet prospectuses. On Friday nights, a third-party company specializing in auditorium set up would come in, because the rest of us would have already worked a ten- or eleven-hour shift.
After that, I was asked to switch positions and work in the members' Fine Dining room, though I did still occasionally have to clock some hours in the Grille Room just below it too. For the main gig, I had to learn the art of French service and white glove flambé. That was when the money started rolling in. It took a few months under the old bartender's tutelage to learn that all these members had a minimum to spend, and that the better I did, the more of that would be mine. Making five hundred per week, plus nearly the same in tips, was a lot of money in 1975.
I started skipping school to work more, even though I knew I shouldn't be. None of the managers ever questioned why I was working on a week-day.
Perhaps the best part of working with the members was getting to know them. Of two-hundred and nineteen members, two-hundred and three were southern Michigan Sicilian mafia. The other sixteen were Michigan mayors or congressmen. My first opportunity to speak directly with one family head - godfather, if you will - came about purely by accident. The Thrilla in Manilla heavyweight prize fight between Joe Frazier and Mohammed Ali was all the talk in the weeks leading up to it. I was arguing with a few of the members I knew well, trying to make my point about why Frazier was going to pummel Ali.
James "Jimmy" Leone happened to be passing by and took an interest in the back-and-forth banter - but he wasn't the kind of guy to just stand back and listen.
"Hey, busboy," he said with a little sideways smile, "let's say wager. You sound pretty sure of yourself. How much?"
"I don't know, sir... fifty bucks!" I'm sure I sounded like an idiot - clueless, and way too enthusiastic. Jimmy seemed to understand my dilemma.
"I'm just a guy looking for a bet," he said. "Don't worryaboudit. If you're that sure, you should put your money where your mouth is."
"Alright," I replied quickly. "I'll bet you my next check." The Italians snickered, and at least two of them outright laughed at me.
"Okay, busboy," he said in a conciliatory tone. "Show me your check stub when you win, so I know what to pay you."
Of course, I lost the bet. Jimmy was enjoying breakfast with one of his security goons as I walked up and placed the check next to his newspaper. Payday had been the day before. I'd held off picking up my check, terrified I might lose it - or forget and just deposit or cash it - before I'd showed him how much he owed me.
His eyes glanced up, but his head didn't move. "Ah, busboy," he said quietly. "Have a seat."
When I was seated, the server came by, but Jimmy waved her off. Then he stopped eating, carefully placed his fork down, and looked directly at me. Just his eyes were imposing. I was suddenly terrified.
"Let me tell you a little secret, busboy," he began. "I like you. The club likes you, or I wouldn't bother. How do you think it is that Ali won that fight? I mean, you had some great points. How did he do it?"
I sat, dumbstruck. I felt as if I were in the presence of a king. I tried to think, but it seemed I took too long to answer.
"Let me help you out," he continued. "He didn't. You see, son, prize fights - every single one of them since Rocky Marciano - have been fixed.
"I knew who would win for only one reason: I'm connected. Don't bet on one again, unless you only want a 50-50 proposition. If you want a sure bet, come see me first.
"Now go do something nice for your girlfriend," he said, sliding the check across the table.
With that, he nodded slightly at his guy, and they stood to leave. He turned while leaving and said, "Same with presidential elections. That's not us; they're fixed by the Secretaries of States, whom we own." I never really wanted to believe that, but later, an obscure, no-name peanut farmer became president, and not long after that, a Hollywood actor. I guess disbelief is one thing, while disproving something is quite another. I never dwelled on his words.
I had no intention of taking his advice about my own money that he'd gifted me. That's because I had my eye on a 1972 Dodge Charger SE slapstick with a 318 stock - just like Vin Diesel's car in Fast & Furious, except green. A guy at school was selling it for four hundred. A co-worker who'd just graduated with his technician's license from mechanic's school had offered to help me rebuild the engine, with the main goal being to make it 'scream.'
I was inconsolable two days later when I learned that the kid had sold it for three-eighty. But a week later, Carlos Demarcus found me and said I was needed in the members' valet area.
There was the car, with a new paint job, and there was Jimmy Leone.
When my initial shock faded, Jimmy tossed me the keys and said, "Take it for a spin!" Then as an afterthought: "You do have a driver's license, right?"
I did. When I returned, he was waiting alone.
"You like it kid?" he asked with that crooked smile. I nodded. He came over to me and placed his arm over my shoulders. "Just a little gift for your honesty." Then he leaned in and said in a more hushed voice, "I may need you to run some errands. Are you up for that?"
That's how I became a sixteen-year-old bagman for the mob.
I guess my trustworthiness paid dividends for all concerned. I never once looked inside the bags - either the ones I took or the ones I returned with. Teddy Lafata, Tony George, and several other well-dressed club members started talking to me sometimes, using only the nickname 'Busboy.'
Lisa was still my long-distance relationship. Now I had a car to drive out to her house or pick her up, but her mother had become so strict with her that we became very frustrated. You didn't back-sass Mrs. Schear, either - not if you knew what was good for you.
Joe, my boss, never seemed to care if I was summoned by one of the members to 'run an errand.' Looking back, I think they had a deal. I wasn't asked to do mafia bidding during the hustle and bustle of banquets in progress, but during the week, we were just scheduling, setting up, and ordering supplies for the busy weekends. Joe actually took a proactive approach with me with regard to school.
"David, sit down," he said one Friday afternoon. "Tell me the truth, son. How often are you cutting class?"
"I, uh... well, quite a bit," I stammered.
"Okay," he sighed. "If you aren't going to get an education at school, you might as well get one here. Here's what I want you to do. Go to your first class of the day. Then go to your second. Then come straight here. You're going to learn how the kitchen works. You're going to learn a trade, one position at a time, without pay. How does that sound?"
That's how I became a full-time busboy, part-time bagman, and chef in training.
February was approaching and Lisa was about to turn eighteen. She was a grade ahead even though we were the same age. Graduation was coming soon for her, while, as a junior, I had only accumulated enough credits to be a half-sophomore.
Valentine's Day was our holiday, since that's the day we'd met. Her birthday was four days prior, so, like the previous three years, I went all out. After a lavish dinner at a high-end lobster joint in the suburbs, Lisa and I went to a little motel that was pay-by-the-hour, and we both lost our virginities. I was on the clock that night, too, since I had to make a quick stop at a house only a few blocks from the motel. Lisa never even asked what I was dropping off or picking up. I guessed that meant the sex had been good for her, but I never asked.
Winter gave way to spring, and Lisa started to change. Her parents bought her a chic-looking Mustang hatchback for a graduation present. She started hanging out with a new school crowd, and then, just weeks before receiving her diploma, found a job at a well-known restaurant chain. That opened the door for more new friends. Suddenly, she had no more time to talk to me.
At the end of May, I told my mother I was moving into my own apartment at the club to work more during the summer. Mom and I had been at odds since I'd gotten the job, and our relationship had gone frigid. Later, I realized she'd been giving me space and time to figure things out, but as a kid, that had escaped me. I'd call Lisa from my new room at night, desperate to talk to her, but she was gone. When I wasn't at work, I was alone - not actually alone, since I could simply leave my room and be surrounded by lots of people I knew, but I felt alone.
Finally, after Lisa's graduation, we discussed taking the summer off from each other, agreeing to get back together in September to see how we felt about our future. I worked very hard. I learned how to cook. I learned how to prep. I learned how much product to order and from whom. I was given the task of taking inventory in the large, double-locked product cage, complete with three separate walk-ins - meat, dairy, and produce - and a giant freezer. There was also a dry storage room and the liquor room.
On top of all that, I was put in charge of the banquet bussers and set-up girls. It was 1978, so those were still a thing; my boss, Joe, was still calling waitresses 'stupid broads' when they screwed up. From him, I learned how to schedule and keep labor costs within guidelines.
The summer went by in a blur. I could barely remember any of it. September came, and Lisa called. We talked together in a park near her house, and she told me about her summer adventures. She told me about a couple guys she dated too, and I felt jealous for the first time. It hurt, but I was determined not to ask her about them. We'd made a deal, after all.
She apologized for being such a bitch, as she put it, and for being so selfish. She professed her love and wanted us back together. That's what I wanted too, but I let her know that my responsibilities at the club had increased a lot, and that meant I wasn't going to be available whenever she wanted. She readily agreed and told me she'd just try to get more hours at her own job.
A month later, Lisa called me on a Friday. She needed to see me right away. I was getting ready for a fairly busy night at the club but asked Joe for a personal favor. Lisa seemed beside herself on the phone. I remained on the clock, and drove out to her place, breaking the speed limit laws.
When I got there, she came straight out and took me to their backyard picnic table. I saw her mother standing in the kitchen window watching us intently.
"David," she said, and alligator tears just started pouring out of her eyes. "I've made a terrible mistake.
"I've ruined us, and... and..." she couldn't continue for several minutes as I held her. Finally, she calmed down a bit but wouldn't meet my gaze.
"I'm... I'm..." she stuttered, "I'm pregnant!" She was crying again, but something inside me was happy she was actually carrying my child - until it dawned on me.
"It's not mine?" I asked so very desperately.
She shook her head. Then she started apologizing over and over, between sobs.
"How?" I asked in a tiny, defeated voice.
"A party." She looked so broken. "I went to a party with people from work. I got drunk, and I tried weed for the first time, and I... I..."
She was sobbing against my chest then. For the first time in my young life, I felt the conflict. I felt the grief, anger, and the damned conflict. I wanted to kill her right there, but I also wanted to soothe her - to somehow take her pain away. I wanted to unburden her. I wanted his name. Then something came to mind: a thought of what might help.
"Were you raped?" I asked, sitting up straight.
"No," she said ashamedly. "I wish I could say that. I was wasted, but I didn't say 'no.'"
The anger returned in spades. "So what now?" I asked determinedly. "Are you getting rid of it?"
"I can't," she replied, finally looking at me. "Mom and Dad say I have to marry him. They've already talked to his parents. She..." Lisa said, pointing towards the kitchen window, "said to tell you on the phone. I just couldn't do that to you."
"Who is the bastard?" I demanded. My rage was back to the forefront.
"You don't know him," she said quickly. She seemed genuinely frightened - of me, or of him, or of her parents, I couldn't rightly say. "He's a busboy from work. He's younger than us. He'd just turned eighteen the day of the party. I think it was partly for him."
God damn her, I thought. She's ruined everything. I couldn't stay any longer. I disentangled myself from my girlfriend - former girlfriend now - stood and started heading for my car.
"Where are you...? Don't go, David, please," she begged.
"I have to, Lisa... fuck!" my pace quickened as I told her that. "I don't... I just can't."
She followed me to my car, half-sobbing and half-wailing. "I'm so sorry, David. I'm so, so sorry for this!"
That was the end of it for me. I drove back to the club in shock. All of our plans were down the drain.
But what about my plans? We'd taken the summer off, on a break as boyfriend and girlfriend. I'd spent mine working, and I figured I had a good idea of how she'd spent hers. My apartment had one of the earliest message machines, as they were called then. Lisa kept calling at night, but I wasn't in my room. I was working during the day, and at night I was helping myself to alcohol, wherever I could sneak it.
Joe Haidar wasn't just my boss. He was also a functioning alcoholic, which I was too young to understand at the time. Joe drank hard booze in moderation, all day long. As the resident GM, he'd had his own apartment for years. He was also Fordie's former brother-in-law, and the only other middle-easterner working there. He'd worked at Ford's dealership, and then transferred to the club right after Ford purchased it. His wife, Ford's sister, had taken offense to him giving all his time to her brother. Joe had come home one night to a 'Dear John' - or in his case, a 'Dear Joe' - letter. She'd run off with the kids and a doctor from Rochester.
I'm sure he figured out I was sneaking booze, because I really wasn't trying to hide it. I also didn't realize the effects on my breath.
One night, not long after my talk at the picnic table with Lisa, Joe asked me to join him in the darkened and closed Grille Room. He sat in there most nights when the lights were off. The members' card room was completely surrounded on three sides by the Grille Room dining area. It was built that way so that if the club was ever raided, everyone would have time to react. It was usually full of guys until around two in the morning.
He got up as I sat at the table he was occupying, and he returned with two glasses of whiskey on the rocks. We took a few sips; it burned my throat more than the gin, which I'd learned had been the best bang for the buck on a five-finger budget.
"What happened?" he asked suddenly. "Was it that girl you were going out with?" Joe reminded me of my age, without intending to. He called all women 'broads,' but he'd called Lisa 'girl.'
I nodded, and then he asked me to tell him about it. I recounted the whole sad story, which was, of course, pretty good until the end. He could tell she'd gutted my heart, even if I was too young to understand what the feeling was.
"Tommy's leaving," he stated. "He's off to open his own submarine shop."
Tommy Esposito was the nephew of one of the club members; that's how he'd gotten the job. To me, he was a dirtbag, and we'd never gotten along. Tommy wore that Saturday Night Fever look long before the movie came out. His suit sported flared bell-bottom pants and oversized lapels. He wore a shag haircut, which was the style, but not on greasy black hair. He was constantly hitting on the good-looking waitresses, and even some of the underage set-up girls, all the while being married to one of the full-time servers. His only job was to place orders for and keep track of liquor inventory.
"I want you to take over his job," Joe told me. "We'll need to move all the liquor to the old liquor room outside of the cage." I knew where he was going.
Once again, my work life was going to put me at odds with the letter of the law. You had to be twenty-one in order to serve or handle booze, even though the drinking age was eighteen. We needed to move the liquor so I'd have time to react if somebody inconvenient came knocking.
"You need to forget about her," he lectured. "Go get laid. Some of the broads here would be happy to let you screw them. Maybe get with one of the older ones, so you can learn something at the same time."
Joe took a swig from his glass. "This..." he said, swirling the gold liquid around, "you have to stop that. I can't have you drinking all the profits."
Then, as if reading my mind, he added, "I do enough of that for both of us."
That was how I became a formerly well-paid busboy, turned bagman, turned utility worker and cook, turned assistant manager-in-training, who was illegally handling enough alcohol to sink a ship after just having gotten a taste for the stuff.
>
The holidays came and went.
I kept working, learning new skills, but I still thought about Lisa a lot. On Christmas Eve, I went home to a house full of relatives - including my grandmother, who I'd always been close to - and had a big dinner. Grandma dominated the conversation, telling everyone about all of her friends who had attended a function at the club and seen me in my three-piece suit. Those functions must have been on a weekday, where I'd also have to act as maître' d and MC. Mom looked as proud as she did.
After dinner, around eight-thirty, there was a knock on the door. It was Lisa. I stepped out into the frigid night air and stood with her on the porch.
She looked immediately sad as I closed the door behind me. "I'm not welcome anymore," she stated rather than asked.
"It's not that," I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. "There's a bunch of relatives here. I thought we might need some privacy."
"Can we at least sit in my car then?" she asked.
In the car with the overhead light on, I saw the black eye for the first time. It looked like she'd tried to conceal it for some reason.
"He do that to you?" I interrogated her.
Lisa broke down then, bawling her eyes out. Her body was trembling. I leaned across the console of her Mustang and comforted her as best I could. I had never really seen someone that hopeless, and wasn't sure that I was doing much good.
"I'm sorry," she finally said between sniffles, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Then she began crying again. "I didn't know where to go! I shouldn't have... your family is inside. I'll..."
"No you won't!" I yelled, which was the last thing I wanted to do. "You stay here and talk to me until you feel better, okay?" That earned me a wan smile.
"What happened?" I asked, trying to get her to talk instead of cry.
"He got mad." She started thinking about how to say it. "He's pissed because he says I've ruined his life. His mom and my parents were pretty tough on him. He came home late from work, high and drunk, and I told him to leave me alone and go sober up. Then we argued and I said some things... I told him to grow up and accept responsibility. Then he let me have it."
I also noticed Lisa's pudgy belly then. "How far along are you?"
"Four months," she replied, getting herself under control.
"So, just before we got back together, then?" My rage and anger were returning, and then it was me who was fighting for control. I still blamed her for ruining any chance we'd had of a future together. She deserved something, but not that - not a beating, not while pregnant, and not from the baby's own father. I decided to focus my rage on him.
"You married?" I kept the questions coming. "What's his name?"
"He's Brad," she answered. "His name is Bradley Smith. We got married the first week of November.
"Mom and Dad pretty much told me I was on my own. They gave us a little money for a mobile home that was for sale, but we both still have to work to make payments. He got a new job as janitor at an old folks' home, so he only makes a little. Dad said after the baby comes, he might get him a job in the machine shop."
Lisa's parents were loaded. Her father owned an engineering company that had drawn the plans for the original DeLorean. Her old house in the country, where she'd grown up, was twenty-five acres, with a barn and three thoroughbreds in the stall. I felt sorry for her. She'd gone from the penthouse to the shithouse, and her parents seemed even more disgusted with her than I was.
"Like I said," she continued, "I had nowhere to go. My parents and I aren't really on speaking terms. The last time he hit me, about three weeks ago, I told Mom, and she asked me what I did to provoke him. I wouldn't ask her for help right now if I was being murdered. Plus, I did this, so part of me thinks that I deserve it. I shouldn't be bothering you, but I was just trying to get away, and I couldn't think where to go. My only girlfriend is out of town."
"Okay, look, Lisa," I said, "you shouldn't be getting beat. You're pregnant, and that's on you. You already know that. But you can't let him do this. Next time, you come to me - or better yet, go to a shelter. Somewhere, anywhere, okay?"
She nodded, so I continued. "I shouldn't be involved in this. He's your husband now, which makes me the bad guy. But he can't hit you, understand? If it happens again, and you can't find anywhere to go, come find me - probably at the club. I live there now."
That seemed to shock her, but then she hung her head. She'd caused that too.
"Can I at least show you where I live, you know, in case of an emergency?"
She drove me by her house. Brad wasn't there. Part of me wished he had been, but that would have only made trouble for me. Then she took me back home.
"I'm..." she began.
"Yeah, I know, sorry," I said. My anger hadn't dissipated with time, and my sympathy for her was like a tide. At its ebb, all I could think to myself was, Why is her problem, my problem? "Stop saying it. I know you feel that way, but it doesn't help. Try to stay on his good side until the baby is born. Maybe he'll calm down. If you need me, you call me, alright?"
"Okay, thank you, David," she said in her tiny voice. "Please don't become a bitter person over this. It's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."
She leaned in for a kiss. It was such a natural move by then that I almost let her. Almost. I let her catch my cheek, and her tears returned.
"I'll always love you, Lisa," I said, opening the car door. "You'll always be right here..." I put my hand over my heart, "but that's all it will ever be."
I watched Lisa drive away, knowing it was probably for the last time. We'd found a closure of sorts, but I still wanted Bradley dead.
In truth, I was disappointed with her, and the decisions she'd made. I wasn't disgusted with her like her parents were. Mostly I was just frustrated. I had no control over any of the things that Lisa had done, and certainly none over the consequences she was enduring after-the-fact. Part of me wanted to take the risk, cross the line, and 'help her' with her 'problem.' That was the smaller part, though. The bigger part was feeling good about working at the club. Learning from and being around important men that I could look up to - bad guys who were good to and good for me.
Ironically, my voice of reason in that moment sounded an awful lot like the guys at the club who would whack somebody. They'd only do it, though, if there was something in it for them.
>
In January, life set me up for some changes, although it would be awhile before it kicked out the punchlines. Our new switchboard operator and general office person, Angela, joined the team. She was a beautiful woman and only a month older than Lisa. The similarities didn't stop there. Her height and weight were very similar to Lisa's - pre-pregnancy - but the way she carried herself was something else. She had 'it.' Indeed, I wasn't surprised to learn through the grapevine that Angela was competing in the Miss Michigan Pageant. She was a bit ditzy, though, which irked me sometimes. It was a stark contrast to her book smarts; she clearly had those. She may have had 'it,' but when it came to simple things, she didn't 'get it.'
That was my take on her, anyway. Did I 'get it' back then? I'm sure you'll have thoughts on that several times before this tale ends.
I was very busy staying up on my regular job while trying to get the alcohol moved to the new liquor room. Tommy was kind enough to spend some time with me, before he left, giving me the basics.
He taught me to begin by assuming that the bartenders were thieves twice over: outright, and over-pouring for better tips. Tommy's job - soon to be mine - was to make sure they had just enough alcohol on-hand to get their official job done. You were never going to get it exactly right, but it was all about shaving off that one extra bottle's worth of 'mysterious' losses.
I suppose that for the first month, I treated Angela much like her predecessor: the sixty-five-year-old Gayle, who'd worked the front office since the day I first started. Angela knew who I was because I was scheduling over two hundred banquet employees each week, and getting multiple calls from our vendors. In fact, never an hour went by on weekdays when I didn't hear her sweet voice over the intercom at least once.
The next new arrival, in the third week of January, wasn't a new employee, but Fordie's nephew. He was supposed to have come for a 'visit,' but, save for a few short hops back to Europe, he never actually left. Like the old joke goes, maybe I should've promised to miss him.
Pierre Khalil, like Ford, had been born in Lebanon. We all learned quickly that the more distant side of Pierre's family had a lot of money, because he flaunted it. It was 'just hop back to Europe' money, and then some. Pierre had used some of it to buy a company that manufactured and broke down the raw materials for use in the perfume industry. By the age of twenty-three, he'd refined the processes within the plant that refined the materials, allowing him to sell them for far less than his competitors.
At twenty-five, Pierre had bought his own perfume company in the south of France, and by the time he'd arrived in America - just four weeks before his twenty-seventh birthday - he'd already owned two of the top-grossing perfume companies in that region.
The five-thousand-dollar suit gave him the intended look, but didn't hide his shallow and pretentious nature. In the beginning, Pierre mostly stayed in the background. He spent much of that time getting the lay of the land. Many nights that first month, I'd find him in the card room, simply observing the members playing. No one seemed upset, and that was odd, because those guys played for big stakes; just a little 'tell' on someone's face could cost someone ten grand or more. To me, he seemed like a tourist, and so I ignored him. If I'd known then that he wasn't ever going to leave, I might've paid more attention from the start.
Angela had been invited to after-hours breakfast a few times - not by me, but by other employees that were trying to be friendly. I'd interacted with her a bit here and there, but we both seemed content to keep our distance. On February second, I was in my office by the delivery entrance when Angela came flying by down the back stairs of the office, crying. I jumped up and followed her out the door.
"Hey," I shouted to her back. She stopped and acknowledged me, but then kept walking at a rapid clip. "Where are you going, and what's wrong?"
"I have to go," she said through the tears as I caught up to her. "My father's had a heart attack."
I gently grabbed her elbow and turned her towards me. "I'm sorry," I said sternly. "And I'll let you leave as soon as I'm convinced you're okay to drive."
"Let go of me!" she screamed - partly angry, but also indignant that someone would lay hands on her and try to prevent her from doing something.
"I will," I said, "as soon as you tell me what happened. I assume he's in the hospital already or on his way. A few minutes of you talking and calming down won't do any harm. I don't want to hear later that you were in a car accident, and neither would your dad."
Angela broke down then, leaning fully into my chest. I couldn't help but hug her as she sobbed. I tried to think of something comforting to say. "Listen to me, Angela," I told her in a consoling tone. "I'm sure he's going to be alright. I know he will."
That seemed to stifle her agony a little. At some point, she realized we'd been in an embrace for quite some time, and quickly pulled back.
"Thank you, Dave," she said solemnly. "Thanks, I think I'll be fine now." I let her go then, warning her about the speed limit.
The next day, Angela wasn't at work. I figured she needed to be with family. She'd been very upset, so it was obvious she loved her father. Two days later, I began to worry, so I asked around. I found out that her father had been stabilized after the first heart attack, but that the second one, just after midnight, had done him in.
I felt like complete shit. I know it doesn't make any sense, but I'd promised her that her dad would be okay. Sure, I'd said it to calm her down so she could make the drive safely, but I'd said it. I kept imagining all the other things I could've said instead, and a part of me felt like I'd never be able to face her again.
She came down to my office after her shift on her first day back and handed me a card. At first, I couldn't even take it from her.
"I'm so sorry, Angela," I said, feeling worse with her in front of me. "I'm sorry for what I said."
"I know," she replied. "I know what you were trying to do, and I wanted to thank you." She held up the card again. This time I took it and opened it. She'd written a lot - actually, more like she'd poured her whole heart out. The last line she wrote was below her signature.
"Dinner sometime?" it read. I looked at her, and her expression was hopeful.
"You want..." I stammered, "I mean, dinner. With me?"
She nodded her head rapidly. "Sure, why not?" she said with a smile. "Do you have a girlfriend or something?" That was an easy answer. I shortened it to "No" from "Not anymore."
Angela insisted on paying, but she'd asked me out, so I had the upper hand; I wasn't going to let a pretty girl buy me dinner. She finally relented. That dinner turned into two, and then movies, and then, about a month later, meeting her mom and brother. Although things had moved along really quickly, we still hadn't talked about 'going steady' or being exclusive. I was pretty sure she thought it was a given, even though we never said the words.
She was working thirty-five hours a week and I worked as long as they needed me. The truth was, I had a crazy job, and I was technically still in high school, although I think the school system saw me as a dropout. If truancy officers even existed, they definitely weren't poking their noses into the club. The guys who owned it, and the guys who frequented it, didn't want them there, and that was that. I lived in the land of the protected. I was dispensing thousands of dollars of liquor and wine every week, and marrying the bottles together when the bartenders brought back the leftovers - all of it very illegal.
Springtime sprang again, and we were heading into another busy season. Angela was trying to carve out some extra time for us, but I was resisting. Part of my problem was that I felt I owed all the guys for mentoring me. It wasn't like I didn't want to be with Angela. We really had become close in a few short months. Finally, when we reached an impasse of sorts, we both agreed to get through the summer months, see each other when we could - even though that wouldn't be very often - and then refocus on each other when things quieted down.
In July, though, several other employees in supervisory roles had decided to move on. Joe and I were sitting in our familiar spot - a dark, closed Grille Room - as he told me his plan.
"I talked to Ford today," he began. "We both decided you're ready." He left it there. I knew Joe well enough at that point, so I simply raised an eyebrow and waited.
"We want to make you assistant GM," he told me. I asked if he could give me a day or two to think about it. He seemed surprised by that, and probably worried that I was thinking of leaving too. In reality, I wanted to be fair to Angela and talk to her about it.
"What do you think?" I asked her sincerely.
She took a minute. "I guess we need to talk about some other things first," she finally said. She looked apprehensive. "Dave, I want to see where our relationship goes. I know I agreed to wait until the end of summer, but I'm pretty impatient. I get a sense that you'd just stay at this job indefinitely. What I mean is, not until something better came along, but more like someone will have to drag you out of there. Tell me I'm wrong?"
"You're wrong," I lied. I couldn't understand why I felt embarrassed about having a dream job. I had the fastest car in town - hell, in a fifty-mile radius - and that wasn't an easy claim in the Motor City. I had a lot of money in the bank - for an eighteen-year-old, anyway. My closet wasn't merely filled with nice clothes; there were fifteen three-piece suits in there, because that was my uniform. I never had to worry about how I'd look when Angela wanted to go clubbing at all the discotheques.
I had everything I'd ever wanted... except my own freedom.
No one really ever talks about things that people figure out gradually. That's just normal. But we do make a big deal out of those ah-ha moments - when it hits you all at once.
That's what happened to me. Angela sensed it too.
"Dave, I have strong feelings for you," she began, leaning against me. "I could even cautiously say I love you. But I'm also worried. I'm worried about a future with you. What will we ever have after the club? You just finished your senior year, but you didn't graduate. When we talk, you don't seem to have any long-term goals or plans.
"I'm not saying you haven't done well for yourself up to now; you have. But I think you're coming to the end of this ride." She paused to gauge my reaction. "You have to start thinking about your... about our future. I can't force you, but if you care about me, then think, and then let me help you."
"Okay, yeah..." I said, still embarrassed, "I will. I promise."
"Promise you, not me," she said, kissing my face. "I don't want to see you end up like some of those members."
Angela finished runner-up in her pageant. She looked stunningly beautiful in her blue gown. I was proud of her. She told me she was finished with it. She also told me she didn't win because she turned down one of the directors who'd wanted sex. It felt odd that she waited until after everything was finished to clue me in, but I never asked her to explain.
She announced she was going to community college in the fall and asked me what I thought.
"That sounds... great," I said softly.
"I wasn't asking if you thought it was good for me, silly." She was wearing that million-dollar smile that could melt diamonds. She pulled a slip of paper out of her jeans pocket and handed it to me. "I've scheduled you for GED testing," she said, beaming. "Both the mock test and the actual."
"I... uh..." I didn't know what to say. Part of me was pissed that she hadn't even consulted me first. Part of me was falling for her more because of her kindness. It took a few seconds to process, and then to reconcile what she'd done.
"Okay," I squawked. It wasn't very manly. "Thank you... I guess."
"You're welcome," she replied, ignoring my mood. "Can we look at the fall class schedule and see if there are any elective classes we can take together?"
School was tough for me. I'd been an A student all my life until high school. College was a little better as far as the constraints they placed on students, and eventually, I began to warm to it. The tug-of-war between Angela and my work duties, not so much. Joe and even Ford were starting to give me a hard time when there was a conflict. They were both so used to me just being there to take care of things - all the little dirty and trivial things - that it pissed them off when they had to do them, or they slipped through the cracks. I finally had to sit down with them for a heart-to-heart just before Halloween.
In the end, we worked out a new deal. I had to leave them the school schedule and agree on specific time off. I had to train at least two others on some of my duties so nothing was missed. I wasn't to take any Friday classes or summer school. Angela was very happy - and not just for me, I think. She was secretly happy she'd won.
Meanwhile, Pierre was spending less time with the members that fall. Instead, he'd become quite comfortable with the entire staff after nine months. I'd noticed the shift, but I didn't think much of it at first. Ford's nephew was still being kind and inquisitive, asking all kinds questions - too many of them, sometimes. I started gently asking my staff about their conversations with him.
Sometimes, during my downtime, I'd be in the office talking with Angela. It was a means for us to see a little of each other, because the weekends were too busy. Pierre was also spending more time in the office. The first time that he beat around the bush about Angela having work to do, I gave him that look that said 'butt out.'
Pierre didn't butt out. In fact, he tried several different ploys to make his point clear. The first was to come and join us, acting friendly. That's what it was, though - an act - and I didn't fall for it for a second.
He'd pull out a hundred-dollar bill and send me for a full roll of lottery scratchers. After Angela and I were off and alone, she'd tell me that Pierre had been asking her personal questions, like what our plans were, and when we were going to get married. A few times he'd warned her that I was a 'little boy.' She'd replied that I was her little boy, which I wasn't too happy about. I couldn't even decide if it was better or worse that she'd so casually tell me that she'd said that to him.
Pierre then moved on to intimidation. I was working in the liquor room and heard a soft tap on the outside door. During those past ten or eleven months, I'd taken to pouring a healthy shot of gin into my 7-Up can. Some days it was one or two. On stressful days, it was more. I remembered what Joe had told me when he promoted me. The one drink he afforded me came at the end of the night.
I wasn't worried about the cocktail; I was worried about the State Liquor Board. I stood still, stayed quiet, and didn't answer.
Twenty minutes later, Arthur used his keys and opened the door. Arthur and I had become very good friends over the years. He was the key carrier and caretaker/ watchdog of the club on busy nights. He was near seventy years old and had recently retired from his job with the City of Detroit.
He was one of the most truly kind and sincere men I'd ever met. He also carried a sufficient amount of pride. It was evident as he forced himself upright as he walked the corridors and dark recesses of the building. Arthur had very bad arthritis in his hands and feet, but to those who didn't know him, he just looked like an old guy that walked funny.
He was also the only black man ever employed there.
"Hey Arthur," was all I got out before seeing an angry Pierre right behind him.
"Thank you, Art-tour," he said in his French accent. "You may go."
Pierre turned towards me with a look of rage. "I knock here, and you dare not answer?" he asked incredulously. "Do you know who I am?"
I was dumbfounded. I hadn't been taken in by his false affability, but the one-eighty was still a shock.
"I didn't answer in case it was someone from the state," I said, feeling a little more confident since part of that was true.
Pierre looked down at my hand and held his out. It wasn't a greeting. He wanted me to hand him my soda can. I'll never really be able to explain why I did, but I did. I shouldn't have.
Pierre took the 7-Up can and put it to his nose. "You steal from my uncle," he stated in an accusatory tone. "That's what you do here? Who else knows you steal from him?"
"I... No one... It's..." Now I was stammering and stuttering. "It's just a little shot from what's left in the bottom of the empty bottle... nothing really."
"That's your excuse?" His laugh was 'hah,' like the Pink Panther. "How many ounces? Hmm? How many ounces before it's not 'nothing really?'"
I didn't answer, so Pierre assumed, I guess, that he'd gotten the upper hand. "One chance. Only one," he said through gritted teeth. "You stop now, or I tell uncle. The next time, you're out."
Before I could speak, Pierre was out the door. It took me twenty minutes to calm down. Later, I saw Arthur and went after him in the back hallway of the kitchen.
"What happened there?" I asked him, trying not to sound accusatory.
"I don't wants no trouble, Mr. David." Arthur had a heart of gold. He wasn't educated and his English was far from smooth - he'd only completed grade two - but that man had more integrity than anyone I'd ever met.
"How many times have I told you not to call me that, Arthur?" I scolded slightly. "It's just David. Can you tell me where he found you and what he asked you to do?"
Arthur told me that Pierre said he'd seen me upstairs in the Penthouse, so he wanted to find out who was in the liquor room. That made it an obvious setup. I wasn't sure what his game was, but I knew it didn't have anything to do with loyalty to an uncle he barely knew. I did stop putting gin in my soda, and it was pretty scary how much I missed it. I promised myself I wouldn't end up like my dad.
>
Life moved along, as it always did. Angela and I became very close. She was very helpful to me, especially regarding school. Never once did she degrade or impugn me for my work at the club.
She was very complimentary when I passed the GED test on my first try. Unbeknownst to me, she'd made sure that instead of receiving my quasi-diploma from the county, I got it from my high school. I found that extra touch to be endearing. Angela did a lot of little things like that, and I was quickly falling in love with her.
We had two classes together: Introduction to English Lit, and Communications. I was struggling to pick a major, and content to get my requirements out of the way. That first semester, I tried taking three courses, but with my work schedule, that turned out to be a mistake.
I cut back to two classes during winter semester in January. I was about as busy as a person could be. I felt good, though - like I was accomplishing a lot.
Angela and I fell into a sort of unspoken intimacy. We'd make out on her couch after her mother fell asleep until our lips were chapped.
She insisted on her own house, where she lived with her mother and brother, saying if we were at my apartment at the club, we'd eventually be caught. She also told me she didn't trust herself; she'd vowed to remain celibate until marriage. We used our hands on each other, but we were never naked. That was her line.
I never heard any more from Lisa. Her cousins, ironically, lived right behind the club in a cul de sac. I'd heard she'd come up to see me once, with her cousin, but I'd been in the middle of serving a party. One of the cousins, Johnny, actually worked there as a busboy. He hadn't offered any information the two times I'd asked, so I stopped. I probably shouldn't have asked in the first place, but I just couldn't help myself.
By May, I was almost finished with my second college semester. The job was getting easier because it was becoming more familiar, and because I was in charge of most things. Joe still guided me, during several daily conversations, but I was otherwise left alone. Joe must have kept Ford in the loop, because I didn't get much direction from him either.
I wasn't hanging around with the members very much, and that was another plus. The prior summer had taught me that if I was doing jobs for the mob, I couldn't look like I was buddy-buddy with them - or their patrons and clients - on top of that. I guess they felt the same way, because I didn't get any dirty looks or dangerous invitations. They seemed fine with my role at their club - and, yes, that's how they viewed it. I couldn't even say they were wrong. I had no idea what their real relationship with Ford was.
It was also entirely possible that a widely publicized event from the previous June had created that new distance between the mafia and me. For all I knew, the same was happening with others who did occasional 'jobs' for the mob. That event made me far more careful with my favors. I was perfectly fine running the club instead of running their errands.
The head of the largest union in the Midwest had 'gone missing.' That is to say, he'd been kidnapped coming out of a popular restaurant in broad daylight. He was never found, and the story was in the news for weeks. It then became an urban legend, and finally, countless 'mystery' shows on countless TV networks. The description of the assailants, to me, immediately reminded me of two guys that frequented the club: lower-level goons who were usually there as security for one of the bosses.
My suspicions were confirmed, as far as I was concerned, when I never saw either of them at the club again. I'd had a bad feeling that at least two family heads knew exactly where that victim was. That bad feeling never really went away. Worse, one of those two guys was Jimmy. In hindsight, the club's members may have decided that they needed to be more careful about dropping hints about who their real employees were - especially if they needed any more of them to do something very dirty and then disappear. Either way, I was happier with the new arrangement. I felt safer.
School was going better than I'd expected - basically as good as it could have been, in my view, unless I were to quit my job. I'd been considering my future with Angela, and planned on popping the question just before Memorial Day.
With summer came the busy season again: the wedding season. Angela said yes. She wore the biggest diamond I could afford, and she immediately said it was too much. She wanted us to be frugal for our future.
That June, though, the biggest event in a decade was scheduled to occur at the club. Joe's youngest daughter was getting married - to one of Jimmy's nephews, no less.
Joe became very excited as the date neared. He and I went out to a local farm where he paid cash for a beat-up-looking wooden cart. It had two old, rusty wheels and had been exposed to the weather for a long time. We used one-by to build an overhead trellis canopy over the cart, and I was tasked with ordering fresh grapevines from California. Two chefs manned the cart the night of the reception, carving rare cheeses from around the globe, Italian cured meats, and exotic fruits. The wedding reception, and especially the food, could only be described as illustrious and opulent.
We even flew in a team of guys from Italy, all dressed in barbershop quartet garb, to dish up authentic Italian ice and decadent cannolis for dessert.
Through the other kind of grapevine, I heard that the venue selection had all been down to Ford, not Joe. Ford had basically told his sister and her husband in no uncertain terms that his niece would be married right there. I didn't think much of it until about a week before the wedding.
Joe came into my office, clearly a man on a mission. "I need you to save all the empty liquor bottles from this weekend's banquets," he said matter-of-factly. "Keep them in the liquor room."
I just raised an eyebrow, but the look on his face told me not to pursue it further. My cache by the morning of the wedding was one hundred boxed-up empty bottles of all varieties. Joe and I took them up to The Penthouse's bar, shut down the coolers, and put all of the similar ones in each and every compartment. I couldn't help myself; I had to ask.
"My ex and her stupid husband demanded to pay full boat when I offered," he said with a sneer. "I know Jimmy will have to spring for some when they see the final tab. That fucker could have helped make sure I saw more of my kids after the divorce, but he sat on his hands. I talked Mr. Fancy Heart-Doctor Man into paying by the bottle instead of by the headcount to save a little money." He was laughing by then.
They did have a guarantee of twenty-seven-hundred guests, stretching even our limits, so I could see what Joe did as an easy sell. He'd never see a dime from the scam, but Ford would. Then I had another thought.
"Aren't you worried about - you know - if Jimmy were to find out?" I asked, a little worried for Joe. "Plus, I thought Jimmy was your friend."
"You should see what I do to my enemies," he stated flatly.
After the food, the dancing, and the drinking - all of which lasted well past the state's last call of two in the morning - I walked up to Joe and reached into my lapel pocket. I usually had all the final invoices and banquet prospectuses ready for collection. I handed him the one for his daughter's wedding, knowing he'd want the satisfaction of ripping off his nemesis while looking him in the eye. He just smiled and nodded. I'd never seen Joe happier than that night.
I'd never see him that happy again, either. Over the summer, Joe didn't merely step inside of himself; he fell. By noon almost every day, he was plastered. Weeks went by when he didn't feel the sunlight on his skin, never stepping outside our kitchen dungeon or his apartment. I had to pick up his slack.
The members had been lying low too. The feds were never going to find the union boss, or the perps, but they were still putting pressure on the Sicilians a year later. I could tell by the dark cloud that had descended over the once-lively club. It really felt like 'all good things...' kind of shit.
Angela felt it too.
There were office rumors about the club being sold. I told her it was just gossip and speculation; Ford would never sell his pride and joy. But by summer's end, I wasn't even sure I believed that myself. Pierre had also become darker. 'More serious' was a better description. It was as if he'd spent a little over a year watching and learning us all, including the gangsters, and was now planning to use what he'd learned. I had a bad feeling he was about to pounce.
It was a Saturday night at the end of August; it started like most any other, but ended quite differently. The parties went off without a hitch. I had two brides - and, more importantly, their fathers -drunk and happy. The other party was some regional Free Mason group. For me, if one of those weirdos wasn't going to tell me where they'd hidden the Ark of the Covenant, then they weren't worth talking to.
I walked into the office to spend a few minutes with Angela before making more rounds. Pierre was sitting in the office, right up on the desk next to the switchboard, facing Angela, and only about two feet from her.
I looked at him like he was garbage, and I gave her a 'what the fuck?' look.
Her eyes pleaded with me. They said loud and clear that she wanted me to keep my cool.
"Oh, good," she said in a fake voice, "you're here. Can you watch the board for a minute while I make these copies for Fordie?" She was clearly using my entrance to extricate herself from her tormentor.
"I think I call her my Jolies Fluer." Pierre laughed as he spoke directly to me, and I caught its sinister overtone right away. I was amazed that a simple sound could say so much.
It was a showdown, and very out of character for him. When he leaned in closer to me, I could smell the booze. He usually drank, but he was having trouble sitting upright.
"Soon, she will be mine," he exclaimed, clearly trying to rattle me. "She will belong to me. There's nothing you can do."
"Speak English, motherfucker!"
Well, so much for subtle, I thought immediately after I said it. It was all I could think to say, and 'think' is being generous. I was basically just reacting, in a red rage.
Pierre rose from his perch right away, and as Angela came back into the front office, he open-hand slapped my face. After my initial shock, I reacted again, but Angela had already firmly planted herself in front of me, her copies strewn across the floor. Her back was to my attacker, and both of her hands were on my chest. I'd had no idea she could move that fast!
"You will not speak to me zis way!" he screamed. "You make respect to me! I am the most wealthy man in the south of France. You are what - a busboy?"
As I started to speak my rage, Angela covered my mouth with one hand and half-walked, half-pushed me out of the office via the backdoor and down the flight of stairs to my office. I let it happen, but part of me wanted to stay and murder the man. That part was very loud.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she shrieked. I'd never heard her use a swear word before. "Calling him that? He could get you fired!" She looked genuinely concerned.
"The prick is laying claim to you!" I shouted right back. "He's doing it right in my face, just so I know he can! I'll fucking kill him."
"Listen to me," she began, ignoring my rant, "no killing. I know what he's doing, and so should you. Some of it, he's been doing since the day he arrived. I turn him down - once a day, at least. The other part, well, he's goading you. If he can get under your skin, make you do... something, well, then he can get you out of the way - fired or worse. That'd be like a chess player leaving his king unprotected - or, more accurately, his queen. With you out of the picture, he'll see me as ripe for the picking, and you won't be here to intervene. He's Ford's nephew, but you're invaluable to Ford, especially now. Be smart about this, David."
She was talking to me like some stupid teenager, which of course, I was. It hurt a lot coming from her. Parts of what she was saying made sense; they were accurate, too. Other parts didn't, though. She didn't seem to understand that me backing off or lying low would be seen as a sign of weakness by Pierre.
Angela took a breath and was thinking about her next salvo. "I can handle him, David. You don't need to lose a great job, falling into the trap he's purposefully setting. If he crosses a line, I'll go to Fordie."
Again, what she was saying made sense to me, but something about how she was saying it didn't feel right to me.
"Let's just go to Ford now," I pleaded. "He's already crossed a line, and you just said he's been doing it for a long time. Why didn't you ever tell me? Why was he sitting so close to you? You should have told him to move, or that he was making you uncomfortable." That elicited a guilty look. I was waiting for some sort of confession.
"No," she said as she took my hand. "I can handle it, and I've had to since ninth grade. Look, Pierre is under a lot of stress. He's selling one of his businesses overseas because he's trying to buy the club..." Instantly, she realized she'd said too much.
"Dave," she said frantically, "you can't say any of this to anyone. Promise me, right now." I reluctantly nodded. "He thought he had it in the bag, but one of the members, Jimmy Leone, I think... he has a relative that owns the Genie's Bottle hotel and casino in Las Vegas. He's trying to get Ford to sell it to him. Pierre is pissed, and he's out for blood. Not that kind of blood - I mean, he's locked into this business deal hard. He... he comes into the office and unburdens himself from all his troubles."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Angela?" My rage had returned. "No, this is it. He's putting the full-court press on you, just like he is on me. And he'll get what he wants, too; that's for sure. We have to tell Ford. He's just the kind of guy you..." I stopped dead in my tracks, realizing what I'd said.
"No, he isn't," Angela said in a low, sad voice. Her face looked as though I'd slapped her. "You are. Yes, he's got money. Yes, he's handsome and charming. But he isn't husband material. He's not any kind of material at all - certainly not loving or faithful or even considerate. You're all of those things. He's already confided in me, Dave. If I go to Ford now, all hell will break loose. It will be bad, I'm afraid, for both of us. Possibly very, very bad."
She was right, of course.
I calmed myself with a silent promise that if Pierre touched her sexually, or hurt her in any way, I'd make him disappear. I knew that promise came with a high price. I also knew that I needed to start planning for that eventuality immediately, and in a very real way. Guys like Pierre had no quit in them. I wondered if Jimmy might unwittingly do me the favor of offing him. I was sure he had all the connections in place to do it right and get away with it.
I made Angela promise to tell me everything that transpired between her and Pierre; if she needed my help, she was to call me over the intercom, day or night. I also told her I'd walk her out every night, without fail. I usually did that anyway, but it had become paramount that I did.
After that, everything was sort of a blur. Two days later, Ford and Joe got into the biggest argument that I'd ever witnessed. Near the end, Joe literally threw his heavy ring of keys at his boss and former brother-in-law. He walked right past me without a word and out the front door. I heard tires squealing out of the parking lot. I didn't even know he owned a car since I'd never seen him leave the premises! At least Ford had the decency to ask me to pick up the slack, rather than tell me.
The office sales staff was told they could only book short-term events - things that were scheduled within two months. Nothing beyond that was to be allowed to book; rather, they could give vague pricing only. Arthur was cut down to just Friday and Saturday nights. Angela looked frazzled. I was frazzled, and knew I had to cut one of my classes, much to Angela's dismay.
Another few days passed, and it was a Sunday night. Without Arthur, it fell to me to do a thorough walkthrough and secure the building.
Angela had paged me to say she would be done in fifteen minutes, so I decided to stop my rounds on the fourth floor, head back down to the Grille Room for my nightly drink, and then go and collect her from the office.
When I arrived at the offices, everything was dark, including the lobby and front entrance.
I peered through the large office window and saw no movement. Immediately I became frantic. I ran down the stairs, into the main kitchen, and out the service entrance by my office to see if her car was still there. It was. I went back into the building and back to the Grille Room to see if we'd bypassed each other - nothing. There were four guys in the card room and I asked if they'd seen anyone. They only grumbled.
The club was a big place, and under normal circumstances, I would have just waited for her, instead of running around in circles. If she'd been doing the same, after all, we might have missed each other multiple times. Then I had a thought: I hadn't seen Pierre all night. I ran to the window and looked out into the valet area, where he usually parked.
I shivered uncontrollably, and panic set in, seeing his car there in valet. I knew I needed to begin a systematic search of the building.
I took the elevator up to the Penthouse Ballroom. My plan was to start there and work my way down. The entire floor was dark, just as I'd left it an hour before. As I was about to walk back to the elevator, I saw something out of the corner of my eye, back beyond the ballroom where the luxury apartments were. Then I heard a click-clack, like Angela's high heels. I briskly made my way across the forty or so yards.
As I passed the glass doors and turned towards the hallway where the apartments were, I froze.
There, backed against the wall, was my Angela. Pierre had his hands pinned against the wall, just above her shoulders, so she couldn't get past. He was leaning in to kiss her.
"Get the fuck away from her, or die!" I screamed with all the authority I could muster.
He turned his head slowly to look at me. Angela should have looked relieved, but instead, her face showed annoyance. I couldn't comprehend that right then; maybe I should have. Instead, I closed distance and got right up into Pierre's face.
"Did you hear me, asshole?"
He took his hands away from the wall, and deliberately faced me. "I think I warned you before," he said, wearing the evilest smirk I'd ever seen. "You show respect. Now, you don't work here. Just like Joe. You alcoholic." He was daring me to beat him unconscious. I sensed a trap.
"Come on, Angela," I told her, reaching out my hand for hers. She didn't reciprocate. The pleading, questioning look I gave her must have seemed pathetic. My eyes were asking her what she was doing - what she was thinking.
She moved just ever so slightly closer to him. He noticed as I did, and he draped his arm across and over her shoulder, possessively.
"It's okay, David," she told me stoically, using my proper name. It took a second to register.
"No, it's not," I scolded. "I said, let's go."
Angela didn't move. She didn't speak either.
Pierre's smirk turned to laughter. "She said okay. You heard her words, yes?"
I was perplexed - more like bewildered.
She finally found her voice. "Go home, Dave," she said softly. "I'll be okay. I'll call you tomorrow and we can talk about it."
"Yeah, Daaaaave," Pierre mocked me. "Go home. I'll take good care of her."
My rage melted away for some reason, replaced by a sense of profound sadness - sadness on the same level as when I'd sat with Lisa at her stupid picnic table. I didn't feel like crying just then. I was beaten, but I still had murder on my mind.
I made a last attempt. "This isn't going to go like you think, Angela."
"Yes, it is." Pierre smiled a fake smile. "You hurt my belle fleur and I hurt you. Tomorrow we talk about what happen to you, in this future. Now run home, little busboy."
With that, Pierre, his arm still draped over Angela, spun around. The two of them walked down the hallway to the third room. He unlocked the door and ushered her in before him. He looked in my direction and smiled.
I stood there for a time. I'm not sure why. I no longer cared about her safety. I was about two degrees from strangling Pierre with my bare hands and then doing the same to her. I also wasn't sure where to go. Home, for me, was exactly four floors below, to the very spot. I usually drove Angela home, messed around a bit if it wasn't too late, and then drove back to the club. For some reason, I decided to leave. I had nowhere to go, so I just drove for a while. I couldn't be in the same space where my fiancé was being defiled - with her consent, it seemed.
Finally, I settled on the all-night Greek restaurant we sometimes went to. I got two orders of flaming cheese and a big glass of Pepsi.
When the waitress brought my food, I handed her a five and asked for a pen and a piece of paper. I started to write some things while I ate.
The first thing I thought and then wrote was that my fiancé had tried to convince me that what was happening with Pierre was her fight - hers to handle. My mind went to what was going on in Pierre's room right then. Her 'handling' the situation wasn't working out for either of us. But then I wrote another thought: what if things were going exactly as she wanted? In other words: what if she was with Pierre, and handling me?
Oddly, my next thought was of Lisa. Being honest with myself, I still wasn't over her, even though she'd hurt my heart in ways I still barely understood, and hadn't thought possible until she'd done it. That hurt had infected me with doubt and mistrust. Never mind the technicality of us having been on a break; feelings don't often give a shit about facts. It felt like I was being betrayed again, not technically for the first time. It felt like Angela was hurting me even worse than Lisa had, because, even though it hadn't been her responsibility, I'd genuinely felt like she'd been helping to heal and repair me, and to help me get over that terrible infection. Given how long Angela had been allegedly-handling Pierre - which was to say, possibly handling me instead - I also felt like so much more of a gullible idiot, precisely because the situation with Lisa felt like it should have taught me a hard lesson and made me less of one.
I didn't feel like being engaged anymore, that was for sure. I certainly didn't feel any wiser either. I felt like a two-time loser in love. I wondered how many more losses I'd have to endure, and if all of them were going to be - or at least feel - so similar.
Then, finally, I thought about Pierre. He had power and money. He was trying to prove something to me, or maybe just to himself. I finally understood that if I went off half-cocked, my fight with Pierre would be short, and I would lose it. I thought about my mentors. I never saw those guys sweat, except in the men's steam room. Still, I clung to the idea - the fantasy, if you like - that if I was somehow both quick and methodical, I could make some kind of a statement. I wanted payback, and, sitting there, chewing on that Greek cheese, I decided that there was one cost I was definitely willing to pay. I was definitely willing to lose my job at the club if it meant getting Pierre's goat. Even in my wildest dreams, though, I knew I wasn't going to be able to do it by myself.
At four-thirty, I finally decided to go home and try to sleep. I noticed Angela's car was gone as I pulled into my spot. I wasn't sure if I'd expected that or not. I was sure I didn't really know what to expect anymore. Pierre's car was right where it had been, and I needed to go badly from all the Pepsi. Just as I was about to piss all over his driver's door window and handle, it struck me that my car was in the same lot every day too. He could probably just have it towed or worse if he suspected me. Stop reacting and think! I told myself. I pissed on the tire instead, knowing he almost certainly wouldn't notice that. It felt equal parts good and pathetic.
As I lay in bed, surprisingly, my thoughts were not of Angela. I thought instead about where my life was headed. It seemed I'd been fooling myself, and probably in a big way. To leave the club would mean a lot of things I didn't want to think about, one of which would be moving back home to my mother's house - back home. For a moment, my self-pity overwhelmed my reasoning. In my mind's eye, I was a dropout busboy. I was a failure.
But wait a sec, I thought. I'm not a busboy.
That was literally true. I was an assistant general manager of the largest banquet facility in the Midwest, with a country club attached. Okay, maybe it was only the largest in Michigan. I didn't know for sure. Still, I'd learned every job in food service, and I'd been taught by some of the loftiest names in the area. I scheduled over one-hundred-fifty people every week, and on busy weeks over two hundred, counting the part-timers and the on-call union workers. We fed thousands of people every week with astounding precision. Our processes - some that I'd refined myself - were far more efficient than even the busiest foodservice operations in the area. I could tend bar, and I knew every state liquor law, although I broke at least one of them daily. Every night, I was responsible for collecting tens of thousands of dollars.
I'd also learned a lot about life - not the stuff in textbooks, either. I'd learned about how the movers and shakers really lived. I'd paid attention to how stuff actually got done. As I became more confident in my self-assessment and finally dozed, I knew I'd be fine, given time.
When I got out of the shower the next morning, I saw the light on both my phone and my message machine blinking. My first thought was Fordie, and I supposed Pierre would be there too, handing me my walking papers.
It was Angela. She wanted to talk. No 'I'm sorry,' or anything else. I deleted the message. All day I couldn't focus, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I had no doubt that Pierre would make good on his threat.
But it never happened. Angela didn't work Mondays, and the class she had that day wasn't one we shared. Later, I went into my room to change and shower. Angela had left two more messages. I didn't reply. The next morning, instead of hooking up with her to drive to school together, I took my own car. She came through the door, huffing and puffing, a good ten minutes late. Her eyes were burning holes through me. With mine, I dared her to call me out.
I ignored her, and, after class, left without even looking at her. That didn't last long, as I could hear her running and hollering my name in the parking lot.
"Dave! David!" she half-yelled, half-whined. "Stop! Please, stop!"
She caught me at my car door, so I turned to face her. "What do you want, Angela?"
"I want to talk," she cried out. "I left you a bunch of messages. I know you got them. Where were you this morning? I was late because of you."
"What's to discuss?" I asked blandly. "You made your choices."
"NO I DID NOT!" she screamed adamantly. "Nothing happened. I was at your apartment door twenty minutes later, but you wouldn't answer. Then I finally left and realized your car was gone."
"Bullshit!" I spat. "Stop lying. Even if you got cold feet at the last minute, you chose him, in every way possible. You joined him in my torment."
"That isn't true, Dave." She had calmed her voice a bit, but still seemed determined to have it out in a public parking lot. "I was trying to defuse the situation. He... hates you, you know? That's not right, actually. He wants - I don't know - you to be subservient to him. Maybe that's not the right word. He found me walking back towards the Grille Room and told me he'd seen you upstairs in The Penthouse. He... accompanied me. Then he tried to kiss me in the elevator. I told him to back off or I'd make him pay. I'd sue him and the club. He laughed and told me to relax. He told me he thought I was leading him on. Then he didn't do anything else until we both saw you get off the elevator on the other end of the building. He told me to play along, for your sake.
"I didn't have time to think," she kept on. "I was trying to help you, David. I knew you'd blow a gasket, so I decided to try to keep you two from fighting. Then he put his arms against the wall, and I realized he'd tricked me by trying to pretend something else."
"Angela," I said softly, "I don't believe you. You just turned with him... turned your back on me. I can't un-see that or un-feel it. You told me it would be okay. It isn't okay. I'm questioning everything we've ever had together."
Angela was crying - not sobbing or whimpering like some helpless woman. She was sad, but not out of control.
"David," she said, "I told you I could handle him - take care of it my own way. I told you to go for your own benefit - not his, and not mine. When we got in his room, I told him he was out of his mind if he thought we were going to do anything. He told me that I'd come into his room, turning down my own fiancé right to his face.
"He said no one would ever believe he forced himself on me. I told him I was a virgin and everyone knew that. I told him he'd end up in prison, and I'd file a civil suit afterward. After a few moments assessing me, he told me to relax."
"Then why did you do it in the first place?" I was getting angry again. "You just admitted he tricked you. Plus, we've had this discussion. I'm supposed to be handling that son-of-a-bitch."
"Because," she said, standing taller, "it was exactly what I keep telling you, and you're not supposed to be handling him. He's playing you for some reason. We just have to find other jobs and get out. Then we can put all this behind us."
"I can't see putting this behind us, Angela," I replied. "I'm so damned angry with you, I... "
"Why?" she said. "I just told you what happened. Don't you believe me? Is this some kind of guy thing? Some ego thing, or is it pride? I don't understand."
"Yes, to a degree," I responded honestly. "You chose him, right to my face." I was repeating myself, and I couldn't make her understand.
"But it isn't like that," she said emphatically. "Look, I'm probably done with the beauty pageant thing, but what if, down the road, say... I was offered a modeling contract? What if I did well and made a name for myself? How would it feel to you if you... attended a fashion show, or some other public event as my escort? You know, I mean, as my husband and my escort?
"You're having a hard time letting me deal with this situation," she continued, on a roll. "I don't think I could handle all the jealousy stuff. You'd have to be more... mature. You'd have to trust me."
I thought about what she said. There was a certain truth and logic to her points. I wouldn't like it much if she was constantly surrounded by the sleazeballs I suspected were a part of that industry. It was probably pay-for-play, and her pussy would be on the menu. It seemed like a ticking time bomb to me, just then. The big word - eventually - came to mind - as in, eventually, who wouldn't succumb to that combination of carrot and stick to make it in a high-profile career?
"I don't know," I replied, lost in my thoughts. "I'll have to think more about all that. Are you thinking of getting into modeling or something?"
Angela hesitated. Her rapid eye movement told me she was cautiously considering her next words. "I'm not sure." She paused, and then said, "Pierre knows all the fashion and design people in Paris. He said he could connect me. Get someone here to do headshots and send them to the important model scouts."
"Fuck, Angela," I said, shaking my head. "Haven't you learned anything from this? That fucker wants to get you in his bed. He doesn't care about helping you build a career in modeling - not unless he's getting a cut of the action. I'm not the only one here that needs to do some thinking or make decisions. You need to figure out what exactly you're doing, or what you want for your future. I thought we were going to college to become normal people? Please give me the engagement ring for now. That's on hold, until you... we decide. I won't be a part of anything you do with Pierre. If I were you, I wouldn't count on his help. He's gonna be a little busy soon."
Angela was sad. I think she realized how much she was pushing me away with her own selfishness. My final comment seemed to have resonated with her too. "Please, Dave," she pleaded, "don't become a gangster."
I said nothing, but held my open hand out to her. She slowly slid the ring off and handed it to me, but then gripped my closed hand with both of hers.
"I love you," she told me sincerely. "That much I know. I'll think about what you asked. Maybe you're right about him, but if that's true, then what I think I've wanted for myself and my future may not be. I just know I don't want to lose you. Please, promise me we'll keep talking and not just quit out of anger or frustration, okay?"
I told her we'd keep talking regularly. I also made it clear that if she continued to be with Pierre, we were done. That was as far as we got that day on agreement. I wanted her to let me deal with him, and I wanted transparency. She wouldn't budge on that. Driving back to the club, I felt like we were already done - that it would take a miracle to get back what I'd felt we'd lost.
The next morning, I was up early. Carlos was in the kitchen, laying out sheet pans to start prepping baked potatoes when I found him. I gave a little nod for him to come with me; he followed me down the hall and into the men's locker room. I told him what I needed done, and he assured me he could pull it off.
An hour later, Carlos pulled up in valet on a golf cart right in front of Pierre's car. He got off and came into the building, returning minutes later with a bunch of supplies for the Oasis snack bar out on the course. After loading everything, he looked over his right shoulder, put the cart into gear, and hit the gas. The cart lunged forward, presumably by accident, smashing into Pierre's vehicle and taking out a headlight. The cart also left a couple large scratches.
I'd already been thinking about the next thing I could do to hurt Pierre, but as it turned out, I needn't have. Something just fell into my lap.
Ford called me to his office the very next morning. "David," he began after motioning to a chair in front of his desk. "Joe has taken an extended leave of absence. He needs a break. You'll continue on as assistant club manager, but I've hired an interim GM."
I simply raised an eyebrow.
"It's Tim Peters," he told me.
Tim Peters was a very-part-time banquet maître'd, and a sloth. He probably only took work when his wife couldn't stand having him around the house. He had a gut the size of three bowling balls, while the rest of him was normal size. That meant his suit jackets didn't fit because he had to buy something that would button. Tim also smoked like a chimney. I'd almost fired him once when I'd caught him chatting up a female guest while leaving a bridal party at the mercy of a photographer, and while I'd had one-hundred seventy-five meals getting cold. There'd been no invocation that night, and no "may I have your attention everyone, please help me welcome the new Mr. and Mrs..." whatever their name had been.
"I'm going to end up firing him, Ford," I said resolutely.
"No, you are not!" Ford's face turned red. "You're going to work with him... alongside him. You're going to do it, because I asked, and because we need him. You're already burning out. And while I'm at it, you and my nephew are going to start getting along. No more of this childishness. With regard to Tim, you're my number one, but he's the boss. Understand?"
I gave a defeated sigh, but looked him in the eye and told him I would. On the inside, though, I was about to explode with excitement.
Peters was a Pierre crony, constantly hanging around him in the Grille Room or card room. Rumor had it that Tim owed Pierre a good sum of money, and his obsequious presence was his way of assuring Pierre that he wasn't running away from that obligation.
I went directly down to the men's locker room and was fortunate to find Jimmy heading off toward the pro shop. I asked him to confirm my suspicions about Peters, and he asked why. I told Jimmy what had just transpired.
"Oh shit!" he said with a chuckle. "That's probably Pierre trying to make sure he keeps Peters close by and making payments. Keep an eye on that fucker, busboy. He's like a chicken in a birdbath."
Fucking Jimmy, I thought, and his fucked-up analogies.
An hour later, Tim walked into the kitchen office. It had become yet another of my offices since Joe had left.
"Hey David." He smiled somewhat bashfully as he extended his hand. "I look forward to working together." He must have been looking for something in my demeanor, because he quickly added, "I know we haven't seen eye-to-eye sometimes. I'm gonna need you... your expertise if we're going to make a smooth transition."
Smooth transition, my ass. I knew Tim would stab me in the back the minute he could. I told him I'd help in any way I could, hoping I'd sold it.
I took some time that day to really study him; I hadn't bothered before, because he'd been a nobody. He sported a department-store suit; slicked-back, Grecian-formula salt-and-pepper hair; and a creepy mustache. He was on cloud nine, walking around talking to staff and, later, members in the Grille Room. His chest was puffed out like a peacock. I promised myself then that his first day would be his best day.
The next day, Tim came into my office and helped himself to a seat. Then he gave me a gift, although he was completely unaware that he did. He was making it far too easy.
"Most of our banquet complaints I'm reading through have to do with poor service, not food," he said, leaving it dangling. "Why do you think that is?"
"You know why, same as me," I said confidently. "I even heard you mention it to Joe a while back. He was just too stubborn to take anyone's advice or even listen. We don't have enough staff, especially for the sit-down functions."
Tim gave me a thoughtful look, gauging my sincerity. "Well, you're the one in charge of scheduling, so fix it." He gave a wan smile. "You have my blessing. Just show me what you're proposing before you post it."
I made a big deal of telling him that he'd absolutely have to approve it because I didn't think Ford would like it. I wanted him to think I didn't trust him, and he took the bait.
The next afternoon, I brought him the schedules for the weekend's full house at a point where he seemed quite busy. As I'd suspected he would, he skimmed them and handed them back to me.
"So I can post them?" I asked with enthusiasm.
"Go through them one more time and tighten them up," he ordered. "Use your head."
I'd given Tim far too much credit. He didn't have a clue.
All eight ballrooms were in full swing Saturday night - not unusual for that time of year. The previous night had seen us handling six good-sized parties, and we'd had two small baby showers that afternoon. Those folks were on the clock so we could reset the rooms for Saturday night. The Penthouse wedding of some local mayor's kid, which had us feeding five-hundred-fifty guests, helped me round out my scheduling 'mishap.' Ford was going to have a coronary when he saw payroll.
Two servers and one busser for every twenty-four guests, or three eight-tops, had been the standard since the day I'd started at the club.. For every function that weekend, I upped it from two-and-one to three-and-two. In fact, I scheduled every full and every part-time employee we had, and then, had to call the local foodservice union for another ninety-eight - a record.
I didn't see Pierre the rest of the week, although I knew he was looming about. Angela was near frantic to talk to me and smooth things over. I told her how completely swamped I was with Peters being untrained and inept, and that she should know that. I told her I still had a lot of thinking to do. She wasn't happy. I knew quite well that I could be driving her straight into Pierre's arms.
Both Tim and I were off Monday. I was still at the club in the morning, but I was also going to a job interview. Tuesday, both Tim and I were summoned to Ford's office. Peters was already there when I arrived, and I barely got the door closed before Fordie started in.
"This was you!" he snorted with venom. "What was your hand in this?"
That was very harsh and out of character coming from Ford. I guessed Peters had made his case before I'd walked in.
I tried to look surprised, looking at Tim, and back to Fordie a few times. "Yes, sir," I then replied. "I did what you asked, sir."
"What?" Ford said, stunned. He wasn't expecting the answer. "And stop calling me 'sir!'"
"You asked me to help him... Tim," I said, acting off-kilter. "He asked me to adjust the schedules and then have him okay them before posting."
Tim turned white, but recovered quickly, launching out of his chair, red with rage. "Why you!" he growled, coming at me. Ford moved quickly to intercept as I recoiled.
"Sit down!" Ford ordered.
"This fucking punk kid," Peters screamed, his face all twisted up, "is trying to lay this on me. He fucking did this... on purpose."
Ford looked at me, and saw me staring at Peters a look of fear and betrayal on my face.
"Did you ask him to increase staff?" Ford asked him.
"No..." he stuttered, "I mean yeah... yes. But not like that!" Slow as he was, he knew what was coming next.
"Did Dave bring you the schedules to approve as you asked?" Tim hung his head. I was excused, and thirty minutes later Tim came down to the kitchen, finding me once more in his seat.
"You fucked me," he spat. "Don't think I'll let this slide."
I ignored his threat. "Fired?" I asked. His face turned beet red. I had my answer. "Then take your shit and get out of my office and off my property, you fat fuck."
The wild swing wasn't even worth ducking. My left knee immediately slammed into his jumbo-sized belly, and he doubled over.
I grabbed his ancient, ratty briefcase and walked past him. I was going to throw his sea chest out the door, hoping that whatever was inside flew all over the parking lot, but instead I just set it down.
Tim came hobbling down the corridor - full waddle - a minute or so later. "This isn't over." He was still making threats.
"Yes, it is," I said confidently. "Have you forgotten who all my friends are out on that golf course? I know all the guys you'd try to send after me, and they like me better." I motioned to the door with my eyes.
And that's how I finally became the short-lived general manager of a humongous banquet facility and club of gangsters.
At five that afternoon, Pierre walked right up to me in the food storage locker. I looked up at him over my order sheet, but didn't acknowledge him.
"Bon mouvement!" he said seriously, waiting.
"Sir, I'm not sure you're aware," I responded politely, "but I don't speak that shit language. English, por favor."
Pierre was unshaken. I don't know what I'd been expecting. He grabbed my wrist and stuffed a hundred-dollar bill into my palm.
"Good play," he snickered, "for a busboy. Go and get yourself whatever it is the poor enjoy."
I finally looked up at him, smiling evilly, and then took the bill, holding it up high and tearing it in half - twice. Then I reached down and tucked the pieces into the bottom of my shoe, before turning and leaving. I felt quite proud.
The next day, I'd had about enough of Angela's snotty tone over the intercom. I stormed into the office, and in front of everyone said, "Alright, enough of your attitude. The fact that you've had a relationship with the general manager of this club doesn't give you license to protrude your displeasure over our intercom system. Do it again and you're fired."
Angela looked at me sadly, but without any fear or concern. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, using her professional voice, "but I work for Mr. Ford, not for you." I could tell she felt good about herself.
"However," she continued, "At your earliest convenience, I would like to discuss the terms of said relationship." A few of the other girls were giggling.
"Four o'clock," I stammered. "My office."
"I want to talk seriously about our future, Dave," she began as soon as she hit my door.
"Oh," I opined. "I wasn't aware we had a future."
Angela sighed. "Please David," she said softly. "I don't want to fight. I understand you're hurt, being valiant, gallant - both his words and my mom's, by the way. I know you well enough to see it's pride. I've told you nothing happened. I've explained I don't want him. I want you."
She saw me chomping at the bit and waved me off.
"Yes, I want you," she courageously continued. "We have to get out of here. This place is... going to be the death of us if we stay. You're behaving like you hate me, and honestly, some of my love for you is taking a big hit, the way you're acting. I want us to talk about getting new jobs so we can stay in school and pay our bills. I'll even agree to us getting a one-bedroom apartment and split the rent. My mom will hate me, but we need to do something."
The steam inside of me was beginning to rise. Her love for me is taking a big hit? How could she possibly expect me not to lash out after what she did? It dawned on me then that there was a chance that Angela really could be that naïve - that she believed dealing with Pierre in her own way was somehow her obligation, and outside of us. If that were truly the case, then Angela and I had even bigger problems that probably could never be solved. In my gut, though, I still felt like Angela was taking that stance so she wouldn't have to come clean about her and Pierre. I couldn't accept that it was just ignorance and stubbornness.
"Sure," I said flatly, "but you're assuming a lot. The engagement is on hold, and I still have plenty to think about."
"You're just saying that," she retorted. "Maybe you're stalling, maybe you're unsure what to do, and yes, obviously still a little mad at me - probably all of the above. But I know you love me. I know it, and I love you. I told you I have to deal with him in my own way, you have to accept that, and you need to stop letting him goad you. You're better than that."
"Angela," I said with a heavy heart, "you're not understanding this. It's not high school. He's playing a man's game, and you're not a man. He's a selfish little boy inside a rich man's body. He's locked himself in some warped competition with me, and others at the club.
"I won't back down, and honestly, I don't want to. You're simply an object at this point - a playing piece on the board. As ashamed as I am to say so, because of how you've let this progress, and what you've done to this point, I'm treating you in much the same way he is. But I have to see this through. It's the only choice."
"No," she said quietly, and sadder than I'd ever heard her. "It isn't. You can simply walk away. Quit. You could just walk into Ford's office and hand in your keys. I'll be shortly behind you. This isn't life, David. A good education and the high-paying jobs that follow - that's longevity for a family and a good life. Not playing these games. Put the pieces and the board back in the game box, and put it away, high on the shelf."
I wasn't keen on her summarization: playing games. She'd also sworn she 'hadn't done anything' that night I'd caught them. I guessed 'anything' didn't include embracing and kissing. I didn't want to admit that I really couldn't or wouldn't believe her. Even from the beginning of Pierre's seduction, she'd flirted back.
I told her that I was having a hard time getting over what I'd seen her doing with him. I told her I wasn't ready to 'get over it.' I made sure she heard me loud and clear: I needed more time, and if we got back together at all, I'd need some promises from her in writing. She left, angry and frustrated.
The thing with Angela was becoming clear. Sure, she said the words - "I love you" - but as time went on, I was betting she was questioning herself about that. She'd gone with Pierre, plain and simple. I didn't trust her, at all, and either she couldn't understand why, or she was playing a game of her own. Then there was the attitude. She was telling me how things were going to be with Pierre - her dealing with him, instead of me. She was telling me where to work, and what to do.
The following week I began to wonder what, exactly, I was doing. I hadn't heard anything back from the company I'd interviewed with. I was barely getting by in my classes because I was down and constantly distracted. I became short with my staff at work, and every time I sensed the attitude in Angela's voice when she paged me, it got worse. A couple times I was even short, if not disrespectful, with a few members. The only bright spot of the week was my conversation with Sammy V.
Sammy Versaci was a chef and restaurant owner, and had previously been a strong arm for one of the major families, the Pelettos. More accurately, he had been a restaurant owner until both of his restaurants had burned to the ground under suspicious circumstances. The trouble with Sammy was that he treated his employees like he'd treat a nervous business owner on a shakedown. People couldn't put up with his mouth, and he surely wasn't able to break their knees with a club when they told him to go fuck off.
The members, including Jimmy, had felt sorry for him, and had talked Ford and me into letting him cook nights for the members if any of the guys wanted some authentic food. We made that deal with the concession that if we were too slow, I could send him home early. Neither Fordie nor I were willing to have him hanging around waiting for a group of poker players to get a hankering for a midnight snack.
As he was leaving Tuesday around ten, I asked if I could get some advice, and took him to my usual darkened table. I told him about my problem with Pierre and wondered if he could help me. I let him know he wouldn't be doing so for free.
Sammy, like a lot of other members, hated the guy. He agreed, but said I had to be there, and that I'd be the one disposing of the evidence.
>
Two days later, on an unusually slow Friday night, there were two tables of card players. Since Jimmy was one of them, it meant I had to play nursemaid and get them drinks when they needed them. Normally, it wouldn't be a big deal, since I was just sitting in the next room. That night, though, I was deep in thought about all of my troubles.
One of Lafata's guys was down a cool fifteen grand, so it was going to be a long night. I finally gave last call about twenty after two. Ten minutes later, I was summoned again, and the guy who was down the money asked for two doubles. That was also a pretty regular occurrence, since none of them gave a shit about the law, but I wasn't in the mood.
"What, you think that's gonna help you get back in the game?" I asked snidely. "Why don't you give it up and go home to your wife and kids?"
That got the drunken pasta sucker out of his chair in a hurry, with two other guys at the table wrapping him up. I was finished with all of their bullshit. Looking at the guys holding him back and then scanning the room in general, I pushed harder. "Yeah," I spat sarcastically, "maybe you can teach this ass hat some respect. Maybe a few people around here forgot who's fucking running this place."
Jimmy turned fully towards me then, slowly moving his sports coat to the side so I could see his pistol. "We need drinks." It wasn't a command. It wasn't anything except a simple statement. "All the way around."
That was what made Jimmy, well, Jimmy. When he spoke, everyone jumped. That included me. I just shook my head and walked out to the bar.
When I returned, there was an extra chair at the table next to Jimmy. I immediately knew I'd overstepped and was in trouble.
"Sit," he commanded. "Let's have a nice talk."
He didn't even wait for me to get seated before he continued. "What's with you, busboy?" he paused. "Girl trouble?" There was a shorter pause. "Angela from the office."
Jimmy saw my expression go from contrite to sheer rage.
"Holy shit!" he began, chuckling. "You think you're in love! With what? Her golden pussy?"
Everyone at both tables, except me, was laughing. He turned slightly to the giant standing behind him on the right and nodded. Pulling an envelope from his lapel, the goon reached in and tossed a Polaroid instant photo on the table. Jimmy picked it up before I could get a good look.
"You're engaged to this broad?" His question dripped with sarcasm.
"Jimmy - please sir - enough of the disrespect," I replied with a very dry throat while trying to maintain my own dignity.
"Disrespect?" he asked with malice. "Do you think she respects you?" He tossed the photo at me while leaning in. I picked it up, already aware of the backdrop. Someone had taken it from the front lobby, opposite the office. The photographer seemed to be near or just inside the chapel, in the shadows, since the foreground was dark. Through the large and illuminated office window, there was Pierre perched on Angela's desk again, facing her in her chair. I could only see his back.
"Is that how she looks at you?" he asked nonchalantly, but his words bit deep. "While she's thinking about how much she loves and respects you?"
Jimmy had a point. I did know that look of hers well. I just hadn't seen her wear it for me in quite a while. Another pic landed on the table, face up. Angela was leaning against her Camaro, and Pierre was right in front of her. The parking lot was the one on the front side of the club, and nearly empty. It looked like closing time, except Angela would have had to have driven her car up there - or Pierre.
Employees had designated parking in the back lot. It occurred to me that maybe Angela was dropping Pierre off back at his home, like she'd occasionally done for me. I didn't want to be thinking that, but I was. In the picture, Pierre was so close to her that it was impossible to tell if they were touching or not. It looked like their bodies were, and her face was mere inches from him regardless.
I looked up and away from the picture. Jimmy was studying me intently. "You think she loves you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Because I see something different."
"She said she needs to deal with him in her own way." I parroted Angela's own feeble argument. I never really understood how pathetic it sounded until it came from my own mouth. It was utterly ridiculous.
"David," Jimmy said, very fatherly-like. It was the first time he'd ever used my real name. "Maybe she loves you, but that kind of love you don't need. See how she looks at him? She's a runner-up in a fucking beauty pageant. She's entitled to the very best things in life. Look at Khalil. He's the very best thing she's entitled to."
I made to speak, but Jimmy talked right over me.
"I've had someone following her," he continued. "The good news is that it doesn't seem like they've done the dirty yet." He paused for effect. "The bad news is: not yet. But in my experience, it's just a matter of time. When a good-looking millionaire sets his sights on a woman like that... well, fogeddaboudit.
"And if you somehow win, or you both leave, then what? Say two - maybe three years - she accepts a modeling gig. You're married; you're at home sucking your thumb, trying to be supportive. But you've left her alone with the vultures. How do you expect that'll work out? She's not very worldly, busboy. She's overwhelmed and ends up fucking one or more of them after some photo shoot. She comes home feeling guilty, but you don't suspect. So then the guilt fades. That opens Pandora's Box, and it will happen again and again."
I was lost in thought when Jimmy spoke again. "Have I ever steered you wrong, kid?" he asked.
He was much closer to me, and felt very imposing. I shook my head. His expression changed then, and I saw two things on his face at that moment. One was pity, and the other was admiration. It was impossible for me to connect those two emotions at that tender age. There was something else there too. It was envy. I later figured out that while I envied Jimmy for his power and bravado, he, to a much lesser extent, envied my youth.
"Okay," he said. "I need you to do a job for me. Nothing illegal, just drive your car. Next Saturday night - Sunday morning actually."
I nodded again.
"When it's done, you're leaving the club." He paused, waiting for some reaction. I didn't understand at that moment and therefore remained silent.
"I've already spoken to Ford," he said. "He understands and agrees. I have red in my ledger when it comes to you, busboy, and, as anyone in this room will tell you, that's bad for business."
There was more chuckling, I think. I felt sick.
"I know what you're planning with Sammy," he said, which shocked the shit out of me. "That's getting out of your league. I'm gonna take care of that for you and clear my slate. You're gonna drive for me one last time. The club's being sold in thirty days - a cousin of mine from Vegas. I handle your issue, you help me with mine. You're gonna leave. You're gonna dump the broad and go live a happy life. Capice?"
I simply nodded, shell-shocked, as he scooped up the pictures and motioned for me to leave.
As I got to the door, I heard, "And busboy... you're welcome."
Armed with the new information, I decided not to talk to Angela about our issues. I played it close to the vest for the following seven days, acting 'stuck,' for lack of a better term. For her part, Angela seemed to have passed through her feelings of frustration and moved on to indifference. I figured it was for the best.
On that Saturday night, I was settling up the bill with another father of the bride when I saw Carlos just outside my office. He gave a head nod as if he needed me for something important. I shook the guest's hand and thanked him for his business, then walked out.
"We have to go," Carlos said solemnly.
"Meet me at my car," I told him, then went to retrieve my keys.
The neighborhood was about eight miles from the club, and not very well-lit. There was something familiar about it to me, but I was more concerned and nervous about what was coming. It was my first time doing anything quite so hush-hush, and, I assumed, extreme. Technically, we were all still on the clock. The Cubans had remained punched in, and the plan was for me to be back in plenty of time to collect the rest of the night's receipts before turning up the house lights, signaling the end of the fun.
The brothers were eerily quiet. Marco sat up front and watched the house addresses. "There," he said, pointing at the small house on the block. It was then I realized we were in an unzoned area, because there were mobile homes interspersed with brick-and-mortar ones. I cut the headlights and the engine, drifting up to the curb in front of the house just past the one he'd identified.
The brothers exited and walked up to the door, ringing the bell. The porch light came on and a rough-looking blond guy answered. The Cubans quickly imposed themselves into the threshold. Seconds later, the door closed, with all three inside. Nine minutes later, and after two bright flashes of light inside the home, Carlos and Marco came out, closing the door behind them, not a care in the world, and acting like it was their place. Ten minutes after that, we were back at the club, having said not a word between us.
"Pull into the overflow parking," Carlos ordered. "Stay in the car."
The brothers reached into a bag and pulled out new pairs of pants, shirts, and shoes. They changed in the car, placing all the previously-worn items back into the bag. Then we drove back to the other side of the building.
"You gonna burn those?" I asked, not knowing why. "Or bury them?"
Marcos raised one eyebrow, nonverbally saying, "You're kidding, right?" I shut up.
I slept in a bit the next morning. It was cathartic, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders, despite what had occurred the previous night. Living at the club provided a very good alibi. It was going be a very busy day. It would also be my last.
After showering, I went through my small apartment to ensure I hadn't left any personal belongings. I took everything to my car, and made a mental note to take my car to Salvadore's for detailing in the next day or two. It was the place the Italians used. I was pretty sure whatever the Cubans had done the previous night had been a felony.
At breakfast, Jimmy came up to my table and sat down. The server automatically brought him coffee, but he waved her off.
"Tonight," he spoke definitively, "it's arranged. If you want to watch the... meal preparation, that's up to you. If so, you leave before the server takes the food out of the hot window, understand?"
I only nodded. As Jimmy stood, he paused and said, "You've done well here. Me and the guys are proud of you. Remember what I told you about prize fights and presidential elections."
Then Jimmy Leone walked away from me. I never saw him again. Ten minutes later, I was in Ford's office.
"Well, your timing is impeccable, David," he said with a tone of finality in his voice. "You may have heard rumors about the club selling?"
"Yes," I replied, "but that's only part of this..." Ford brought a finger to his lips and directed me to the tape recorder on his desk. When I looked back at his face he winked.
"I understand completely," he answered sincerely. "You've been one of my best employees... ever. I will miss you, as will Mrs. Ford. David, I have to let you go." Another wink. I finally understood.
He handed me an envelope and gave me a smiling look, as though I should open it. Inside, there was a two-page handwritten reference, and some sort of certificate: twenty percent off sticker price on a new Ford at his dealership. Ever the businessman, Fordie was. I looked up to say thank you, and Ford wore a warm smile.
"This is your severance," he said proudly. "Let's call it back overtime." The check he handed me was in the amount of ten thousand dollars - a lot of money in 1980. I almost dropped it.
"My hope is that you use that money for college," he added. "Or to buy a business. Just don't squander it, okay?"
"I won't, Mr. Ford," I promised.
"It's Fordie to you," he smiled brightly. "And if you need anything, anything at all, call me at the dealership."
As I was walking out of his office, he said as an afterthought, "I know you'll be clearing out the rest of the day. Leave your forwarding address with the office staff in case you miss something. I was going to wait two hours before I announced it to them." He knew what he was doing and so did I.
At two o'clock, I was coming back inside after putting the last of my stuff in the car. Angela was waiting at my office door, much like the very first time I'd seen her there - hopeful and apprehensive.
"Hello, David," she said taking a deep breath. "I just heard." She seemed overly eager to say what she came to, so I just motioned for a chair and sat in mine.
"I'm so proud of you," she started, but with little emotion. She was being cautious and treading softly. "I guess I'm a little hurt that you didn't tell me, but with the current state of our relationship... I can understand."
That slight sob she'd held back was telling. She was afraid. On top of whatever else she was feeling right then, she also felt fear.
"I want you to know," she said, then paused just a bit, "that I'm ready to move forward - get back on track, I suppose." Her armor was coming off in clumps.
"I'll turn in my notice tomorrow," she said hopefully. "Then we can start working on our future." It was hard to discern if that last part was a question or a statement.
I also wasn't sure she believed it herself. I waited several seconds to see if she had more to say. In the silence, I carefully planned the words for what would be my first real 'breaking up speech.' Then, in the blink of an eye, I chickened out and posed a question instead.
"Angela," I began, looking her in the eye, "what is it exactly that you want to work on? I mean we both know what happened... what's still happening even now. I'm not really clear what specifically you want to do, so tell me."
"Us!" she said quickly, like she'd anticipated the question. "I want to work on us, David. I love you and I know for a fact that you l..."
"Yes," I interrupted. "We've established all that." I had something to sink my teeth into.
"And by us," I continued, "I assume you mean the 'us' without Pierre involved. Is that right, or does 'us' mean the three of us?"
"Of course," she answered quickly, "I mean, of course not with him. You know that."
"Angela, why do you think I called off the engagement?" I asked. She seemed flustered, not understanding where I was going.
"Because you were mad," she said, in a tone like 'you know exactly why.' "And you had every right to be. Even though I didn't do anything with Pierre that night, I know it hurt you deeply. I saw it in your eyes."
Unknowingly, she'd given me a box of ammo, and I couldn't come up with one good reason to prolong the charade.
"Yeah, 'that night.'" It was barely a whisper. "What about all of the other nights, Angela? Did you enjoy your time at the disco?" It had taken me a bit, but I'd put some pieces together. In that photo of her and Pierre by her car, she'd been wearing one the dresses she always wore out clubbing.
Angela quickly forged ahead, only slightly deterred, and hiding her surprise pretty well. "I had to go. He told me if I was a good girl, then he'd leave you alone."
"Maybe," I said, shrugging, "but the way you look at him when you're together tells me a different story. It doesn't matter what I know or how. I've learned some disturbing things these past few days. Even if what you said was true, it's clear to me that you're infatuated with him - and that's me being kind with my words. You've only ever looked at me like that a few times."
I gave her some time for rebuttal, but she just stared sadly into my eyes. She was beginning to realize the same thing I was - exactly what I was about tell her.
"I'm asking myself lately," I went on, "what happens when the next Pierre comes along? I'm asking myself a lot of questions that I'm sure I know the answers to already, but just don't say aloud.
"Angela, this isn't about Pierre - not really. There are plenty of assholes like him in this world. The trouble is that I'm not your prince. Your project, maybe, but not your prince. You deserve a prince, but I'm not him. I want to find a woman who, when she looks at me - as I am - sees a prince - her prince."
I could see the conflict just behind her eyes. She wanted, with all her might, to dispute what I'd said. She was also wrestling with herself - what she truly wanted versus what she felt she'd already committed to. I'd given her a very special 'get out of jail free' card. All she had to do was use it.
"Don't, Angela," I said. "Don't do it. If you give it some thought, instead of trying to desperately hang on, you'll realize it too. I think you already know. This is it for me."
Tears instantly ran down her face. She did know. I swore I saw at least some relief in her expression too. We sat there in awkward silence for a bit. Time seemed to stand still. Finally, Angela got up.
"Can I at least have a hug?" she pleaded.
"Of course," I said with sympathy. "For what it's worth, I'll love you for a very long time, I think. We're just not on the same path, so this is for the best."
I held her for a long time in a deja vu moment. She swayed back and forth, clinging like she had the night her father had passed away. Finally, she released me and stepped back. I knew she just couldn't stand failure. Failing at our relationship was going to be hard on her, but I knew that eventually she'd move on. Whether she'd be alright, well, that was a question of Parises and Pierres. I didn't know. I hoped she would be, but only because I pictured her as something like the mark at a poker table.
"Goodbye, David," she said bravely. "I... goodbye." Angela turned and left.
I went into the liquor room and closed the heavy door behind me, just like every day since I'd started doing that job. That time, though, it was different. There was no 7-Up. I grabbed a partial bottle of gin and took a long swig, saluting the end of a two-year relationship. Then I thought about being alone, unemployed, and living back at my mother's house with my little brothers. I put the gin down and grabbed a half-full bottle of Crown Royal, just pouring it into my mouth and swallowing as fast as I could. I slid my back down the wall I was leaning on and wept.
Twenty minutes later, I had the urge to vomit. It turned out that puking was good for me that day. If not for emptying the contents of my stomach, I would have likely passed out somewhere and missed the finale.
I took my boxes home and hung my collection of three-piece suits and shirts in my basement bedroom. I couldn't say it was good to be home, but I told myself I'd make the best of it.
At six-thirty I stood outside the service delivery entrance just a few steps away from my former office. No Sunday banquets meant that that part of the building was dark. Carlos was coming down the long hallway to let me in. He had a big smile on his face. Not much got past those Cubans. Even suspecting what they'd done, I knew I'd miss them. We literally almost ran into Arthur as we were making our way to the Grille Room kitchen.
"Mr. David!" he said, a little shocked. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I heard you... left. Glad I gots to see you and say good-bye."
"Damn it, Arthur!" I used an elevated tone, "stop calling me 'mister'!" Then I smiled at him and extended my hand. Arthur surprised me when he stepped forward for a hug. We embraced warmly. I'd been a friend to that wise old man since I was fourteen.
"I love you, old man," I whispered, losing my voice a bit. "Thanks for everything, and I mean that."
He stood up tall on his toes and said quietly in my ear, "It broke my heart to... to have to take those pictures. I hopes they end up doing some good."
"You did the right thing," I assured him as we stepped back. "I'm only here for a last bit of business, then I'm off."
He smiled and headed in the other direction. He had a heart of gold, and whatever life threw at me over the subsequent decades, I'd always tried to emulate his kindness.
Pierre Khalil was at the table with his two dinner guests. One was the strong arm who'd repeatedly threatened Sammy V, and possibly done arson on one of his restaurants. The other was the newly-elected union president. He'd recently won the rank-and-file vote, promising to end corruption and pick up where his mysteriously-missing predecessor had left off. Those would have been the right things to say, even if the mob had purposefully inserted him. I was guessing, however, that he wasn't completely on board yet. Getting rid of him would have been very bad for organized crime in greater Detroit at that point; the meeting we were interrupting felt like a little warning.
It was no coincidence who was sitting at that table together. All three of them were about to get a hefty case of food poisoning.
Of the three, Pierre had the least body mass, and would be the most critically ill. He'd be in the hospital for a long time. It was highly unlikely he'd be able to keep angling to buy the club while fighting for his life.
Once again, Jimmy amazed me without surprising me. He was killing two birds - though not literally - with one stone, and letting Sammy get a little back for himself.
I stood next to Sammy, watching. The lightly-breaded veal - Siciliano-style - was searing in the sauté pan. Sammy unscrewed the top on the bottle labeled 'Castor Oil' and poured a liberal amount over the meat, letting it soak into the uncooked side. He then poured the remainder down the sink, with the water running. Pulling a vial from his chef coat, he popped the cap and added some of the green, finely-chopped substance to a two-ounce portion cup of Italian seasonings. He put the remainder into another pan and placed it under the radiant broiler until it turned to ash.
"You know what to do with these," he asked - or told me, depending on how you took him - as he handed me the vial and the bottle. He'd made sure I'd put on a pair of vinyl gloves first.
"Don't get it on your hands," he ordered. "That green shit is water hemlock. Don't get it in your fucking mouth either, capice?" I nodded, placed both items in a zip-lock freezer bag, and left, patting Sammy on the shoulder. It was all the goodbye necessary.
>
All three diners ended up in the emergency room that night. I burned the evidence in the basement fireplace at my mom's house. Pierre almost died. Ford was pissed. I felt bad for him, because he was a quality guy - nothing like his nephew. I heard from busboys who occasionally came into my new place of work that no one saw Pierre for almost a month, and when he did return, he weighed about one hundred forty pounds. I never asked about the other two, but I read about the union boss in the paper. He was back to work in about two weeks. Sammy disappeared - probably to Vegas with a new identity.
What happened after that night I left the club for the last time wasn't hard to follow. It was constantly in the news. Most people, including me, would have needed to be living under a rock to not hear.
The mobster from Las Vegas did buy the club, despite a federal bank robbery charge in the 1950s. Those kinds of convictions keep people from ever getting a liquor license in our state, but still, the application was approved. However, Jimmy's cousin never could get out from under the feds' constant pressure. Eventually, he disappeared, and in 1998, the club was bulldozed to the ground. Today, it's a shopping center anchored by a Walgreen's.
Most of the Midwest gangsters and their families - in fact, all Sicilian mafia - headed west as the Russian mob began taking over syndicated crime in major eastern U.S. cities in the early 1990s. Jimmy decided to stay and fight. One morning, his car exploded in his own driveway, when he started it. Although I knew karma had caught up with him, it still made me sad.
Joe found a woman who helped him get over his troubles. He ended up running one of the only hotels in Reno that wasn't lousy with mob connections.
Angela may have been in the paper too, but I must confess to checking up on her out of curiosity. She had been special to me, after all. I'd decided, rather than determined, that she hadn't been dastardly. She was naïve to a fault. At least that was the version I wanted to believe.
Angela married a professional tennis player and had two kids. I hoped she lived happily ever after. I didn't get much farther than that one tidbit, but I got the sense that she'd course-corrected. Then again, I didn't know much about the professional tennis circuit. I could imagine Jimmy leaning in close and telling me that all the matches were rigged by the sports book in Las Vegas.
Pierre, at the age of seventy-two, has been, and still is, in trouble with state and federal agencies for Ponzi-scheme activities, racketeering, and money laundering in America's southwest. Some people never learn, but I'll bet that he always completes a thorough inspection of his food before he eats it.
As for me, well, I'd just finished slicing a pound of salami for a customer three weeks after leaving the club that night. I'd gotten the job I had applied for as a clerk in the chain convenience store and deli: Dawson's. My baby-blue smock, complete with a name tag, was a far cry from my former uniform. The hours were flexible, so I could finally work on my degree.
I came around the counter to ring up the salami and other goods for the customer, and I noticed two others waiting in line. As was always the case, I didn't make eye contact with those people until it was their turn. After telling the man to have a nice day, I looked up at the next guy, but something caught my eye.
There, behind him, looking a little nervous, was Lisa.
When it was her turn, I smiled and greeted her warmly. "What are you doing all the way out here?" I asked.
"I came to see you." She said it with glee, but also a hint of apprehension.
"Oh?" was my sophisticated response.
"Yeah, I wanted to see how you were doing," she told me. "Honestly, I just wanted to talk to you. I heard from my cousins, that you left the club, and also... that woman, Angela."
Uh-oh, I thought. She knew about Angela, and I could tell she didn't like her. "Well, I can talk in between customers, if you don't mind the interruptions."
She nodded, and then seemed stuck on what to say. I felt her timidity.
"Where's your baby?" I asked, putting my foot squarely in my mouth.
Her face changed in an instant. "I lost the... my baby in the fifth month."
"Oh, no, Lisa," I replied with the most sympathy I could muster. "I'm so sorry about that. Are you okay, though?"
Her smile returned. "Yeah. I was sad for several months, but yes, plowing ahead."
"You still married?" I did it again.
"Yes, I mean no, I mean," she paused, some tears forming.
"Oh shit, Lisa." I tried to be conciliatory. "I'm asking too many questions - and not good ones, I'm afraid."
"No," she said quickly, "it's okay. My husband died three weeks ago Saturday. Well, he was killed - in some kind of drug deal gone bad. I was staying with my sister, trying to see if he could get it together and if we could continue with our marriage. But he couldn't."
Suddenly, the neighborhood where I'd driven the Cuban brothers came back to me.
Fuckin' Jimmy. There was a lot in those two silent words. A very evil man had been very good to me in a very evil way - and in a way that was, setting all morality aside, impressive as anything.
I think she could see the shocked look on my mug.
"I... don't... know what to say." I was overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions.
She saved me. "It's alright," she said not nearly as sadly as I'd expected. "Things weren't great at the end. They weren't at the beginning either."
"Did you love him?" I stupidly asked.
"No," she answered with a deep sigh. "But you know that already, I hope. I wouldn't be here if I had. I feel bad that he's dead - maybe more that I'm a widow at twenty. He was very angry, about... well, how his life turned out. The baby and I were like anchors around his neck, and all he ever did was lash out. He never wanted a baby or a marriage. He just never bothered to realize I didn't either. Me, the baby, and my family were like the enemy to him. I finally had to leave, and go to my sister's house."
I didn't say anything, so she continued. "I would have probably come to see you sooner, but I didn't want to cause problems in your... with that other woman. And to be honest, after Christmas Eve back last year, I at least knew you didn't hate me, so..."
The Lisa standing before me was a far different version of the girl I'd fallen in love with pre-picnic table. She'd had to grow up quickly and painfully. She was winning my heart all over again.
"I'm sorry things have been so hard on you, Lisa," I said. I knew in that instant that I'd never tell her about my last ride for Jimmy. There'd be no point or anything good to come from it.
I decided I was failing miserably with all my questions, so I tried to change the subject.
"Yeah," I said, chuckling, "I've got a birthday coming up. I guess I'm going to make it to twenty after all - knock on wood." And I did for effect. "You've got one coming up too - just a few days before Valentine's Day, if memory serves me."
"I do," she said with a sweet stare. "That's actually why I came in. I was wondering if we might do something... together."
And we did - again, and again, and again.
And that's how I became a wise old geezer - a father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, with a wonderful wife named Lisa, going on forty-five years.
Had events in both of our lives not unfolded exactly as they had, I doubt that Lisa and I would have ever gotten back together. Her side was clear-cut. She'd made a dreadful mistake, and then she'd paid dearly for it. Lisa had shown remorse for that mistake from the beginning, and then she'd returned to her first love with a keener awareness - thanks to a little help from a guardian devil named Jimmy Leone. For me, Angela had been my second love, but she'd also been a replacement for love lost. The problem was that I'd already replaced Lisa with my job. Angela had seen me as the guy who'd come to her rescue the night her father died - her knight in shining armor. Not all knights are princes, though, and I hadn't been hers. We'd both known that long before we'd officially called it quits, but at least we'd finally faced up to reality.
Lisa found her prince, and she makes me feel special all the time. She recently gave me an interesting gift for my sixty-fifth birthday. A framed Ray Liotta quote as the character, Henry Hill:
"For as long as I can remember I always wanted to be a gangster. To me that was better than being president of the United States. To be a gangster was to own the world."
It was sweet and quite thoughtful, which was one of the things I loved most about her. Yet, my favorite lines came from Joe Pesci in the desert scene from Casino:
"Your fuckin' ass! You could have had the food and beverage job without going on television! You're makin' a big fuckin' spectacle of yourself!"
It was a decent movie, for sure, but those kinds of scenes played out almost daily at the club. Some days I even missed them.
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Posted on : Mar 27, 2025
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