Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 29

Change

It's late Thursday night and my girlfriend and I have just returned from a long road trip only to discover that we're hungry. So we stop into the local TGIF's to get a bite to eat. TGIF is not my first choice but, due to the hour, all other culinary options have closed

"Hi," I say to the hostess as we walk in. "Is the kitchen still open?"

"Yes, sir," the hostess replies. "It's open until eleven." I look at my watch. It's ten o'clock, so we're not in the last minute asshole zone.

The hostess seats us at a table where the waitress on duty promptly ignores us. We're the only table in the place but the bar is half full of drunken commuters killing time before they go home to whatever hell awaits them. Most of them have been here since their train pulled in at six o'clock. It's not a pretty sight.

After ten long minutes the waitress comes over. She's in her mid-twenties and looks at us with barely disguised disdain.

"You know what you want?" she says.

"I think we need menus first," I say.

"Sorry, let me get you some."

The waitress brings us some menus. "While we're figuring things out," I say. "I'd like a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon." My girlfriend orders a Coke. Then we wait. And wait. And wait.

"My God," I say to my girlfriend. "What's taking them so long?"

"I think they're brewing your beer in the back."

The drinks finally arrive. Because we've had so much time to peruse the menu we know what we'd like to order – an appetizer and two burgers. "Don't wait for us to finish the appetizer," I say. "I know it's late."

"Ah hmm…" the waitress says, walking away. No thank you is forthcoming. I'm pissed. When you come into a restaurant late, asking for all the food to come out right away is a cool move. A good waiter would realize that their customer is being considerate. But this girl wouldn't know a good customer if it bit her on the ass.

"Not a great waitress," my girlfriend says.

"I've seen worse," I say. "At least she isn't high on meth and took a shower recently."

My girlfriend lasts. "I know about those types," she says. "I read your book, remember?"

The waitress reappears and drops the appetizer and burgers on our table. Before I get a chance to ask for ketchup the waitress is out of earshot. Piqued, I get up and take a bottle of Heinz off another table – along with some extra napkins. Just being proactive.

After ten minutes I want another beer but the waitress is sitting at a table in the corner talking on her cell phone. I give her a little wave. No reaction. So I flag down another waitress. This one's friendlier and returns with my beer in two minutes while her colleague pretends not to see us.

"So what are you going to tip her?" my girlfriend asks.

"I'd love to tip her nothing."

"But you're not going to."

"Of course not."

A few days ago I filmed an online promotional spot for the paperback edition of my book Keep the Change. (Coming in September!) When we finished the producer asked me if people always expect me to leave a good tip. "Yeah," I said. "I guess you can say I'm screwed."

And to some extent I am. After telling people to tip heavy for years it would be the height of hypocrisy for me to get all cheap now. I haven't waited tables since 2008, but I still feel the job in my bones. My experience tells me that our waitress might be having a bad day, that the manager may have groped her, cut her shifts or that she's pissed that it's a slow night and the rent is due. Now that doesn't excuse bad service but, as I said in my book, the quality of service has almost nothing to do with the tip you leave. And anybody who's waited tables knows this is true. You could give great service and get a lousy tip. But you could give bad service, insult your customer, hit on his wife and make fun of his kids and still get a great tip. Even though people will say to their dying breath that they tip to reward service, they don't. Studies have shown that service quality affects tipping only 2 percent of the time. Unseen processes buzzing inside the customer's head dictate what tip servers receive.

Here's an example. Ex-waiters and bartenders are the best tippers, hands down. That's because, like me, they've been there. But a waiter cannot know, unless they are told (Which I consider passé) that their customer is an ex-comrade in arms. What I will tip is dictated by reasons that my waiter has no clue about. And it takes a lot to make a former server leave less than 20 percent. Leaving 15 percent might be a clue that you've pissed us off, but it's still a decent tip.

My girlfriend and I finish out meal, pass on dessert and ask for the check. When the waitress delivers it she says cheerily, "Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoyed everything."

Great, I think to myself. Now she's being nice.

"She was terrible," my girlfriend says. "Are you going to leave her a good tip?"

I stuff some bills into the check holder and get up to leave."Yep," I say. "Twenty percent."

"I'd have left fifteen."

"It's only a couple of bucks extra," I say. "Besides, I acted like her occasionally. Waiting's a tough job."

"But still."

"Did you ever hear of a song called Waitress by the band Live?" I say.

"I haven't."

"Well it goes something like this."

Come on baby leave some change behind

She was a bitch, but I don't care

She brought our food out on time

and wore a funky barrette in her hair

Come on baby leave some change behind

She was a bitch but good enough

to leave some change,

Everybody's good enough for some change

"She was a bitch," my girlfriend says.

"But everybody deserves some change." I say, smiling. "Besides, after writing my books I'm condemned to always tip well."

And with that, my girlfriend and I step into the warm summer air and leave our cranky waitress behind. She was a bitch. But I don't care. I've been in her shoes. So you see folks, how much you tip has nothing to do with service.

It has everything to do with you.

El Fantasma

Willem was the shit and he knew it. Gliding past the waiters and busboys flitting across The Bistro's polished wooden floors he was in the zone – his sixth waiter sense whispering when his orders would be up, whose drinks were running low and separating the good tippers from the bad. It was eight o'clock on Saturday night, H-hour at The Bistro and he already had racked up a grand in sales. If he kept hustling he'd clear five hundred in tips. He'd still end up a few bucks behind Andrea, the hot brunette who flirted shamelessly with the male patrons but hell; if he had her set of tits he'd be numero uno too. But since he always generated the most in sales Willem was the king, the big swinging dick. No one could touch him. And as he walked away from a table with a five hundred dollar order in his pocket he made sure all the other servers punching orders into the POS system knew it. That drove them crazy.

After keying in his order he felt a hand grip his arm. "Come with me," Manny, the fat toad of a manager, said to him. "You messed up."

"What are you talking about?" Willem said, as he let Manny drag him into the kitchen.

"What is wrong with you?" yelled Manny. "Why didn't you get the fucking order right?"

"What?"

"The lady on seven wanted a chicken Caesar. You gave her Fettuccini Alfredo."

"That's what she ordered," Willem, said. "It's right here on my dupe pad."

"Bullshit," Manny said. "You fucked up. So now you're paying for that fettuccini and her salad.

"That's thirty-five bucks," Willem said.

"Tough shit," Manny said, exiting the kitchen.

Willem felt a flush of anger heat his face. The stupid bitch, he thought to himself. Her desire to keep her trophy wife ass firm made her think she wanted a chicken Caesar salad, but her id mouthed her secret desire for noodles smothered in heart attack inducing cheese sauce. In his five years as a server Willem had seen this dynamic before. Diners would think one thing, only to have their stomachs betray them.

Adjusting his crisp black apron, Willem exited the sweltering kitchen and walked back on floor. Twenty-seven years old with lean and handsome features, Willem was a smooth talking world-class seducer. He could make the stupid foodies order whatever he wanted them to order, make men feel like big shots and women wet their panties as he hypnotized them into ordering dessert. When he was eighteen years old and turning tricks on San Francisco's lust filled streets, he knew how to separate people from their money and make them feel grateful to do it. He preferred banging women, but he hadn't been above sucking a cock or two for a hundred bucks. Selling his body had taught him how to read people, how to make them putty in his hands. It was perfect training to be a waiter.

After dropping the entrees on table four he wryly noted the queue of angry Yuppies haranguing the hostess about how long they'd been waiting for a table.

"My reservation was for seven," a fat man in a red Ralph Lauren shirt said, tapping the Rolex on his fleshy wrist. "I want my table now!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Marnie, the twenty year old hostess said. "A table should be opening up soon."

"Then how about some free drinks?" the man said. "That's the least you can do."

Marnie looked pleadingly at Willem but he ignored her. Soothing angry customers was the manager's job. But Manny was nowhere to be found. That didn't surprise Willem. Manny indulged in two addictions, cocaine and sex. If he wasn't cutting lines line in his basement office he was trying to extort one of the waitress to blow him in exchange for better shifts. Andrea once caught him spanking it to Internet porn on the office computer. Andrea's description of Manny's penis was less than kind. "If the Travelocity gnome had a cock, Manny's would be it."

With his best fake smile affixed to his face, Willem glided over to his newest table and asked if they'd like to start with a cocktail. Everybody wanted water with lemon but he conned them into buying four alcoholic chemistry experiments. Then he ran though the specials in a way that looked like he gave a shit about his customers' gustatory desires. Then he hit them up for two bottles of overpriced bottled water. Putty in his hands.

Turning on his heel he signaled his busboy Reynaldo to bring the water to the table and popped back into the kitchen to grab the appetizers for table six. After depositing them he took a dessert order on four, delivered his drinks from the bar and then unceremoniously dropped the check on the two hags who had been drinking endless cups of tea and prattling about "their lives as women." Put out that they were being hustled to the exit, the biddies left him fifty cents on a twenty-dollar check. Fuck 'em, Willem thought. Let them gibber somewhere else.

As Willem walked past the hostess stand he could hear the fat man's voice overheating. "I know the owner," he said. "When I call him and tell him how you're treating us, he'll fire you." Marnie looked like she was about to cry. Located in a tony town on the Hudson River just outside of New York, The Bistro was the most successful restaurant in town. Somehow the owner had managed to poach Armando Fraturro from Danny Meyer's Union Square Café in Manhattan and his culinary magic had the foodies busting down the door. On a Saturday night Willem usually cleared a boatload in tips, but the money came with a price – putting up with customers so entitled they made Paris Hilton seem like a nun. Marnie was the third hostess they had in four weeks. They had all been nice, pretty girls, but their youth and beauty didn't insulate them from the gamma ray bursts of negative energy the customers blasted into their souls. The Bistro chewed hostesses up and spat them out. That Manny hit on them unmercifully didn't help. Willem had to help Marnie, not because he had any particular affection for her, she was kind of on the dumb side, but he didn't want the hassle of training another front stand drone.

"What's the problem, sir?" Willem asked the fat man.

"We've been waiting twenty minutes for a table," he said. "This is unacceptable."

"Sorry, sir. As you can see we're very busy. Something will open up soon."

"I don't care. I want a table now."

"It's problem of physics, sir," Willem said.

"Huh?' the man said.

"Matter cannot occupy two places at one time. If your mass interacts with the molecules of diner already in that space the resultant explosion would make the immediate area uninhabitable for years."

The man looked at him in shock. He was the kind of guy who was used to always getting what he wanted. "Very funny pal," he said. "The owner's a friend of mine. He'll can your ass."

Willem shook his head. Pietro, the owner, was visiting his family in Milan. And even if this clown dropped a dime on him nothing would happen. Willem knew about Pietro's penchant for hookers and Pietro knew he knew it. And since Pietro's wealthy wife had bankrolled The Bistro, Willem's position was secure.

"I'm sorry we can't accommodate you, sir." Willem said to the fat guy. "There's an excellent steakhouse down the street. Why don't you try them?"

"Fuck you," the man said. After a small staring contest the fat man corralled his party and made a beeline for the door. Just before he walked outside Willem overheard him saying, "What an arrogant asshole." Willem smiled. He was an arrogant asshole.

"Thanks," Marnie said. "That guy scared me."

"No problem, kid," Willem said, eying her breasts. Maybe she'd be his post shift screw. Willem liked the young naïve ones. Customer service problem defeated, he headed back to the kitchen to grab his desserts and delivered them to the tables with a flourish. Then he saw her.

Normally Willem would have been annoyed seeing a single woman being plopped into his section. They tended to be bad customers; women with chips on their shoulders because they couldn't get a date, were divorced or halfway though a middle age conversion to lesbianism. But his new customer's hotness quotient squeezed those non-PC thoughts out of his head like water from a sponge.

The woman gracefully strolling to the table was Alicia Betancourt, quite possibly the richest and sexiest woman in town. A lithe woman with firm breasts pressing against a revealing white blouse with a plunging neckline, her short leather skirt showcased a set of world-class legs tapering to a duo of muscular calves and ending in a pair of black five-inch heels. Willem noted that the ass encased in leather was round and muscular and admired the mane of long red hair sinuously cascading down her back. Her face was breathtakingly symmetrical and her make up was understated and elegant. But it was her eyes that electrified Willem's spine. They were living green emeralds flaming with a barely constrained heat, a carnality that was palpable and insisting. And Willem wasn't the only one who noticed. All the husbands in the place were stressing their neck vertebras to snatch a covert peek past their wives' jabbering heads.

In addition to her physical charms Ms. Betancourt also had a reputation. According to the waiter grapevine she had slept with most of the handsome bartenders and waiters in town. So far Willem had not been the beneficiary of her outsized libido but something told him tonight would be his night.

"Good evening Ms. Betancourt," Willem said, giving her his most charming smile.

"Hello," she said in a husky voice with a trace of a British accent. "I don't think I've ever seen you around her before."

"It's the first time I've had the pleasure to serve you."

"Well, I'm in the mood for some pleasure," she said coyly. "What do you recommend?"

Willem told her the specials, rolling his tongue around the Italian words as if he were licking a clitoris. When he was finished Ms. Betancourt asked, "Are you one of the specials too?'

"I might be," he said.

"Good," she said. "I'm in the mood for something special."

After perusing the menu Ms. Betancourt ordered a three hundred dollar bottle of wine and the veal osso buco. For the rest of the night Willem acted like she was his only customer. Whenever he walked past her table her eyes twinkled with a lust as she ran her pink tongue across her lips. Tonight's the night, Willem thought. I'm in like Flynn.

Suddenly Willem's reverie was busted by the sound of glass shattering. Turning around, he saw the Reynaldo had dropped an entire rack of wine glasses on the hardwood floor.

"You idiot," Willem said. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry, boss," Reynaldo said smiling, displaying his gold tooth. "I trip."

"You know Manny's gonna make you pay for those."

"What?" Reynaldo said, incomprehensively. "No comprendo."

"Jesus," Willem said. "Haven't you learned any English since you've been here?" Reynaldo just grinned at him.

Willem looked the busboy with barely contained fury. A short Mexican with a wiry frame and thick black hair, Reynaldo had been working at The Bistro for two months. He was an okay enough worker, but his poor language skills drove Willem crazy.

"You're in the USA, motherfucker," Willem said. "We speak English here. You had better learn some before I call La Migra."

Reynaldo's eyes widened. Like the most of the busboys and cooks, Reynaldo was in the country illegally. Both Manny and Willem routinely exploited that fear to keep them in line.

"Chop, chop," Willem said, "Clean this shit up pronto."

"Yes, boss," Reynaldo said. "I sorry."

"You had better be," Willem said. "Fuck up like that again and there'll be no money for you to send home." Then Willem watched with satisfaction as Reynaldo went down on his hands and knees to pick the shards of glass off the floor. That's where those stupid Mexicans should be, Willem thought. On their knees. Unlike his co-workers, Willem didn't buy into the loving the illegal Latino thing.

————————————————————————————————–

As the night wound down and the staff started breaking down the tables, Ms. Betancourt was the last customer in the place. She had tipped Willem two hundred dollars on a four hundred dollar check and was finishing her cappuccino when Willem went up to thank her.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Betancourt," Willem said. "I appreciate your generosity."

"Let me show you some more," she said mischievously. "Want to meet for a drink?"

"That would be great."

"How long till you get off?"

"I'd say about half an hour."

"Meet you at the American Bar then?"

"I wouldn't miss it.'

After Willem watched Betancourt's twitching hips walk out the door he hustled to finish his side work and then sat with the other waiters as Manny did the count. They couldn't leave until every dime was accounted for and Manny had a nasty habit of turning it into an hour ordeal.

"Let's go, Manny," Willem said after thirty minutes. "Quit jerking us around."

"You have a hot date or something?" Manny said. "You gonna fuck that Betancourt chick?'

"I just want to get home, Manny. It's been a long night."

"Yeah right," Manny said, handing Willem his tips. "I took out the salad and pasta you screwed up. You also had a customer walk out with the merchant copy of the credit card slip. So you I'm taking that out of your tips until the credit card people send the money. Too bad. That was a hundred bucks."

Willem groaned. He knew he'd never get his money back. Manny would take the tip and put it in his pocket. It was an old scam. Willem had suffered through corrupt managers in the past and had been able to destroy them all. Willem know he'd have to extort the owner a little to take Manny out. Maybe invite one of his Pietro's hookers to the restaurant for a free meal as he sat there with his wife and kids. Then Manny would be out on the streets. Just wait, you fat fuck, Willem thought. You're going down. But as Willem's anger inflated his head with savage pressure, he knew he had to vent his rage sooner than later.

Once he was cut loose, Willem went to the parking lot, whipped out his ivory handled pocketknife and slashed the tires on Manny's car. "Take that, motherfucker," Willem whispered ferociously. Lost in his anger, Willem didn't see the Claude, the homeless guy who usually hung out behind The Bistro, staring at him wide-eyed.

"What are you looking at?" Willem said.

"Nothing," Claude said.

Willem grabbed Claude by the lapel of his dirty jacket and slammed him up against the wall. "You didn't see shit, did you?"

Claude didn't struggle. He had been on the receiving end of Willem's anger before. When the other waiters tried giving him something to eat, Willem would snatch it out of his hands and throw it in the trash. He knew Willem thought homeless guys hanging around was bad for business.

Willem's nose wrinkled as the sour unwashed smell of Claude's clothes invaded his nostrils. "Jesus, Claude. You smell like shit."

"Sorry."

"If you tell anyone what you saw, I'll find you and give you a beat down. Got it?"

"Just let me go."

Willem enjoyed feeling Claude squirm under his grasp. When he was in San Francisco he'd rough up bums for drugs when he was low on cash. Homeless people were always good for meth and weed. Sometimes he even shook them down for money. Willem didn't care. Like the Mexicans, he thought people like Claude were parasites.

When he was finished with Claude, Willem walked the four blocks to the American Bar. Betancourt was sitting on a bar stool with her elegant legs crossed as she rebuffed a Master of the Universe type trying to impress her with his Armani suit and gold jewelry. What this clown didn't know was Betancourt could buy and sell him ten times over. The president of a major pharmaceutical giant with a net worth in the millions, Betancourt drove a Bentley coupe and lived in a large postmodern mansion alongside the river. This guy didn't stand a chance.

"I think we should be on a first name basis now," Willem said, plopping into the stool she had been saving.

"Who the fuck are you?" the Master of the Universe said.

"He's the young man I'll be leaving with tonight," Betancourt said. "Now piss off."

A sullen, jealous look flooded the man's eyes. For a minute Willem thought he'd make something of it. But Willem was young and strong and his rival was old and weak. Sensing this wasn't an encounter he'd win, the man walked away, feeling his universe get a little smaller.

Betancourt smiled. "He was scared of you," she said.

"He has better be."

"I like tough guys," she said, slipping a hand inside Willem's thigh.

As Betancourt's fingers worked their way towards crotch his erection was instant and urgent.

"Mmm…" Betancourt purred. "Is that for me?" For the first time in a long time, Willem was speechless. This time he was putty in someone else's hands.

An hour later Willem was standing in Betancourt's richly appointed kitchen while she mixed a pitcher of martinis. Looking out the patio doors Willem could see that the house was shielded from prying eyes by a thick line of trees that flowed down from the road down to the edge of a perfectly manicured lawn. The moonlight gently touching the waters of the large swimming pool in the backyard made cerulean shimmers dance across Willem's face. Suddenly he felt a pang of jealousy. He wanted to live like this too.

Betancourt handed Willem a martini in a frosted glass. "You know what happens if you don't look into woman's eyes when you make a toast?" she said.

"No, what?"

"You'll have seven years of bad sex."

As they clinked glasses, Willem grinned. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

"Good," said Betancourt, as she slipped her arms around Willem. "Very good."

When they got to the bedroom there was no foreplay, no gentleness. Thrashing on the bed with abandon, Betancourt used her strong legs to pull Willem in deeper as he thrusted into her body with animal ferocity. When her pleasure hit its peak Betancourt raked her nails down Willem's back and came with a back arching slam that made Willem join her in release. There were two repeat performances. When they were finally finished, Willem drowsily gazed at Betancourt's sweat slicked body.

"That was great," he said, taking her into his arms. "Absolutely fucking great."

Betancourt stiffened. "You have to go now," she said.

"What? I thought we'd stay in and have breakfast tomorrow. Maybe do it again." Betancourt's answer was to slip out of Willem's embrace and stand by the bed.

"You have to leave now," she said. "I can't have you here."

Willem sat up and noticed a strange off-kilter look Betancourt's eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" he said. "We had a nice time didn't we? Did I do something wrong?"

"I've slept with so many guys," Betancourt said, her voice strained. "So many…"

"I'm not a virgin either," Willem said. "So what?"

Betancourt sighed. "Every time I fuck a guy a little bit of me dies."

Willem had met some freaky tricks in his time, but no one had ever kicked him out of bed. He was the one who always left them. "Listen," he said. "I know we're not going to get married or anything. I know the deal."

"Do you?" Betancourt said. "What do you think that tip was for? You were bought and paid for. Now get out." Disgusted, Willem got dressed.

"How am I supposed to get home?"

"Call a taxi," she said. "Do whatever. Just leave." So Willem left, called a cab on his cell phone and waited at the front door until it arrived.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked. Willem gave the address.

"Got kicked out, huh?" the cabbie said. .

"How'd you know that?"

"Pal," the cabbie said. "I've picked up a lot of guys at this lady's house. She's a strange piece of tail."

————————————————————————————————–

The next day Willem walked into The Bistro at three o'clock to work Sunday dinner. Willem hated working Sundays and a hangover headache was pulsing behind his left eye. But he didn't really care about how his night had turned out. It was worth it to fuck that chick, he thought.

As Willem walked to the back of the restaurant he noticed the waiters and busboys eyeing him quietly. From the tension in their faces he could tell something was up. Maybe Manny had been screaming at them about his slashed tires; who knew with him. But when Willem saw the two men in off the rack suits sitting at one of tables, a jolt of fear rippled across his stomach. He knew cops when he saw them.

"That's him," Manny said to the men. "That's him."

"Are you Willem Kander?" one of the men said, standing up.

"Yeah," Willem said. "Who are you?'

The man was tall with a ruddy face and salt and pepper hair. He was fat but his shoulders were broad and he didn't look soft. "I'm Detective Harriman from the Orangeburg police," he said. "This here is Detective Quinones."

"What's this about?' Willem said.

"Were you with Alicia Betancourt last night?" Quinones asked, rising from his chair. Unlike his partner, Quinones was slim and dark. As he walked towards Willem a quiet menace coiled inside him like a spring being compressed.

"Maybe," Willem said. "So what?"

"Don't bullshit us, kid," Harriman said. "All your co-workers said you were flirting with her. You were seen together by ten people with her at the American Bar and a cabbie picked you up at her house at four in the morning."

"So I went home with her," Willem said. "What of it?'

Quinones looked at him hard. "Alicia Betancourt was found dead this morning. She was beaten to death."

Willem throat dried out. "What?" he managed to croak.

"You need to come with us," Harriman said, holding out a pair of handcuffs. "You have a lot of explaining to do."

The cops frisked him, relived him off his pocketknife and cuffed him. As the steel bracelets bit into Willem's wrists he saw Manny's fat face grinning in triumph, Reynaldo sucking on his gold tooth and his fellow waiters looking at him with a combination of shock and disgust. When Harriman bundled him into the police issue Crown Victoria, Willem saw Claude on the street corner shaking his head sadly.

When they got to the station they dumped him in an interrogation room and left him to sweat there for an hour. Then Harriman walked in carrying a manila folder with Quinones trialing behind him. Harriman slapped the folder on the steel desk and sat down. Quinones pulled up a chair, turned it around and leaned his elbows on its back. The weight of Quinones' stare made Willem shift in his chair.

"You've got a bit of a record here, Kander," Harriman said, his voice devoid of emotion as he flipped though the folder's contents. "Solicitation, prostitution, two counts of assault and a drug charge in San Francisco. A DUI and suspended license in this county – you're quite the fuckup."

"You slashed your manager's tires last night," Quinones said.

"No. I didn't," Willem said.

"C'mon," Harriman said. "The homeless guy saw you. He said you popped them with a pocketknife with an ivory handle. And guess what? You had that kind of knife on you."

"Claude's drunk half the time," Willem said. "You can't trust what he says."

"He also says you assaulted him last night."

"That's bullshit."

"When did you leave Betancourt's house last night?" Quinones asked.

"I don't remember," Willem said.

Harriman took some photographs and laid them on the desk. Willem looked. They were pictures of Betancourt naked on a slab. Her once lovely face was purple and cracked in half. Her throat was swollen, bruises covered most of her body and the jagged edges of three ribs jutted out of her side.

"Jesus Christ," Willem said. "You think I did that?'

"The medical examiner puts her time of death between three and five in the morning," Quinones said. "The cab driver says he picked you up at four. The time's in his log sheet. So what happened?"

"I didn't kill her."

"I'll tell you what happened," Harriman said. "Betancourt was a nympho. We know that. So she took you home and you fucked her. But then she wanted to toss you out. The cabbie told us she had done it to other guys before. But you got angry. Narcissistic guys like you don't take rejection well so you hit her. You probably just wanted to scare her, right, Willem? But it didn't stop there, did it? You got caught up in the frenzy. Maybe you don't even remember beating her. We found a empty pitcher of martinis in the room."

"She was a bit freaky, yeah, "Willem said. "But she was fine when I left."

"So what's this?'' Quinones said, producing a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside it was a bloody shirt. "We found this in the dumpster in the back of the restaurant. It's yours."

"That's not mine," Willem said.

"It's yours," Quinones said. "Your restaurant's name is sewn into the shirt pocket and you're the only waiter there who wears this size."

"I leave some extra shirts there," Willem said. "Anybody could have taken one."

"Yeah," Quinones said. "But you were in Betancourt's house. Nobody else. The only prints we found were yours and hers. There was no break in. Her security alarm wasn't tripped. She let her killer into the house. And that, my friend, was you."

"This is all a mistake," Willem said, tears suddenly stinging his eyes. "This is all a horrible mistake.

"No mistake," Quinones said. "You're a violent one, aren't you? Slashing those tires and beating up on a homeless guy. And then there's that stuff from Frisco. You're done, Kander. The jury will serve you up on a plate."

"You're under arrest for the murder of Alicia Betancourt," Harriman said. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything that you say can and will be used against you…"

But Willem didn't hear the detective as he collapsed in on himself. He had no one to turn to. His father had disowned him long ago. He had no money. He was on his own. And when Quinones tossed him into a cell Willem ceased to be Willem. He had become a number lost in the implacable machinations of the state.

————————————————————————————————–

As Aeromexico flight 1756 began its descent into Mexico City International Airport the man sitting in seat 1A looked out his window and smiled as the pinpoints of light glowing upwards from the city of fourteen million souls slid past his reflection in the glass like fireflies. The man was happy. He was coming home.

The man was wearing a custom fitted ten thousand dollar Kiton suit, his feet were shod in Ferregamos and the gold Patek Philippe watch glinting on his wrist matched his cufflinks and hand painted Hermes tie. To the casual observer he looked like just another wealthy first class passenger flying back to La Ciudad de los Palacios after a successful business trip.

The man listened as the French passengers behind him complained about the wine choices the airline offered. French was only one of the languages the man spoke. Fluent in English, Portuguese, German, Dutch, Russian and a host of aboriginal South American dialects, he could talk his way from Canada to Tierra del Fuego with ease. He was also fearsomely expert with firearms, edged weapons, hand-to-hand combat, explosives, chemicals and poisons. He was a master of intelligence tradecraft, defeating electronic defenses, escape and evasion, an expert seaman and qualified to fly several kinds of aircraft. He had killed, bishops, politicians, cartel bosses, policemen, soldiers, men, women and children. He did not care why. He only cared about getting paid.

It had gone very well in America; the man thought. The waiter, knowing he was facing life in prison, copped a plea for second-degree murder. If he were lucky, he'd get of jail in twenty years. The man smiled again. He had stolen what was left of the boy's youth. That was just as well, he thought. His youth hadn't been very promising.

When the waiter left the Betancourt's house, the man slipped inside without leaving a trace. After bypassing the alarm system in a way that no one would ever suspect it had been tampered with, he opened the door with the key and crept up to the woman's bedroom. He knew the layout of the house because he had been in there many times to clean the pool. The gringa had let him in to use the bathroom. It was child's play to steal a key.

When he walked into the bedroom the woman was startled. "What are you doing here?" she asked before he smashed her windpipe. He didn't want her to die instantly. The people who hired him wanted her to suffer. As the woman's screams got lost in her crushed throat, he methodically beat her with leather-gloved hands until her lovely body had been reduced to pulp. Then, as she looked at him with eyes filled with the fear of death, he drove his fist into her perfect face. He kept hitting her until her features distorted and then, when he was sure his client would be satisfied, delivered a killing blow to her temple. After waiting a few minutes he checked her pulse. It was gone. Job finished he took the waiter's uniform shirt off his body and carefully placed it into a plastic bag. Then he let himself out as stealthily as he came in.

Moving to the thick trees where he had hidden for three hours, he took off his clothes and shoes and placed them in a burlap sack. Then he put on fresh clothes, got into his stolen car and drove to a place where he incinerated the bloody evidence. After taking a long shower, he wiped the car down and drove it back to the lot he stole it from. The owner would never know. Then he dropped the waiter's gore-stained shirt in the dumpster in the back of the restaurant and went back to the apartment he shared with five other people. To avoid suspicion, he stayed in town for a month until the waiter was sent to prison. Then he told his boss he had to go home to care for his sick mother. They wouldn't miss him. He was replaced by one of his countrymen the next day.

When the plane's wheels touched down, the man let out a deep sigh. He had been in America for three months and was glad to get home. He had earned two million dollars for his work. Not bad for a mestizo who had fought his way out of the slums, he thought. The man never got paid until the job was done, but he always got paid. The only person who ever reneged on a contract ended up headless with the rest of his family in a garbage dump. His clients hired him though a set of highly secretive and compartmentalized contacts. No one had ever seen his face. To law enforcement he was only known "El Fantasma." The Ghost. His assignments were sent to him via highly encrypted email with information about his client, target and how the client wished them to die. Sometimes it was blowing a man's head off with a 1500-yard rifle shot, an arranged car accident, inducing a heart attack or something more brutal. He never asked the reasons for killing anyone. He just did it. Of course he entertained theories. Perhaps the Betancourt woman was a corporate assassination, a jealous lover or a combination of both. The email only told him to make it look like a vicious and painful murder. The customer didn't want anything traced back to him and the waiter was a convenient patsy. The man could have picked any number of the men the woman consorted with, but framing the waiter was good karma. He was an arrogant one, the man thought to himself.

The plane landed and the man walked to the main entrance where Gustavo, his driver, was waiting to pick him up in an armored Mercedes Benz. When he got home to his large house in Bosques de las Lomas, he would kiss his children, drink a real margarita, smoke a Cuban cigar and then make love to his beautiful wife. As he walked to his car he took the fake gold cap off his perfectly good tooth and threw it in the trash. He was Javier Ramirez Sanchez, the most lethal man in the Western Hemisphere. To his people he was El Fantasma. But to the Norte Americanos, he was just another Mexican.

No Guilt

It's Saturday night and my girlfriend is pulling her car into her apartment building's driveway. We've just come back from a nice dinner but a brutal, hard rain is falling. Even with the wipers going full blast we can't see two car lengths ahead of us. Now my girlfriend's building has two parking lots: one large one in the back and a small one on the side. The lot by the side is ten paces from a door. If we park in the back we'll get soaked to our skivvies.

When we arrive at the side lot there's one parking space left. But it's a crappy spot on the end, half as large as the others and at an angle that will leave the ass end of her car sticking dangerously out.

"This sucks," my girlfriend says.

"It's better than parking in the back," I say. But just then an SUV pulls out of a primo spot close to the entrance. But then it does something funny. It pulls back into the spot.

"What's he doing?" my girlfriend says.

"Maybe he's just straightening out his car."

"Let's wait a minute."

We pull into the substandard parking spot and wait. The SUV's lights are on and, despite the rain; I can see the exhaust leaking out of its tailpipe. No one is exiting the car and no one's coming out of the apartment building.

"I know what he's doing," I say. "He's running out to get something but doesn't want to lose the spot. Kill the engine."

So my girlfriend and I wait in the dark car and occupy ourselves by drawing pictures on the fogged up windshield. After five minutes the SUV pulls out and drives away. The moment he's out of sight my girlfriend fires up her car and slides into the spot.

"That guy's going to be pissed when he comes back," she says.

"Hey," I reply. "When you move it you lose it."

If you've read my blog over the years you know I have issues with parking. During the blizzards this past winter my neighbor Phil would bring a bulldozer from his job site and clear the snow from my street. My neighbors in the adjoining area weren't so lucky. And as the snow piled up they started putting what I call "ghetto barriers" to save the hard dug out spots in front of their houses – lawn chairs, garbage cans, even a baby carriage. But since my street was wide open the people who lived in the apartment building a block away started clogging my street. One night I couldn't park anywhere near my house. One woman even parked her car for three days in such a way that she took up two spots. So I left a polite note on her windshield asking her to be considerate of the people who lived on the street. The next morning I woke up to find signs tacked on all the trees protesting my covetousness. But she never parked on my street again.

But my issues go further than that. When I go into Manhattan I usually park in a garage. That drives my thrifty girlfriends nuts, but I'd rather pay the money than put up with the stress of hunting for parking spots. Nothing wrecks an evening in the Big Apple than spending forty-five minutes trying to berth your car. But after watching me have an epic meltdown on West 15th Street a few months ago my girlfriend decreed that henceforth she would do all the driving in New York. Smart woman. I pride myself on being a patient fellow but parking brings out my dark side.

Once we get inside my girlfriend's apartment relatively dry she asks me to take out the garbage before we settle in to watch a movie. And as I bring the bag down to the basement I see a man walking up the stairs with a carton of takeout food. He's soaked to the skin. He's probably the guy from the SUV and to say he looks miserable is an understatement. I walk right past him without an iota of guilt.

Does that make me a bad person? Maybe. But sometimes guilt is a useless emotion.

The Man of Steel

When I was ten years old a movie came out that blew me away. Superman. I loved it so much that every weekend I begged my father for five bucks so my little brother and I could watch Christopher Reeve save California and Hackensack, NJ over and over again. We could do that because movies were in theaters for months back then, not two weekends. And even though I must have heard it twenty times, when John William's score poured out of the Dolby speakers I got good bumps.

Now Batman's edgy and cool, Spiderman's an arachnid idealist and I don't know what the hell The Green Hornet is. But Superman was pure, incorruptible and could kick all their asses. And what little boy doesn't dream of having superpowers?  So when I zoned out in Ms. Redel's fourth grade class I wasn't imagining being Han Solo or Luke Skywalker. I fantasized that I was blasting though the air at Mach 20, moving mountains with my bare hands and saving the little red-haired girl who sat next me.  She teased me a lot as I recall, but I still wanted to fly her to Bali.

Of course I got older and Superman was forgotten. It wasn't hard. After Superman II the rest of the films were duds. Reeve should have quit while he was ahead. But a few weeks ago I revisited the original movie on Netflix as my girlfriend and I lounged  in bed. When I saw Superman swoop up to save Lois Lane from a plunging helicopter Alicia said I looked like a little kid. She was right. Watching the Man of Steel took me back to a simpler time, before I learned about corruptibility and weakness, a time when I was an innocent little boy. That was a good feeling.

So I rented the 2006 film Superman Returns last night and watched it on my big plasma TV. And when I saw Superman sonic booming though the skies to save a fiery plane from crashing that smile retuned. Now many critics panned the film, saying the director overplayed the whole Superman as Jesus thing. But what those dolts didn't remember is that Superman is a reincarnation of a very old myth. Yes, Kal-El was sent to Earth by his father to be humanity's savior, sort of dies, wakes up and flies into the heavens. I get the comparison. Jesus kind of had superpowers too. But the myth even predates the Gospels. Remember Hercules, the strongest man in the world? The son of Zeus who performs great feats, journeys to the underworld, cheats death and ascends to Mount Olympus? Sound familiar? So when the twentieth century rolled around we recycled an old myth and put it tights and a red cape. And that's why I think so many people love the idea of superheroes and The Man of Steel in particular.  It touches on something primal and endless; our secret wish there's a benevolent being greater than all of us – someone who will save us from ourselves.

So when the movie ended I had the same tingling sensation I felt as a kid – that if I only got a running start I could slip the bonds of Earth and vault into the skies. Now all of us have dreamed we could fly but, unless you're tripping on acid, you know you can't. But man wouldn't it be great? No more pat downs at the airport, usurious baggage fees and wondering if the guy in 24A is a terrorist. Up, up and away! Of course I'd like to have x-ray vision cool too.  And if you're wondering why you're as dumb as a lump of Kryptonite. Who wouldn't love to be Superman? Even though I'm forty-three I still think I have a shot. But I wouldn't look good in the costume. I love doughnuts too.

Now life is always full of interesting coincidences. When I got up this morning still humming William's theme, I read that Joanne Siegel, the wife of one of Superman's creators and the model for Lois Lane, passed away at the age of 93.  I shook my head and smiled. I like to think Joanne finally got that ride with Superman after all.

Maybe one day all of us will.

Are You a Waiter Tired of Being Ripped Off? Go to WaiterPay.com!

When I was a waiter I saw and heard about restaurant owners and managers pulling all sorts of illegal nonsense. Here are a few of them.

1. Telling a new hire that they wouldn't be paid during their two week "probationary period" and then, when that expired, cut them loose.

2. A restaurant owner illegally making the waiters kick a portion of their tips to the kitchen in order to augment the piss poor wages he was paying them.

3. A restaurant owner dipping into the tip pool to give money to his kid, chauffer or sibling.

4. A manager asking for bribes under the guise of "gifts" so a waiter could get better shifts or even work at all.

5. Ownership using money from the tip pool to pay pastry chefs, managers and banquet managers.

6. A restaurant who paid it's staff less than two dollars an hour and fined the delivery boys when food was stolen from them or for slamming the door.

7. A restaurant owner who regularly made anti-Semitic, homophobic and racist comments to his staff.

8. Restaurant owners refusing to pay for workers' injuries because of their immigration status.

9. Owners who shorted the government on payroll taxes.

10. Management who demanded sexual favors for good shifts.

11. Physical abuse and mental cruelty.

12. Refusing to pay workers for vacation time that they were told to expect.

13. Making waiters pay for breakage and when customers walked out on the check.

14. Owners who stole from the tip pool to finance their cocaine habits and strip club patronage.

15. Not paying for overtime. (None of the places I worked at ever heard of the concept.)

16. If a waiter had a stain on his white apron, make the waiter buy a replacement worth 2 dollars for 15 bucks or go home.

17. Taking credit card processing fees for the entire check out of a waiter's tip.

18. Taking money out of waiters' pay for meals and then not feeding them or offering a bowl of tasty gruel as a substitute.

19. Failure to pay minimum wage. Yes, waiters are paid below minimum wages in the expectation tips will make up for the shortfall. But if it's a slow night and the server's tips do not bring him to the hourly mimimum, the owner has to make up the difference. You can expect hell to freeze over before that happens.

20. And my favorite, a manager who called the cops on waiters when they had the temerity to argue with them and then accuse the the poor slob of stealing.

But do not fear my weary and abused brethren, help is out there. I'd like you to introduce you to a wonderful website – WaiterPay.com. It's run by the law firm of Berke-Weiss & Pechman in New York City and they have vigorously sued and won millions of dollars in judgments for New York City waiters

Now you might not be able to prove if a restaurant is guilty of sexual, mental or verbal harassment – but you sure as hell can sue when they violate Federal and State labor laws and screw you out of your hard earned money. It's kind of like getting Al Capone on tax evasion. Now many restaurants are above board and treat their workers with respect, but quite a few of them don't. If you feel like your restaurant is fleecing you take a gander at their website or give them a call.

Hit the guilty where it hurts – their wallets.

And no, I have not been paid for this endorsement.

It's Always Personal

I'm smoking a thirteen-dollar Maduro in an expensive cigar store in a rich town. Normally I don't spend so much on pricey smokes but I like this place. And they have leather chairs you can sink into and forget your troubles until the last ash falls.

"I can't believe that guy fucked me," the old man sitting next to me says. "I can't believe how he fucked me."

I look up from my book. The man's not talking to me. He's talking to a casually dressed guy sitting on the other side of the room. And when I say casual I mean he's dressed down in duds that cost more than I make in a month. Hell, the wristwatch peeking out from under his grey cashmere sweater is greater than my net worth.

"Unbelievable," he says. "That's not right."

"And I've been friends with his father for years. The least he could've done was call me."

"You're right."

"But he never did," the old man says. "Even if he called me with some bullshit that would have been better than nothing."

"Sorry," the man across the room says, running his fingers though his sandy hair. "I feel for you."

"And you know what the son said to me? He said, 'Don't take it personally. It's only business.'"

I dog ear my paperback and listen to the men talk. I'm not a regular patron but they know who I am. And even though I'm the poorest guy in the room they don't seem to hold it against me.

"Figures," the sandy haired guy says. "Someone on the Street once told me that cash always came before friendship."

"Listen," the old man says, "I've always tried to get myself the best deal. But I never deliberately went out of my way to screw some one." Judging from the elderly gent's expensive topcoat and Italian shoes he probably got himself a boatload of good deals over the years.

"Shame about his old man," his friend says. "That's gotta hurt."

"I guy I've known almost forty years. That's all gone now. Finished."

The old man takes a long draw on his cigar and blows a wistful cloud towards the ceiling. I watch as the tumbling smoke gets sucked up into the air filter and dies. "Don't take it personally?" he says to no one in particular. "What is that?"

"It's always personal," I say.

"Huh?" the old man says, shifting his cool blue eyes onto me.

"I've been fired several times," I say. "And I've fired people. It was always personal. That's because business is between people and everything between people is personal."

"You're right!" the sandy haired man almost shouts. "When I got fired or laid off it was personal. When some one screwed me on a deal it was personal. You can't tell me it isn't."

"And yet," I say, "These very same guys will tell you, 'Business is all about relationships.' You can't have it both ways."

The sandy haired man falls silent while old man continues puffing on his cigar. In the back of the store the compressor in the vending machine switches on with a labored thump. I take a pull on my Maduro and let the smoke fly to its doom.

The sandy haired man breaks the quiet. "A guy I once knew told me that cash always comes before friendship. How can people be like that?"

"That's no way to live," the old man says. "Materialism is the root of all sadness."

"You're right," the sandy haired man says. "It is."

I would usually be amused by wealthy people saying such a thing – but I've learned the rich can have wisdom too. Sometimes when they've finished their climb to the top they discover the summit isn't always what it's cracked up to be.

After a while the old man says goodbye and walks out the door, resignation lacquering his face like nicotine. The sandy haired man soon follows him and I'm alone with my book at last. As my cigar dwindles down to a stub I read about a violent man traveling down lonely roads in search of one last good kiss. I've read the book before. He'll never find it. I know that hurts because a girl once ran me off the same road. When I wrecked myself she said it wasn't personal either. She didn't know what she was saying. Probably never will.

It's always personal.

Huckleberry and The End of the World

I was surfing the Internet when I came across an article about a guy named Harold Camping who claims the world is coming to an end. According to good 'ol Harry, May 21, 2011 will be Judgment Day and the rapture (The taking up into heaven of God's elect people) will occur. Then the whole place goes to shit on October 21.

Luckily for me the rapture will occur a few days after my birthday. It would suck if my potential gift givers were suddenly swept up into heaven. Then again, some of my friends won't be among the elect. Hell, I'll probably have my feet on terra firma too. On the bright side, if the world is destroyed by fire in October, I won't have to buy any Christmas presents. That'll save me a few bucks. And when Visa sends me my monthly bill (Which they will do Apocalypse or not.) I won't be around to pay it. Sweet.

Of course the news has been squawking about the portents of impending doom that seem to be happening all around us. Multitudes of birds and fish have died all over the world in the past few weeks. Five thousand birds fell from the sky in Arkansas. Personally I think they died because they went, "Oh shit! We're in Arkansas!" But scientists think these die offs might be caused by magnetic north moving towards Russia and screwing up these creatures' navigation systems. Just imagine all the GPS satellites going offline and you'll get a sense of what's happening. Livery drivers in New York can't get to JFK without them. But the movement of magnetic north is a natural process that has occurred many times. And massive animal die offs? Nothing new. But, as I mentioned in an earlier post, wackjobs all over the world will use these events to promote some kind of self-serving eschatological agenda.

Human beings are egocentric by nature so it's no surprise that some people think that the world has to end in their lifetimes. It gives them a misguided sense of drama and purpose but hey, everybody likes a good ending. But the world's not going to end until the sun runs out of hydrogen and expands to gobble us up. Of course another planet might hit us or a gamma ray burst fry our ass, but the odds of that happening are infinitesimal. Put quite simply, doomsayers are lazy bastards. If you know the world's going to end then you don't have to plan ahead! Help the poor and downtrodden? Try and make the world a better place? Screw 'em. They're gonna die anyway. But not me! I know better. I'm going to be singing Leaving on a Jet Plane when Jesus levitates me into the clouds!

But another article caught my eye as well. It seems some moronic publishers are replacing the 200 uses of the word "nigger" in Samuel Clemens's classic novel Huckleberry Finn and replacing it with the word "slave." Now with the exception of idiots, crackers, Klansmen and a few rappers, most of us don't like the "N-Word." But Clemens used the word over and over again not because he was a racist, but because he wanted to show his readers how stupid racism was. But in our politically correct world a select few have decided it would be too dangerous to let children read Clemens' book as it was originally written and have an honest discussion about race and it's place in American History. I guess they think our students are not up to the challenge -that they're too fragile and stupid to figure out what Clemens was really saying.

Like Harry and all those other doomsayers, these revisionists are egocentric lazy bastards. God forbid they have to teach children about the tough stuff. And just like crazed religious nuts, they are a minority who feel that the great masses are somehow unworthy. They like to live in their little fantasy worlds, smug in the knowledge that they somehow know better. I know how the world will end. I know I'm righteous and will be saved. I know better than Samuel Clemens. This all sound familiar? Didn't some absolutists with narrow, ego-stroking and self-righteous triumphalist views attack us on September 11th? They thought they knew better than the rest of us too.

So yes, I'm saying Harry and these literary revisionists are like terrorists. Why? Because they all use fear as their modus operandi. Religious wackjobs try scaring you into thinking the world's ending and these mind numbingly stupid publishers are telling us to be terrified of words because they might screw up our kids. And of course, they know what's best for us. At one end of the spectrum these people are just annoying. But at the other end they turn into Pol Pots.

But attempts to censor Samuel Clemens have failed before and crazy Harry also thought the world was going to end in 1994. Oops. Regardless of their lunacy, I take great comfort in the fact that the world will keep chugging along and reading Huckleberry Finn centuries after these dipshits have turned into compost.

I guess I'm still going to have to pay that Visa bill after all.

Happy (Insert Appropriate Holiday Here)!

Well, I'm going to bed after a kick ass Italian Christmas Eve party. Now where in the world did I put my Alka-Seltzer? Man, don't ever let me near anisette and anisette cookies again.

Merry Christmas everyone! And to my non-Christain, atheist, and agnostic readers – enjoy the movies and Chinese food! And if you go out to eat on the 25th – tip heavy.

Get a Real Job!

Over my many years writing about people who depend on gratuities aggrieved people, usually skinflints, have written in to tell me that if tipped workers don't like the money they're making they should endeavor to make alternate employment arrangements. But what really struck me as odd was a comment made by a reader concerning a snippet I wrote about residential doorman and holiday tipping. "YOU ARE A DOORMAN," he wrote. "IF YOU WANT TO MAKE MONEY GET A REAL JOB."

Being a doorman isn't a real job? Gee. In New York they have a union and everything! Benefits too. And I seriously doubt the boob who left this comment would repeat that clichéd comeback to a doorman's face. The odds are good he'd find himself French kissing the sidewalk.

But that brings up an interesting question. What is a real job? Could you tell me? I really don't know. Does a real job mean making over 100k a year? Having a secretary and a corner office? Can you work at home? Does a real job mean making tangible things or buying and selling financial instruments? Does a real job mean you're a super model banging, high-end Mercedes driving super corporate type? After listening to some of these Masters of the Universe describing what they do as "providing leverage and focus on innovative solutions for new and improved, next generation, cost effective, world class, high performance, and hard dollar value added outcomes" I have to ask – do they have a real job? Sound like bullshit to me.

Is working at McDonalds a real job? How about a waiter, nanny or garbage man? How about being a cop? The starting salary for NYPD patrolmen is $44, 744 a year so I guess they're out of the supermodel squiring market. Oddly enough that's roughly what Manhattan doormen make without tips! Want to tell some rookie he or she doesn't have a real job? I dare you. Pepper spray stings like a motherfucker.

So what's a real job? What does a person with a real job do? What should it pay? What hours and working conditions should it entail? Do you get vacation and sick time? Do you have to have a college degree? (Bill Gates did okay without one.) Can manual labor be involved? Do you work by the hour or get a salary? Are you your own boss or work for other people?

Personally I think all honest labor is noble and valid employment. But there are some assholes out there that think otherwise. So please, let all you "experts" fill me in on that a "real job" is.

I'm dying to know so I can go out and get one.

Doorman Tip Redux

I'm sitting in the cigar shop again, basking in my post Today Show glory when Philo comes in to pick up a smoke on his way to work.

"I got a six hundred dollar tip today," he crows.

"That's great I say. "Congrats."

"That shit when right into my pocket."

"Righteous. How are the other tenants tipping?"

"Those motherfuckers," Philo says. "Some of them gave us only twenty or thirty lousy dollars."

"That sucks," I say.

"And you know what? Those cheap motherfuckers are the ones who bust our balls all year but screw us at Christmas."

"Then maybe they can no longer afford to live in a doorman building," I say.

"Fuck an A right."

Well, since real estate is a blood sport in Manhattan, if people decamp to more economically realistic abodes, someone will take their place in a New York minute.

"Okay guys," Philo says, an unlit cigar stuck in his mouth. "I'll be seeing you."

"Tell those cheap bastards you should be getting a hundred – at least," one of the other customers shouts.

"We'll see," Philo says as he stomps out the door, heading off to take care of people who very often don't take care of him.