Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [106]
Tommy was staring at Sally, trying to imagine what he'd look like when he found out he'd been betrayed. He tried to picture Sally at the defense table, looking up at Tommy in the witness stand. A shudder of pleasure went through Tommy.
" . . . That's why we want you to be the new chef," said the Count.
"Congratulations, Chef," said Sally.
WHEN HE NEXT NOTICED that he was still alive, the chef was being hauled up off his knees. Victor's foul breath was in his nose, the hand with the gun knotted up in his hair. The chef's injured left hand was twisted up behind his back, between his shoulder blades, and Victor was leaning into it, every painful jerk squeezing tears from the chef's eyes.
He felt himself being guided down the line by his hair, head first, his arm twisting in its socket, his hip banging noisily against the speed rack, the bottles jingling. He was being propelled forward and down, he saw, straight toward the rotary slicer.
SALLY WAS GRINNING at Tommy. "What did I tell ya?" he said. The Count clapped him on the shoulder. Tommy sat blinking dumbly. How could they be so blind? So stupid? Sally knew he hated the Count, hated everything about him . . . How could this be happening? How could they even ask such a thing, much less announce it like he was expected to be happy, even grateful? Tommy wondered what Skinny thought about all this, sitting behind him at the bar. He couldn't be too crazy about it. Tommy shook his head in disbelief. Sally was mussing his hair now, saying, "It's a big step up inna world for you . . . Whaddaya say?" when a dreadful sound came from downstairs. His cat had made a sound like that once when she got her paw caught in a door hinge. Tommy knocked his chair backward onto the floor as he bolted to the kitchen.
VICTOR HAD THE CHEF bent over, still working the twisted arm like a rudder for everything it was worth. The chef felt the side of his face rammed into the stainless steel safety guard on the rotary slicer. The guard moved forward a little, rolling smoothly along on its ball bearings. The pain from his twisted arm sent shock waves up into the chef's brain. With one eye, the chef could see that Victor had changed the setting on the slicer, opening it up all the way, widening the space between the razor-sharp circular blade and the safety guard, like you would for cutting prime rib. The chef thrashed and twisted, trying to pull himself back from the blade, but Victor had a firm grip on his hair, keeping his face pressed against the cold metal. There was a momentary relaxation on the arm as Victor reached down and flicked on the switch. The big blade began to spin, making its metallic, whirring sound. The chef tried to brace himself against the work table with his free arm, tried to straighten the elbow, get away from the blade, but Victor shoved the other arm up hard against his shoulders and his face banged down once again against the sliding steel guard. He felt himself being pushed forward into the blade.
He screamed. He felt his knees buckle, and as his head moved forward, he slipped down and back a bit, suddenly a dead weight in Victor's grip. The blade took him just below the right eye; a glancing but thick slice across the cheekbone. Blood sprayed up into the chef's eyes. A thick slice of the chef's cheek fell neatly away from the bone, dropping with an audible slap onto the tray below.
The chef fell to the floor. He was vaguely aware of Victor standing over him, his mouth moving, tugging at his clothes, cursing, trying to get him to stand up. There was something in his eyes, he knew that, and he thought he heard noises, somebody cursing in the