The Busboy

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.