Free Gone Bamboo by Anthony Bourdain Page B

Gimme that. You ain't a fuckin' waiter. Siddown an' watch me eat. Have some yourself, for chrissakes."
    Tommy leaned the empty tray against a table leg, pulled a deck chair over, and sat down across from Charlie.
    Charlie had lost a lot of weight since his last operation. The skin on his face hung loosely, giving him the appearance of a starving basset hound. He wore chunky, black horn-rimmed sunglasses, white sun hat, pink dress shirt cuffed at the wrists, and a pair of long, baggy Bermuda shorts, waist pulled up high over his stomach. Below his knobby knees and blue-veined, hairless legs, he wore brown socks and sandals. An as yet unlit morning cigar sat at the ready in a heavy ashtray in the center of the table. The ashtray had a small figure of a woman's ass in the center, and the caption PARK YOUR BUTT HERE; a souvenir of Florida.
    "So?" said Charlie, through bites of French toast. "You sleep okay?"
    Tommy nodded.
    "Feds bother you at all? Make any noise? They did, I can say somethin' . . . "
    "No, they creep around like mice. No problem. You?"
    Charlie shrugged and took a gulp of espresso. "I'm old. Old people don't sleep. I hear every fuckin' word. They can whisper all they fuckin' want, I'm gonna hear it. They can tippy-toe aroun' in their fuckin' socks . . . don't make no fuckin' difference. I know they there." He sighed dramatically. "Whaddya gonna do, right?"
    "Cheryl's still sleeping," said Tommy. "She could sleep through anything."
    "That broad sleeps too much. Whaddya doin' that girl, Tommy? Too much workin' or too much bangin'. I don't know what it is."
    Tommy just smiled indulgently at the old man.
    "She's nice," said Charlie. "A nice lady you got there. Don't fuck it up. That's my advice." He paused to consider something, then admitted, "You know the other night we was playin' gin? She beat the fuckin' pants offa me. Twice."
    "I know. She was braggin' about it."
    "Oh yeah? She was, was she?" Charlie started wheezing and had to catch his breath, his face turning red momentarily. "You gonna have to arrange a rematch."
    "You can arrange it yourself," said Tommy as the screen door banged shut. "Here she is now."
    "It's Sleeping Beauty!" howled Charlie, startling Don, the marshal watching them in the gazebo. Cheryl came over and groggily planted a kiss on Charlie's cheek. She was wearing a short bed jacket and a pair of white panties.
    "Marrone!" exclaimed Charlie. "What are you doin' to me, walkin' aroun' like that? What's with you? They didn't shoot my pecker off for love a'—"
    "All talk, no action, Charlie," said Cheryl, dragging a chair over to the table and sitting down. She reached for one of Tommy's cigarettes, and Charlie put a spotted white hand over hers and gave it an affectionate pat.
    "I was just tellin' yer boyfrien' here how beautyful you are. Look at her! First thing inna morning and she looks like an actress. Like whatsername." He fumbled for the name of a forties film star, faltered, and gave up. "Look at her! No makeup, no nothing. She just rolls outta bed and she looks like that. Mosta the broads I known in my life . . . takes 'em two hours inna bathroom and six pounds a' fuckin' makeup before they let you even look at 'em. And still, they look like shit."
    "Thank you, kind sir," said Cheryl.
    "I tell ya, I tell ya, Tommy. I was forty years younger . . . I was forty years younger, they'd fuckin' find you inna trunk of a car somewhere out there by Idlewild. Just so's I could have a shot at yer old lady. That's how I feel about her. No shit."
    "Thanks. I think," said Tommy.
    "He's just buttering me up for a rematch," said Cheryl. "He's a sneaky, perverted old man. And I'm gonna whip his wrinkled ass so bad next time we play he's gonna want to switch to shuffleboard or Parcheesi. Maybe you should play a game you stand a remote chance of winning, Charlie, sweetheart. 'Cause cards, you can forget about."
    Charlie exploded in laughter, his face growing red again before he trailed off into a rasping