Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [105]
"My check . . ." said the chef. "What about my last paycheck?"
"You must be fuckin' kiddin' me," said Victor. "You owe me. I don't owe you nothin' . . . The door, that's what you get. You been gettin' plenty around here . . . now you get zippo . . . goose-egg . . . nuh-thing. Got it? You got that, asshole? The door, that's what you get.
Victor removed his hand from the chef's chest to point forcefully at the trapdoors to the street. His eyes fixed beyond Victor's shoulder, on the center drawer of the desk, the chef charged past Victor and into the tiny office. He managed to get the drawer open and pawed at the little orange bottle, aware of Victor coming up behind him. His hand was in the drawer, fingers curling around the bottle, when Victor shoved him hard from behind and kicked the drawer closed. The chef felt his fingers bend backward; a sharp pain shot up his arm to his elbow. He pulled himself up off the desk with his right hand and turned to face a smirking Victor.
Angry and desperate, the chef fumbled again for the bottle with his traumatized hand. He managed to get his fingers around it and tightened his grip. Victor shoved him again. The chef pulled his hand from the drawer. In a smoking rage, he punched Victor full in the mouth, busting his lip.
Victor looked more surprised than hurt. He stepped forward and swung wildly at the chef, his hand grazing the wall and missing the chef's head. He swung again and connected with a left, a glancing blow off the temple. He hit the chef in the side of the neck, knocking him back into the swivel chair. The chef tried to stand up, but Victor was still coming at him. He was punching downhill, having trouble hitting with any force, the narrow confines of the office preventing him from delivering any roundhouse blows. The chef felt another punch land over the ridge of his left eye. He hooked his legs under the chair, planted his feet solidly against the concrete floor, and stood up, burying his head in Victor's solar plexus. They crashed awkwardly around in the small space, knocking papers everywhere, Victor flailing at the chef's crouched figure, trying to bring his elbows down into his kidneys, bringing his knees up repeatedly to hit him in the stomach.
Still holding on to the methadone, the chef reached with his right arm across the desk for something to hit Victor with. Victor nailed him with an uppercut to the ribs that staggered him, but he felt his right hand brush up against an empty Stoli bottle. He grabbed it firmly by the neck and clubbed Victor as hard as he could over the right ear. There was a loud ping and the unbroken bottle fell to the floor. Stunned momentarily, Victor straightened up, while the chef stepped in and head-butted him on the bridge of the nose.
Victor stumbled into the hallway, bleeding from the nose and ear. He spat a long stream of pink saliva onto the floor and reached into the waistband of his pants. The chef saw the butt of a revolver and he felt the anger drain out of him and turn to fear.
This wasn't supposed to happen like this, thought the chef. This was not how it went in the movies . . . Victor was supposed to be unconscious now, lying in a heap on the floor. He'd hit him with a bottle. He'd head-butted him as hard as he could. Why wasn't the man unconscious? The chef's first instinct was to yell "TIME OUT!" like he had when he was a kid when somebody got hurt. Or "DO-OVER!" so he could hit Victor again with the bottle.
Instead, in a mad panic he ran gracelessly into the kitchen. He slipped onto all fours, scrambling to get away. His back burned him, as if anticipating the bullets he imagined would come tearing into his spine at any second. He made it a few more steps. He was aware of a hand grabbing him by the collar, then he felt the pistol butt come crashing down against his skull.
Forty-One
THIS COULD BE a nice fuckin' place," said the Count while Tommy squirmed uncomfortably. "But we need somebody