Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [111]
Charlie took a deep breath of air and looked up at the late afternoon sky. He turned to Danny and squeezed his shoulder affectionately.
"I tell ya, Danny. Even with alla problems I got comin' up, I feel like a new man with that prick outta my hair. I don't gotta sit there and watch that guy eat no more . . . I feel like I just had a good fuckin dump just knowin' that guy is inna ground. I can breathe the air again."
Charlie started back to the Evergreen, a little more spring in his step, his bedroom slippers making a flip-flop sound on the pavement. Danny had to hurry after him to catch up.
"You hear about the Count?" asked Charlie, laughing. "They got him for receiving. Can you believe that? They down there searchin' the place for that guy from the fish market and they don't find nothin'. So some smart-ass cop opens up the freezer and they find a load a shrimps gone missin' awhile back. Somebody musta lost a truck. Count's gonna get off with a fine, but he's gonna have problems now with the license. That's okay 'cause we got somebody else run it for him. Did you see the picture they had inna papers?"
"No," said Danny. "I missed that."
"Looks like they got the poor bastard outta bed. You shoulda seen the guy, swingin' at the photographers, he's got his gut hangin' outta his pants, and the best part, he ain't got his fuckin' teeth in . . . I saw it onna TV at the club. We had a good laugh."
Forty-Four
TOMMY AND THE CHEF sat on the step in front of the Dreadnaught. The chef had a large, square piece of gauze taped over his right cheekbone. There was a star-shaped welt in the center of his forehead, and his left arm was inside his jacket, supported by a makeshift sling.
There was a marshal's notice taped to the front door saying the restaurant had been seized. The picture window had been covered on the inside with newspaper; a framed copy of the menu lay on its side on the windowsill, trapped like a dead insect between the paper and the glass.
"Ricky got a job at the Lion's Head," said the chef.
Tommy shrugged, "Good for him . . . At least somebody's working. . .
"Cheryl find anything yet?" asked the chef.
"Not yet," said Tommy. "She doesn't know what she wants to do. I think she wants to get out of the restaurant business."
"You never called the guy, did you?" said the chef.
"No," said Tommy. "I never did."
' 'Cause I saw you on the phone in the emergency room. I thought you were calling him . . ."
"No. I was calling somebody else," said Tommy.
The red Alfa Romeo pulled up with a screech in front of the curb. Al got out, the Rolling Stones' "Memo from Turner" escaping from the car when he opened the door. He approached Tommy and the chef, a sheepish smile on his face, palms turned up at his sides in a kind of frozen shrug.
"What happened to you?" said Al, noticing the chef.
"I fell down some stairs," said the chef sourly.
Al took a deep breath, then looked around, letting the air out slowly. After a minute, he said, "So, what are you kids gonna do?"
"Unemployment," said Tommy and the chef in unison.
"Sorry guys . . . " said Al. "Was gonna happen anyway. One way or the other. Harvey or Sonny, makes no difference. They were ordering up enough shit to fill a fuckin' warehouse . . . That wouldn't a lasted long. I see Sonny's still open . . ."
"I just saw him goin' in over there. He's gonna have his cousin run it for him, take over the liquor license," said Tommy. "Nice case . . . He says it's been good for business. I read he's gonna plead, have to pay a fine."
"Yeah, well," said Al. "Sometimes you have to take what you can get.
"So what's gonna happen to the restaurant—this one?" asked Tommy.
"They'll sell it at auction," said Al. "Some other genius'll buy it. Maybe you can work there