An Excerpt from Possible 20

The Rusty Pelican was nice, out on Biscayne Bay with a view of the Miami skyline, kind of lush and tropical on the way in and all wood and masculine once in its heart sipping on a cold beer and watching the sun go down on a hot city. Ricky and Alfredo were already there and though they’d met Liam before I’m sure Noonan was a surprise, all hard and spooky in his wrinkled seersucker with the sweat soaking through at the arm pits. We sat next to them and while the dining room was almost full, the bar had only two other customers, a middle aged couple having martinis before dinner seated at the further end, well out of earshot. The bartender was an older guy who, one way or another knew the score. He served our drinks and politely drifted down to the other end to make conversation with the geriatrics.

Ricky seemed nervous, sweating a lot and a little flush, "Man," he said, "if Blanco knew I was here, what I was doing, I’d be fucking dead."

I nodded toward his briefcase on the floor next to us, "It’s all there?"

He shook his head up and down quickly and dismissively, "Of course, I don’t break fucking deals. It’s just, you know I wouldn’t be making a deal on the outside at all, but I got a lot of demand for this shit and the guy can’t get it no more. I mean, I still get the other shit off him."

Noonan tipped his whisky glass back and snorted derisively, "Guy sounds like an ass hole. You know, America’s the land of opportunity, opportunity’s free for all, but it’s fucked up to get in the way of the next guys opportunity, especially if you ain’t American yourself."

I could tell Ricky didn’t know how to respond and I could tell he was annoyed, but also too nervous around Noonan to show it. His ears got flushed and he smiled a kind of awkward agreement. He had a pile of money on the wood in front of him and he pointed at it, "Anyway, have a drink on us, we got to go, I got this stuff promised to customers tonight so I gotta work the sled like Santa." There were handshakes all around and Ricky and Alfredo grabbed their end of the deal and tipped out.

"Wow, that guy was really wound up." Said Liam, motioning to the bartender for another round, "Are you sure he’s stable enough to do business with?"

I plopped a twenty onto the pile on the wood and the bartender dropped the round and moved away. Noonan snickered and said, "Guy was nervous, that Blanco guy must be pretty scary."

"LoneTree told me he’s known for cutting guys up while they’re still alive," I replied.

A quick look passed over Noonan’s face and it wasn’t one of disgust, "Sooner that guy checks out the better. I’m gonna talk to Johnny Angel about it tomorrow, first things first though, you say LoneTree knows the guy?"

"Yeah."

Noonan knocked back his drink and stood up from his stool.

"Where are you off to?" Liam asked, staring morosely at his frozen Pina Colada.

"It’s where we are off to Brother, Bro."

"Okay where’s that?"

"Where gonna go have a chat with the Indian, I wanna find out as much about Blanco as I can sounds like he’s all that stands between us and the quiet enjoyment of our little market segment."

The Skim

They say that all bartenders end up dis-honest no matter how they start out and I would have to say I agree with the statement to a degree. It's not that they're bad people and I don't judge them. Much. But I do fire them, I have to it's business, if you don't rip it out root and branch every once in a while it festers and grows and can burn down your house. How do I know? I've been on the wrong side of the skim.
If you've looked at some of my earlier posts you'll see the one where I worked a place called Pasta Brokers; Well right after the Federal Marshals came in and put the padlocks and chains on those doors I got a job with my cousin doing construction labor on the renovation of an old Theater on West Forty-Seventh Street in Manhattan. A French restaurant playboy named XXXX. had teamed up with a billionaire German banker named XXXX to plow millions of dollars into this old Broadway Theater and turn it into a 1940's style Supper Club.
Problem with the Club though, it was really expensive to run, hell it was really expensive just to turn on the lights and to operate it the way it was designed to work; with a fifteen piece big band on stage, house performers, waiters with white dinner jackets, a four star chef in the kitchen and a quality jazz act in the Cabaret or VIP room well that was expensive beyond your imagination. The bottom line? You just couldn't break even on it even if you did fill it up with New York's glitterati every night. But then the guys who owned it, well they were a little out of touch with reality. XXXX. the boss had a side kick, a fabulous Frenchman named XXXX who was in charge of entertainment and had some very odd ideas about what was good for business. For example, a couple of months into the venture he decided it would be a great idea to get a celebrity. Nothing really wrong with that in and of itself, but the celebrity he picked out was X. XXXX, the long forgotten star of a 60's musical. Even then, no big deal, except he took the name of the Club off the marquee, laid off all the rest of the entertainment and gave Miss XXXX a three month contract to play the club exclusively five nights a week. When they couldn't more than half fill the house for opening night I knew we were in trouble. Then, inevitably, they began to lay people off. A few more weeks went by and somebody had to pay the price, it couldn't be XXXX, he was the bosses pet, so the management team took a fall and they brought in a new group of guys, a group of guys more realistic, more cynical and in the case of one of them, more corruptible. About a week into the new regime Miss XXXXX's contract was bought out and a new format was instituted, Dinner and Swing music from 5pm till 11pm with the big band and and the jazz singers then, at 11pm as the diners finished the furniture would be swept away the house lights would dim and the house music would begin to pump and we would become a night club, a pretty hot, swinging night club. Other nights we would do some pretty top notch, high level, expensive catering, the kind where they would bring in magnums of Dom Perignon and high end, vintage wine, by the case. Now remember I started this out by telling you that all bartenders were corruptible and so was one significant member of the new management team. Now at this place, from the beginning and all through the X. XXXX fiasco, myself, my cousin and two other guys had formed a pretty hard core, tight knit group and once we connected with the corruptible new manager, who happened to be the beverage manager, we formed a veritable skim machine. It went on for almost two years, aided by an organized group and abundant chaos and all through the parties, disco's, dinners and hip hop parties 10% went to the boys and we were all over town flashing cash and living large until one day it all came, for me any way, to a screeching halt. I went away on vacation and came back to discover I was fired. It happened in the office with the new GM and the beverage manager who was as guilty as I was in attendance. Of course I denied it and didn't rat on any one else but I was a bit puzzled when I left the room because the Beverage manager who was a conspirator didn't stick up for me and no one else in the crew took the ax. It was explained to me later that the new management team was close to uncovering the whole thing and some one had to be sacrificed for the greater good, somebody had to you see, and since I was on vacation that someone was me. Well, I learned my lesson that day; there is no honor among thieves and I made a personal decision then to never skim again, but I can still close my eyes and taste the fast cash of the skim twenty years later and remember the sweet taste of restaurant piracy.

An excerpt from Down & Out in Manhattan

I walked downtown along the riverside, past the handball courts and old freight yard tracks. There were people picking through the debris along the tracks, some exiting and entering the yawning mouth of the tunnel. I veered away from them, to where there were these old, dilapidated piers sticking out into the water like old gnarled fingers. I walked out on these, picking my careful, tipsy way over the holes and stepping gingerly where the rickety, fire scarred boards creaked underfoot.

I sat on the very top of that pier, oblivious to the cold and damp, my Botticelli shod feet dangling just above the surface of the river. It was almost dark by the time I finished my bottle. It was almost dark and I was so drunk I felt like I was floating at sea within my own body. Somehow I made it back across the pier without falling in. I left the park and walked for a long way and at some point I entered a subway. A train roared into the station and I was grateful to sit down. I must have passed out because I woke as the doors were closing on an unfamiliar station. I looked across at the old Puerto Rican man sitting across from me.

“Excuse me,” I said through a mouthful of marbles, “where is this train going?”

He laughed, his face appeared to be reeling, and there was a vile taste in my mouth.

“Brooklyn,” he said.

I was going in the wrong direction. When the train arrived in the next station, I stumbled to my feet and got off. The station was green, dirty and dimly lit. The platform was empty. The train pulled out and I realized my hands were empty, I’d lost my briefcase, and I didn’t care.

The sign at the end of the platform read; transfer to Uptown and Manhattan. I walked towards it, swaying as I went, there a staircase led into darkness and I was afraid to go, but I couldn’t stay and down I went. Gripping the hand rail, I descended, the tunnel at the bottom was just as dark, but at the far end was a light and I moved towards it. Something crashed against my skull, I fell and the whole world slipped away.

When I woke it was freezing cold and I could feel my bare skin against the cold, dirty stones. The back of my head was sticky and wet, but for my underpants and sox, I was naked. I was on the floor of the tunnel and somewhere water was running. I rose shakily to my feet, weak and dizzy and sat back down. I was scared, I was still drunk, and all I wanted was to go home. To get home I had to make it to the light at the end of the tunnel, but I couldn’t find my feet and I started to crawl. It was a long way along a cold, clammy, grimy floor, but when I reached the other side I was able to stand, just barely. I dragged myself up the stairs, my socks soaking wet, I reached the top and held on to the rail till a dizzy spell passed. The platform on the north bound side was empty save for an elderly black man sitting on a bench in a dirty coat. He had a shopping cart parked next to him filled with rags and he stared at me, shivering and naked before him.

A train plowed into the station, I couldn’t bring myself to get on, and it came and went without departures. The old man was still there. He came wordlessly to me and helped me to the bench.

“Why didn’t you get on the train,” I asked.

The man rummaged around in his cart and, by way of answer, handed me some old, dirty clothes. I put them on, and as he handed me two left shoes he said, “Got no place to go. Leastways, no place that train is gonna take me to.”

I nodded, understanding.

“I don’t have but one coat,” he said, “but you can have this,” he handed me a thin blanket. “You shouldn’t go down those tunnels. Not when they’re dark. You’re lucky those boys didn’t kill you.”

He didn’t have anything else to say and I sat quietly with him till the next train rocketed in. When it did, I thanked him and boarded.

There were a few people on the train, and they moved to the other end when I arrived. I heard one woman say to the man she was with; “That white bum stinks!”

I must have been pretty deep in Brooklyn, because the train seemed to roar on forever. After a while I passed out again. It must have been the crack I took on the head, because I wasn’t feeling all that drunk anymore, no matter how I smelled.

I came to when I felt something being poked into my chest, I opened my eyes, and there was a young, blonde cop jabbing at me with a night stick. The train was just leaving the Fifty-Ninth Street Station, I was almost home.

“Get up you fucking stink ass bum!” the cop shouted.

I was still unsteady, and not thinking clearly, I tried to push the stick away. The cop didn’t like this and he grabbed me by the collar and hauled me out of my seat, slamming me against the car doors.

“Hey!” I said, as the train pulled into the Sixty-Eight Street Station.

“Shut the fuck up!” He screamed.

The doors opened and he shoved me out of the train, leaving me sprawled on the platform.

It was a long walk home, light headed as I was, from the alcohol and rough treatment. I moved slowly, keeping to the shadows, embarrassed, terrified, lest I saw someone I knew, wondering what the doorman would think. I desperately wanted a shower, clean clothes, and a warm bed.

Without a watch, and with all I’d been through, I had no sense of time. It must have been pretty late when I arrived at the Water Tower, though, because the vestibule was locked and I had to ring the bell for the night doorman. When, he, being Harry, appeared, he gave me a hard stare through the thick glass of the front door, and made no move to grant entry, instead he made shooing motions at me.

I stood my ground though, gesturing for Harry to open up and a neat little standoff ensued, until I began to pound on the glass, at which point Harry grabbed a black jack from behind the counter and opened the door quickly.

“What the fuck do you want?” he roared, brandishing his stick.

“Harry,” I said crisply, “don’t you recognize me? It’s Jack Cole, I live here.”

He let the hand with the stick fall to his side. “What happened to you?”

I sighed, letting some of the tension pass from my body, “I was mugged, beaten, they stole my clothes.”

“Jesus,” Harry said, but still he made no move to let me inside.

“Can you let me in, please? I need a shower and rest. It’s been a tough day.”

He stiffened, “It’s about to get tougher. I’m sorry, Mr. Cole. The Marshal was here this afternoon. You’ve been evicted.”

My stomach fell into the ground, “You mean I can’t come in?”

“Instructions from management are I can’t let you in.”

“Harry, I just need to get some clothes, take a shower. I’ll leave after that, no one will know.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cole, I’d like to help, but I can’t afford to lose my job,” he looked down at his shoes.

I turned away, began walking slowly up the block.

“Hold on,” Harry called out, “wait right there.” He locked the door and disappeared while I stood shivering. After a moment he came back out with a heavy, doorman’s coat slung over one arm. He unlocked the door and handed me the coat.

“Take this,” he said, “it’s better than that blanket.” He also handed me a ten dollar bill, “that’s all I got on me, and here,” he produced a business card and handed that over as well. “They told me to give you this, call the number on this card tomorrow and they’ll tell you how you can reclaim your stuff.” He studied me for a minute, “Do you have any place to go?”

He looked concerned, but I knew there was nothing he could do for me and I didn’t want the guy to feel bad, so I said yes, thanked him, and walked off into the darkness of the New York night.

The Satanic Attack

I was running a place down on Miracle Mile in the Gables back in 07, an extravagant wine bar with a list more than 300 bottles long, almost 40 of them by the glass. The type of place where you serve Camus Conundrum as your "White Meritage" and receive "Allocations" on small batch wines from the vintners. Well, one day just after the lunch rush while the business men and society ladies basked in the culinary after glow and I reviewed invoices at a back table near the kitchen Jose the front waiter approached to say;
"J.R., there's a guest up front who wants to speak with you."
I sighed, I had a lot of work to catch up and catering to some attention seeking yuppie was the last thing I wanted to do. But of course a restaurant manager is a sitting duck, a captive audience for every jerk off with enough ready cash to buy a Ceasar Salad and a Glass of Malbec. So I stood up, shot my cuffs, straitened my tie and checked my expression in the mirror. He was waiting for me by the front door; conservative looking guy, late 40's, short, clipped salt & pepper hair, neatly trimmed beard, freshly pressed trousers over polished shoes and what looked to be an expensive guayaberra. (spend enough time in Miami and you'll become a judge of them too.) I had noticed him earlier eating lunch with a guy in a suit. He smiled as I approached and thrust out his hand in a friendly manner.
"You're the manager?" He inquired in a polite tone.
I took his hand, "Call me J.R." I said, "How can I help you?"
"Well," his voice lowered to a confidential tone, "it's about last night."
I had been off the night before and no one had called me or left me a note about anything amiss so I just smiled and said, "I see," indicating an empty table.
Once seated I encouraged him to open up and this is what spewed forth; "My name," he said, "is Henry Ramos, now you know I come here alot and I don't like to complain, I never have a problem but this is pretty expensive and somebody has to pay."
I felt my self recoil wondering where it was going, what I said was; "Oh?"
He brought his hand up from his lap and slammed it onto the table between us, the noise was surprising, like a dead weight hitting the wood, "You see that ring?" he asked.
It was a diamond pinkie horseshoe ring, you know the type; where if you wear it in, the luck is supposed to flow toward you and if the reverse, well, you know, the reverse. There were several stones missing. "Yeah?" I replied, losing some of my customer service tone.
"Well," he demanded, "What are you  going to do about it?!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
A look of frustration fell across his face, he sucked air in through his teeth like one whose patience has been sorely tried, "You have a waitress who works for you, Ximenes, dark hair, dark eyes?"
"Yeah."
"She is a witch, a bruja. Last night, I came in for a drink and she recognised me. I am the son of Achun (the name of a Santeria deity) so she launched at me a Satanic attack, I was only able to protect myself by banging this ring on your bar top three times, that's when the stones came out, but I didn't notice at the time and now they are gone. I think a thousand dollars is fair."
I didn't know how to respond, here was this well dressed kind of fringe regular who spent money in the place, and up till one minute ago had seemed perfectly lucid and suddenly he was shoveling the most incredible horseshit at me. I blinked, was I was being put on, I struggled for words I wondered how corporate would respond to the complaint of a Satanic Attack, what I said was; "You're out of your fucking mind. Why don't you get the fuck outta here before I call the fucking police you crazy mother fucker!"
The guy stood up from the table, wrapped in his dignity, "I should have expected as much. You really don't know what you're dealing with." He actually smiled at me and nodded good bye.
I sat for a minute after he had gone, thought about Ximenes, wondered if it was true...................

A Night to Remember

It wasn't the first killing I witnessed and it wouldn't be the last but it was the most random. Of course nothings ever as random as you might think. During the Mid-Nineties I worked a bar in the Times Square area while the neighborhood morphed from red light district to Walt Disney World. Actually it was a bar in a French bistro whose windows looked out on to Forty-Third just off Broadway, on New Years Eve you could see the ball drop. Business lunch, office hang-out bar and theater crowd. The building was probably seventy-five or a hundred years old and at one time was called Rossoff's part of the Rossoff's Hotel and famous for being the largest Kosher Catering Hall in New York City. Then Rossoff's became a welfare hotel and the restaurant became Cafe 43 where the bartender and two patrons were killed by an out of control truck that ploughed through the place in 75'. Some said it was haunted but I never saw any evidence of that. Well, I worked there part time for a number of years back when "The Deuce" was still very much the red light district and Rossoff's was still a welfare hotel. Then Rudolph Giuliani and Walt Disney came to Times Square, the welfare recipients were kicked out and the hotel was sold to a Slovakian who re-did the place in Moroccan chic and christened it; "The Casablanca". Henry was his name and he desperately wanted to take over Le Max and call it "Rick's Cafe" but VeraChai, the Thai, French trained chef and owner wanted no part of it and soon a rivalry bordering on hatred formed.
Well, one overcast and chilly day in early December they came; two mid-thirtyish African American guys sporting business suits and briefcases, they sat at the bar, drank espresso and after a little while asked to speak with the owner. It was late in the day after the lunch rush and well before dinner so VeraChai, as was his habit, was sitting at the big round table in the back betting on dice with some of the cooks and waiters. I told him about the guys at the bar and being grouchy by nature he frowned, but dropped the dice and followed me. He sat with the guys for about a half hour and when they left he called me away from where I was chatting up a regular.
"Those guys," he said, "they want to throw a party this Friday, ten till four AM, cash bar, DJ. You can work?"
I thought for a minute, it was my girlfriend's birthday but I also needed the money and I liked VeraChai and could tell he thought he needed me, "What kind of party?"
"Disco party, they say older people, city workers."
I weighed it all up and made a bad decision, "Sure."
I broke it to my girlfriend like I had no choice and she was pissed but eventually let me off the hook. Then a few days later one of the guys who'd met with Chai dropped by and left off a stack of fliers and I knew I was in trouble, it was going to be Hard Core Hip Hop in Times Square, the theme of the party; A Night to Remember. I'm not sure how it is now, but back then hard core Hip Hop events got violent and that was practically guaranteed. I'd worked them before and they could be scary even with veterans who knew what they were doing and had the proper security, but this, this was going to be me and Chai and a few French Bistro cooks and waiters. "Oh well," I thought, "In for a penny in for a pound." And anyway, I was already committed.
The fateful night rolled round and I worked dinner, the usual crush at six as people arrived for pre-theater then the frantic rush to get everyone cashed out in time for their eight o'clock curtain calls but after that it was different. Normally we'd wind down at this point tending to the occasional customer and preparing for the post theater rush, but tonight we had a different agenda. Tonight we removed all the tables, covered the front windows in black construction paper and dug in to the bar like the marines at Khe San. The promoters arrived with one security guard and a tough looking DJ around nine-thirty and their crowd began to shuffle in around eleven-thirty. Thuggish, rough looking people with poor manners who didn't tip. Much. I tried to keep a neutral expression and roll with it even after some of them began calling me names like steroid king and muscle head (I've always been a weight lifter). It was a rough night but fairly uneventful and when I looked up and noticed it was three thirty in the morning I thought I'd made it through to the other side.
That's when I heard and saw the commotion at the coat check across from the bar. Two men struggling and a woman yelling. The security guy with the help of a couple of other guys pushed one man towards the back of the restaurant while the other man grabbed his coat and headed for the door with the woman and a couple of other guys. The woman paused by the entrance and stared into the back, the music, by some coincidence chose to stop at the same moment, and she shrilled out in a loud voice like fate to one and all;
"You, Motherfucker, in your JC Penny fucking suit! You betta get yourself some new shoes cause you going down!" Then she stormed out the door, the men trailing after.
Someone had the good sense to crank up the lights and now that the DJ had stopped I threw a Frank Sinatra CD into the player and the people started to leave. Henry's minion, the nasty Bulgarian bellhop stepped through the door that connected us to the hotel, "What the fuck are you assholes up to here tonight anyway?" He demanded.
  "A piss in a windstorm," I said then suddenly there was a series of loud pops which I recognized as the sound of small arms fire and through the half fallen construction paper on the front window I could see the flashing in the dark of the muzzle fire and all became pandemonium with people stampeding toward the back of the restaurant to escape the gun play. There was the sound of shattering glass on my right, I jerked my head in that direction and the bellboy was face first on the floor, dark red blood pooling around his head.  Then everything got quiet and Chai was running toward the front door with a bucket of water, I guessed to wash away the blood but I pulled him back and shook my head. I stuck my head out the front door and three men were lying, bleeding on the pavement as New York's finest converged on the scene from every possible direction. A Night to Remember.

The Haunting

Back in 05' I was working for this company based out of Ft. Lauderdale Fl and they had a contract with the city and several private investors to operate a restaurant, cabaret and catering facility in an historical landmark called The River House. It was one of the oldest buildings in Ft. Lauderdale, which is to say; one of the oldest structures in South Florida. The River House was actually two houses built around the end of the Nineteenth Century by the Philmont Bryant's, a wealthy pioneering family who worked with Henry Flagler to push the railroad through, down to Key West. Now when I say the River House was two houses, it was actually two separate houses built by old man Bryant for his two sons (His own was just down the road and is now a museum) to live in with their families, which they did. The last family member to live in the house was Babara Estelle who passed away sometime in the 1970's where upon the property was taken over by the Chart House, a restaurant company which built a kitchen section in the middle to join the two houses. The result? A charming and beautiful though cranky restaurant on two floors with a covered terrace wrapped around each, boasting views of the extensive patios and gardens leading down to the New River and the Intercoastel.
I had worked for the company for about a year when I was offered the General Manager's spot at this magical location. Problem was......it was haunted.
It was sometime during my first week in the place that Sal one of my waiters, came up to me during service to let me know; "J.R., table 101 wants to see you."
"Why? What's up?" I asked because its always better to know going in.
"I'm not too sure, I don't think its anything bad." Was Sal's response.
Now table 101, was a corner table on the second floor terrace over looking the river on one side and overlooked by a window from one of the inner dining rooms (Barbara Estelle's Room) on the other. Table 71 inside Barbara Estelle's Room was right up against the window and had a view of table 101 which could prove awkward, but wasn't usually an issue because aside from banquets or pharmeceutical parties we rarely used the room at all. Anyway I approached table 101 and from a distance saw about what you'd expect on a Wednesday night at an expensive restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale near where they keep the yachts. That is a tan, well dressed silver fox who kept fit and had a long legged honey about twenty years his junior seated across from him, holding hands in the candle light.
I strode right up to the table and thrust out a firm hand, he stood politely and shook with me. "My name's J.R.," I said, "I'm the manager, I was told you wanted to see me?" I spread my hands out before myself indicating my openness to oblige.
The Silver Fox put an arm confidentially around my shoulders as if we needed to create a circle of privacy, "I don't like to complain, J.R.," he explained, "it's just that we're out trying to enjoy an anniversary dinner," he spread a hand to indicate the table and the woman seated there, I took note of the vintage bottle of Chateau Haute Brion (about $250) and the goose neck decanter. "Thing is," he continued, "I just can't, not with her staring at us."
I looked over, he was pointing through the window into Barbara Estelle's room, he was pointing at table 71, table 71 was empty, in fact the entire room was empty. "Well..." I said a little doubtfully, "there's no one there now, I'll certainly look into...." I broke off because he was staring hard at me, I waited.
"You don't see her?" His voice was tense, "she's staring at us right now!"
Now the man didn't look crazy, but I was certainly beginning to entertain the thought that he might be. "Of course," I said (The customer is always right), "I'll speak with her directly, in the meantime I have a lovely table just on the other side, perhaps we can relocate you?"
This seemed to mollify him and we resolved the situation, or so it seemed. Later, toward the end of the evening I was at the Maitre D' stand checking the reservations for the following night and wishing the guests good bye when the Silver Fox and his bride came down the stairs on their way out. I called out an eager good night and he waved a distant hand and was almost out the door when he stopped to look at a picture on the wall. Now I've told you that the place was an historical landmark and the walls were covered with pictures of old Florida as well as portraits of the Philoment Bryant family and it was at one of these that he was staring. He waved me over and I could see him white beneath his tan, the picture was of a young woman from the Nineteen Twenties, a flapper, the plaque underneath read "Barbara Estelle".
"That's her," he said in a soft voice.
I felt a chill creep up my spine, "She's been dead since 1975." I heard myself say.
The man nodded and left.
It was about two AM that night when the dishwashers knocked on the door of the office where I was reviewing P&L's to tell me they were leaving. I wished them a good night, locked them out and returned to my spread sheets, I was alone. It was very quiet with only the whistling of a high wind outside and the creaking of the old Florida Pine boards from which the house was built to break the silence, and then I began to hear the faint buzz of inaudible conversation coming from below the office. There shouldn't have been anyone there but me so I picked up a flashlight and left the office to investigate but the closer I got to where I thought the noise had come from the fainter the sound became till when I got there all was quiet. I shook myself and decided it must have been my imagination, residual nerves from the "Barbara Estelle incident" I started back upstairs to retrieve my briefcase and call it a night and that's when the music started, loud, swing style music and I'm pretty sure, Billy Holiday vocals. But the music should have been turned off. Once in the office I opened the door to the music control panel and it was all dark, not only was it off, but it didn't seem to even have electricity on. I decided to leave, picked up my briefcase and the music stopped. I descended the steps in silence. At the back door in the kitchen I set the alarm and opened the door to the parking lot as a big gust of wind rushed at me and seemed to hurl me out, slamming the door behind me.
The next day I related all this to the chef, who had worked there for a number of years and he didn't seem at all surprised claiming that many people experienced unusual events there before and particularly susceptible were new managers.

I Stayed Too Long at the Table 2

It didn't take very long for me to figure out that, Vinny, the guy who owned Pasta Brokers was a criminal and it wasn't very long after that I discovered he was an organized criminal, but it wasn't until the hit on Eddie Leno made the front page of the New York Post and all the Gambino royalty showed up on the six o'clock news entering and exiting the Racuglia Funeral Parlor in Queens that I began to realize that I knew a lot of the guys from work. Now a thinking man might have decided at that point that it was time to look for another job but I guess I wasn't a thinking man and well, I needed the money and hey, the money was good and the scene was exciting. It was the same year Goodfellows came out in the theater and I could take a date into a mobbed up restaurant and sign for the bill. Back then in the early Nineties there were no cell phones and personal computers were a novelty, so as the day bartender for Vinny I was also kind of like a personal secretary and manager, co-ordinating deliveries and business for the restaurant, vetting his phone calls, maintaining his phone book, keeping mental notes on information he needed which no one could write down and in the process I became pretty good buddies with Frankie the Chef who was Vinny's best friend from childhood and who, with my help ran the restaurant.
During the day we were pretty slow and we did a little business at night so there came a point in time when it was decided we needed to boost sales and this boost came in the form of a Piano player with a jazz trio. The guys name was Mike Cerruti and he was a music legend in New York mob circles. He played all the jazz standards, show tunes and Frank Sinatra covers that the silk suit guys loved and he drew in the Bonnano's Gambinos, Luccheses, Genoveses and Columbos in droves, packing the place and raining down the cash. I made a ton off these guys too as no one, bar none, in my entire experience of life, tips better.
Now sometimes in life you gotta be careful of success because it can attract unwanted attention and that's what happened to Vinny, because his boss, a Capo named Ronnie became really interested in the doings at Pasta Brokers when the music started. It became a show place for his crew and Vinny got put under a lot of pressure, almost like a GM getting ready for a Corporate visit. So it was like the end of the world the day the health department shut us down. I understand why they did it, I really do, the back of the house was filthy, the basement flooded whenever it rained and hey, it was Manhattan, there were rats and mice and roaches and absolutely nobody there knew anything about food safety. So they shut us down. They came on a Monday at 10 AM and by 11 AM they were slapping the sticker notices over the windows and doors and telling us we had fifteen days to prepare for a re-inspection. Well the inspector left and Frankie and I sat down at a table near the bar with a pot of demitasse and a bottle of Sambuca to smoke cigarettes and bitch.
Vinny came through the door at noon, he swept up to us at the table like a roaring storm surge, his face mottled red, smoke seeming to puff from his ears like a cartoon character.
"What the fuck?" He roared, "What the Fuck?!!" He pulled a chair violently up alongside the table where we sat and said in a coiled, controlled, steely tone, "Ronnie is gonna cut my balls off." Then he broke off, making a point to stare me, then Frankie in the eye, each in turn, "Then," he said, "I am gonna cut your balls off!"
I scrambled in my mind, I wanted to keep my balls between my legs, "Hey," I said, "Ronnie only comes here at night, right?"
Vinny looked at me like I'd just pissed on his leg, "So?" he grunted.
"So, the Health Inspectors only work till five."
Frankie started smiling then Vinny, then we all had a shot of Sambuca and that's how we pulled the wool over every one's eyes for two weeks. Every day at five o'clock we posted menus over the health department closing signs and opened for business. Every morning at close we pulled them back down and every day we worked on our health department punch list till we were allowed to officially re-open 15 days later and that's how we deceived the five New York Families and the Health Department of the City of New York.