The Book of Virtue by Ken Bruen Page B

and none is infinite.”
    Scotty was the manager of Khe Shan before me. I was taken on as his assistant. I’d been fiercely pressured by my father to follow his footsteps—heavy, brutal, as they were and join the NYPD.
    Yeah, right, like hell.
    I went to business college at night. Learned that school teaches you one thing: Greed rocks.
    I wanted to rock.
    I had a job during the day stocking shelves. And,
    Get this:
    Carrying customers’ bags to their cars. All I ever, Christ ever, needed to know about humiliation, being almost literally invisible.
    Until,
    A Friday, carrying mega-freight for a guy in his forties, driving a Porsche. Dressed casual, but rich. His casual gear wasn’t from Gap, unless he owned the branch, and he had that permanent tan that drives New Yorkers nuts.
    Envy? Oh, yeah.
    And his shoes, those Italian jobs that mock,
    â€œSucks being poor.”
    I managed to finally get his heavy bags in the car. He never looked at me, flipped me a buck. I said,
    â€œYou’re fooking kidding.”
    He turned, levelled the bluest eyes outside of Hollywood, laughed, said,
    â€œYou’re the help, be grateful.”
    One thing genetics bestows: I’ve a temper.
    My fist bunched instantly and he clocked it, asked,
    â€œHow dumb are you, T?”
    T?
    He pulled out a hundred,
    â€œThis stir your mojo?”
    I gave him the look, the one that goes,
    â€œKeep fooking with me and see how that pans out.”
    Two things happened that changed my life.
    One, I decked him.
    Two, my boss saw me do it, rushed out, picked the dude up, muttered profuse, insincere apologies, pledging,
    â€œHis ass is so fired.”
    The guy rubbed his chin, dismissed my boss with a curt,
    â€œLet me have a word.”
    Asked,
    â€œWhat are you going to do now, job wise?”
    The hundred was still crumpled in his hand, a trickle of blood leaking from his mouth. I fessed up.
    â€œDon’t know.”
    He assessed me anew, then,
    â€œYou like clubs, as in nightclubs?”
    â€œSure, what’s not to like?”
    â€œYou want to work in The Khe?”
    That’s how famous/infamous it was. Didn’t even need its full title.
    Was he kidding?
    â€œAre you kidding?”
    No.
    Straight up.
    He was El Hombre. The guy who transformed it from a seedy mediocrity to the exclusive joint it was. He turned towards the Porsche, said,
    â€œBe there this evening, six sharp. Wear black pants, a clip-on tie, white shirt, and shoes that fly.”
    My mind was playing catch up, badly. I asked,
    â€œClip-on?”
    â€œYeah, the client wants to pulp you, he goes for the tie, every predictable time.”
    I couldn’t help it. I stared at the vanishing Franklin. He laughed.
    â€œFor punching your new boss, you’re fined the hundred.”
    As the Porsche went into its beautiful rev, I shouted,
    â€œWhat’s T?”
    â€œT … is for Trash.”
    Later, I would discover the reason for the
    Unflappable
    Laid back
    Luded
    Vibe he had.
    A blend of Klonapin and Tequila. Keeps not only the demons at bay but awarded a chill of the emotions as outrider.
    I duly showed up at the club and muddled through for the next few weeks. Learned the biz the hard way, by mostly screwing up. Scotty was from South Detroit, not so much street wise as street lethal. Steered me through the delicate art of handling the wise guys, as in, if they didn’t pick up their tabs, let it slide until the club owner decided to act. He warned,
    â€œIf you’re told to ask for payment directly, get yourself a very large gun.”
    Added,
    â€œIf you don’t adapt to thinking outside the box, you’ll be in one.”
    Right.
    Scotty had earned a shit-load of cash, from, as he put it,
    â€œCreative stealing.”
    Creative, I could do.
    We began to hang out on our Sundays, the only day the club closed. I coerced him into coming to Shea Stadium. I didn’t convert him from a Yankees fan, but I did