Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [112]
"No way," said Tommy.
"No hard feelings, I hope?" said Al.
"I'll miss lunches at the Metro," said Tommy sarcastically.
Al laughed. "You weren't gonna get too many more a those."
"I won't miss you," said the chef. "I won't miss you a bit. I think you suck. I hope I never see you again."
"No reason you should, Chef. . ." said Al. "No reason at all."
"What about me?" asked Tommy. "You done with me or what?"
"Nothing has been decided officially," said Al. "I just wrote a memo on that this morning . . . I gotta hear back before I can say for sure. It would be nice if you were available for questioning, I guess . . . should it ever come to that. Unofficially. . . my best guess? They'll pretty much leave you alone. Your uncle's dead. They got a nice, easy dead-bang homicide case against Skinny and Victor and it probably won't even be my office that prosecutes . . . I think in a few days or so, you'll be off the hook. Don't quote me." He winked.
"What happened to Harvey?" asked Tommy.
Al grimaced. "I don't know . . . That's a good question."
"He's landfill, right? He's out at Fresh Kills," said Tommy.
"Is there anything you can tell me—" Al began. He looked at Tommy and the chef, their faces closing up like a door slamming, "Ah . . . forget it . . . It's just that his chick Carol has been raising hell. She called her congressman. It's a fuckin' mess."
"Nobody's gonna be mad at me . . . mad at Tommy, are they?" asked the chef.
Tommy turned and looked at the chef, shaking his head at him, exasperated. "Nobody's mad at anybody. Nobody gives two shits . . . We didn't do anything wrong. Right, Al?"
"Sure, Tommy. It's all on the record. You told me to go fuck myself. End of story. Some hard-on from the Manhattan DA wants to ask you questions about your uncle's death, you do what you think is right. I'm out of it. Any of Sally's old friends, any problems you think you might have with them, I don't know about. You know better than me . . . If I hear of anything should concern you, I'll give you a call. You're still at the same number?"
Tommy nodded.
Al turned to the chef. "So, how's things with you? You behavin' yourself?"
The chef nodded and stood up. "Let's go," he said to Tommy. "I don't wanna miss the movie."
Tommy stood up and gave Al a long last glance. Al offered his hand to Tommy. Tommy turned away as if he hadn't seen it.
"Awwwww," chided Al. "Don't be like that. . . Don't go away mad . . ."
Tommy and the chef walked down Spring Street without saying anything. Al got back in the Alfa. In the rearview mirror, he could see the two of them, standing next to each other in West Broadway traffic, Tommy's arm outstretched, hailing a cab.
Forty-Five
CHARLIE WAGONS was wearing a red chef's hat that had been puffed out, then flattened and pushed slightly to one side. He reached under the fire with the worn Dexter meat fork and speared a veal chop. He pressed the center of the chop with his thumb and then licked the thumb. The broiler in the rear kitchen area of the Evergreen was a pull-out Garland of the old kind, and Charlie had it fired up all the way. Humming cheerfully, he pulled the grill out and located another chop. He stuck the big fork in between the thin layer of fat and the lean veal, then swung around with a practiced ease and deposited it with a thud on Tommy's plate. He put the other chop on his own plate and, with his hip, nudged the grill back under the flame. The chops smelled of fresh rosemary and garlic, and Tommy's stomach growled.
"I heard that," said Charlie, with an easy smile. "Smells fuckin' good, don't it? I bake the garlic now, like you said. I wrap it inna foil an' I put it inna oven. Sweet. I squeeze a little a that on there—"
"That's fresh rosemary you got there," interjected Tommy, pleasantly surprised.
"Damn right, it is," said Charlie. "I don't use none a them fuckin' pine needles they sell inna supermarket. Fresh." Charlie smiled affectionately at Tommy, sitting at the small, round table in his jacket and tie.
"You didn't hafta dress up for me, you