contact with Seymour, a short, dour black man in his fifties, who – the rest of the staff informed him – only enjoyed talking to his famous clientele.
After setting up, Bobby made his way down to the kitchen, where the staff had an early dinner before the club opened.
Rocket waved to him, so collecting a plate of pasta from an assistant chef he went to sit with his waiter friend.
Rocket was an aspiring actor from the school of method acting. He was of Italian origin, in his early twenties, with long, greasy hair, and darting, inquisitive eyes. ‘I hear you got lucky tonight,’ he said in his flat, nasal voice. ‘Upstairs doin’ big time, huh?’
That’s right.’
‘Shame you didn’t know about it earlier. If you’d known you could’ve come prepared.’ He dropped his tone to a low whisper. ‘You could’ve done us both a favour.’
‘I am prepared’, Bobby said.
‘Naw,’ Rocket explained, ‘you’re not gettin’ my drift. In the private John y’can really get a score goin’. They got big bucks, an’ they ain’t got nothin’ to do with ’em but buy. Why d’ya think Seymour never socializes? The creep is a fartin’ king up there. Makes a fortune.’ He looked furtively around before continuing. ‘Give me an hour – if I can get someone to cover for me I’ll try t’get everything you’re gonna need. Then we’ll split your take – fifty-fifty.’
Bobby didn’t want to get into selling drugs. He was smart enough to know it only led to trouble. Besides, Nichols Kline had already warned him.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Like it’s too dangerous, man. I don’t wanna risk my job.’
‘You’ll risk your fartin’ job if you don’t give ’em what they want,’ Rocket said knowledgeably. ‘Hey – old Seymour’s lasted a long time up there, right? He gives those famous fuckers pronto service, an’ if you don’t – believe me – you’re out. They’re mean rich motherfuckers.’
Bobby thought about Seymour’s locked cupboard. Maybe there was something in what Rocket had to say after all.
‘C’mon, Bobby, we gotta make a killin’,’ Rocket pleaded, sensing a weakness. ‘Maybe we only got tonight – so let’s go for it, huh?’
* * *
Working the private men’s room was a different world. Bobby was used to a crowded, never-ending line of noisy, sweat-soaked, hyper customers, who – if he was lucky – might leave anything from a ten-cent to a dollar tip. He was not used to a thin trickle of expensively clad movie stars, rock stars, sports stars, producers, clothes designers, investment bankers, occasional politicians, directors, and a mixed bag of other success stories.
Remembering Nichols Kline’s words, he tried not to stare. But it was difficult when a fair amount of the faces were so very familiar. Most of them were in and out, some leaving no tip at all, while others threw down a ten or twenty as if it was nothing. Jefferson Lionacre, a famous black singing star, palmed him a hundred-dollar bill with a wink and an encouraging ‘Today the crapper – tomorrow the world.’
Bobby wanted to shake his hand. What a title for a song! Only he wasn’t writing anymore.
Why not? he asked himself. He had lost his sweet, childish voice, not his song-writing abilities. Why shouldn’t he go back to composing – if only for his own enjoyment? And not the country and western stuff Mr Leon Rue had made him write – but soul, sweet sweet soul music. His kind of music.
Lately he’d been listening to a lot of James Brown and Aretha Franklin. The two of them certainly knew how to sell a song.
Hey – if he set his mind to it he could write soul. Fresh melodies were always churning around in his head. Wasn’t it about time he did something about it?
Okay, first he was going to move out. Next he would write a song. Just for himself.
‘Hey – you – fat boy.’
His reverie was interrupted by a skinny, stoned rock and roll star wearing a tight
After setting up, Bobby made his way down to the kitchen, where the staff had an early dinner before the club opened.
Rocket waved to him, so collecting a plate of pasta from an assistant chef he went to sit with his waiter friend.
Rocket was an aspiring actor from the school of method acting. He was of Italian origin, in his early twenties, with long, greasy hair, and darting, inquisitive eyes. ‘I hear you got lucky tonight,’ he said in his flat, nasal voice. ‘Upstairs doin’ big time, huh?’
That’s right.’
‘Shame you didn’t know about it earlier. If you’d known you could’ve come prepared.’ He dropped his tone to a low whisper. ‘You could’ve done us both a favour.’
‘I am prepared’, Bobby said.
‘Naw,’ Rocket explained, ‘you’re not gettin’ my drift. In the private John y’can really get a score goin’. They got big bucks, an’ they ain’t got nothin’ to do with ’em but buy. Why d’ya think Seymour never socializes? The creep is a fartin’ king up there. Makes a fortune.’ He looked furtively around before continuing. ‘Give me an hour – if I can get someone to cover for me I’ll try t’get everything you’re gonna need. Then we’ll split your take – fifty-fifty.’
Bobby didn’t want to get into selling drugs. He was smart enough to know it only led to trouble. Besides, Nichols Kline had already warned him.
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Like it’s too dangerous, man. I don’t wanna risk my job.’
‘You’ll risk your fartin’ job if you don’t give ’em what they want,’ Rocket said knowledgeably. ‘Hey – old Seymour’s lasted a long time up there, right? He gives those famous fuckers pronto service, an’ if you don’t – believe me – you’re out. They’re mean rich motherfuckers.’
Bobby thought about Seymour’s locked cupboard. Maybe there was something in what Rocket had to say after all.
‘C’mon, Bobby, we gotta make a killin’,’ Rocket pleaded, sensing a weakness. ‘Maybe we only got tonight – so let’s go for it, huh?’
* * *
Working the private men’s room was a different world. Bobby was used to a crowded, never-ending line of noisy, sweat-soaked, hyper customers, who – if he was lucky – might leave anything from a ten-cent to a dollar tip. He was not used to a thin trickle of expensively clad movie stars, rock stars, sports stars, producers, clothes designers, investment bankers, occasional politicians, directors, and a mixed bag of other success stories.
Remembering Nichols Kline’s words, he tried not to stare. But it was difficult when a fair amount of the faces were so very familiar. Most of them were in and out, some leaving no tip at all, while others threw down a ten or twenty as if it was nothing. Jefferson Lionacre, a famous black singing star, palmed him a hundred-dollar bill with a wink and an encouraging ‘Today the crapper – tomorrow the world.’
Bobby wanted to shake his hand. What a title for a song! Only he wasn’t writing anymore.
Why not? he asked himself. He had lost his sweet, childish voice, not his song-writing abilities. Why shouldn’t he go back to composing – if only for his own enjoyment? And not the country and western stuff Mr Leon Rue had made him write – but soul, sweet sweet soul music. His kind of music.
Lately he’d been listening to a lot of James Brown and Aretha Franklin. The two of them certainly knew how to sell a song.
Hey – if he set his mind to it he could write soul. Fresh melodies were always churning around in his head. Wasn’t it about time he did something about it?
Okay, first he was going to move out. Next he would write a song. Just for himself.
‘Hey – you – fat boy.’
His reverie was interrupted by a skinny, stoned rock and roll star wearing a tight
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