Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [107]
WHEN TOMMY CAME charging into the kitchen, he saw Victor standing by the slicer with a gun, the chef sliding to the floor at his feet. Tommy vaulted the steamtable, surprising himself, and knocked Victor above his hip as fiercely as he could. The revolver flew from Victor's hand, landing in the cold grease in the Frialator. Tommy yanked open a utility drawer, pulling it completely out of its housing, scattering knives and utensils everywhere. He reached for the first thing he could find and came up with the short, five-pronged ice shaver. He lunged forward and buried all five steel teeth up to the hilt in Victor's armpit.
"You miserable fuckin mutt!" he heard himself say, and he yanked the wooden handle toward himself, ready for another thrust. The steel teeth stayed in the arm. They raked down the underside from armpit to elbow, leaving five bloody trenches.
Victor took a few steps back and stumbled over the chef's semiconscious body. He lost his balance, put a hand out to steady himself and fell into the slicer. There was a terrible, grinding peal as the still-whirring blade chewed through Victor's fingernail. It changed pitch, a lower tone, as it continued lengthwise up the finger, halving it to the second joint.
His shirtfront and neck spattered with blood, Victor managed to pull back his hand and take a few wobbly steps. He stood there, one good hand wrapped tightly around the wrist of the other, gaping at his ruined finger and the blood sprinkling out of his elbow. The color started to drain out of his lips, and his face became blotchy, then white. He did a sort of dispirited jig, no sound coming out of his mouth, and flopped helplessly to the floor, coming to rest at Sally's feet.
"What the fuck is going on in here?" said an incredulous Sally, taking in the carnage.
The Count stood behind him, his eyes bulging. He seemed to shrink back, looking for an exit. Skinny stepped forward past the Count, seemingly unconcerned. He walked behind the line, saw the chef lying there, bleeding from the face, a silver-dollar-size patch of white cheekbone visible through the blood. Skinny reached over and calmly turned off the slicer. He looked down at Victor, who was getting whiter by Sally's feet. And there was Tommy, still standing over his chef, the bloody ice shaver in his fist.
Tommy felt ready to kill them all. He looked down at Victor and considered whipping out his cock and pissing on him. Instead, he took a deep breath, looked straight at Skinny, and with a shaking voice said, "We had a work-related accident here. We're gonna say there was an accident with the slicer . . . the chef's feet slipped . . . That's what we're gonna say. I'm gonna take him to St. Vincent's." He pointed at Victor on the floor. "He's goin' inta shock it looks like. You don't get him to a hospital, he'll probably fuckin die. Per sonally, I don't give a shit. . . But if he don't get that hand, the arm wrapped up, you're gonna be lookin' at a dead guy. I don't know how you feel about the guy," he said, "but I'd get him to Emergency pretty quick. I recommend Beekman. He doesn't look too good."
"Jesus, Tommy," said Sally, "I didn't know ya had it in ya . . . You're right, he don't look too good."
"I'll go bring the car around," said the Count. He scampered up the stairs, happy to get away.
Tommy noticed that Skinny was smiling at him. He looked almost affectionate.
He spoke directly to Skinny, encouraged by the amused look on his face. "So we're not gonna have a problem with this, I hope. The man was in the wrong. We gotta stick up for our friends, right Skin?" Tommy turned his back on the others and helped the chef to his feet. As he started walking him slowly to the delivery entrance, he noticed the little orange bottle, still grasped tightly in the chef's hand. He pried loose the chef's fingers and gently placed the