Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [12]
"Who's that?" asked Detective Dudziak.
"That's Tommy Pagano," said Detective Rizzo, sitting behind the wheel.
"Yeah?"
"Tommy. The nephew," said Rizzo. "Sally's nephew."
"That don't look like the nephew to me," said Dudziak, fumbling for his scope in the glove compartment.
"That's him," said Rizzo. "That's the nephew."
"You got the pictures?"
"Left 'em onna breakfast table this morning. Kids were late for school. Forgot." Rizzo started the engine.
"What are you doin'?" asked Dudziak.
"I'm thinkin'," said Rizzo.
"You're sure that's him?"
"I'm tellin' you, that's him. That's Tommy. I remember the face."
Dudziak consulted a clipboard on his lap. "Where the fuck is he goin? Says here it's the middle of his shift, he's not due off till nine. What's he doin'?"
"I wanna follow him."
"Maybe he's runnin' an errand . . ."
"Maybe he is. Maybe he's runnin' an errand for Uncle Sally."
"Maybe he's runnin' out for a head of lettuce."
"It would be nice to find out."
"What?"
"C'mon," said Rizzo, "let's find out."
"Leave the post?"
"He who dares, wins."
"Oh, shit . . ."
"If he's not doin' nothin' we don't have to tell nobody. If he is, great. I'm tired a sittin' here just lookin' at a fuckin' restaurant. Maybe we got somethin' here."
"So we follow him?"
"We follow him. Maybe we get lucky."
THE TWO DETECTIVES followed the chef in the van down Spring Street.
"Oh, man . . . It's nice to get a breeze in here," said Rizzo. At Bowery, the chef headed uptown. The van dropped back, waiting for him to gain some distance.
"Don't lose him," said Dudziak.
"I got him, I got him," said Rizzo.
At Houston Street, the chef turned right, heading east.
"Where the fuck is he goin'?" asked Dudziak.
"I dunno, maybe he's got a girlfriend. Little love in the afternoon . . ."
The chef crossed onto the uptown side of Houston at Avenue A. Rizzo had to make a U-turn. The chef turned right at Fourth Street, once more heading east.
"That's Neverneverland in there," said Dudziak. "He's lookin' to cop."
"Look," said Rizzo. "He's slowin' down, he's lookin' . . ."
The chef crossed Avenue B, walking slowly through the suddenly crowded streets, headed for Avenue C.
Detective Rizzo pulled the van over to the side of the street and took the scope from Dudziak. He peered through the lens. The chef was exchanging words with a thin, young male Hispanic wearing a baseball cap. The young man held a short length of plywood; he motioned the chef toward an abandoned tenement. The chef looked up and down Fourth Street a couple of times and then ducked quickly under a corrugated metal barrier that didn't quite block the entrance to the tenement.
"Bingo!" said Rizzo.
"What?" exclaimed Dudziak. "He score?"
"This is just too good to be true," said Rizzo. "They gonna love our asses for this. We're gonna catch him dirty . . ."
"I don't know about this . . ."
"They are gonna love our asses for this at Strike Force! We score . . . We score big time." He imitated a cheering crowd. "Yessss! Two days on the job and we score. Are we a pair a swingin' dicks or what?"
"What's he coppin'? Crack?"
"Better," said Rizzo. "Much better. Tommy's a fuckin' dope fiend! I love it!"
"We better call in," said Dudziak. "We better call in before we do anythin'. Are we gonna do anything?"
"I dunno, I dunno. I'll call in a minute. I just wanna savor the moment. I just wanna sit here and enjoy myself for a sec. Tommy's a dope fiend. It don't say nothin' about that inna file. This is a break. Tommy Pagano. Dope Fiend. I'm gettin' a fuckin' hard-on just thinkin' 'bout it."
"He could come outta there any fuckin' minute. You better call in."
"He ain't goin' nowhere," said Rizzo. "I know that spot. They sell the Check-Mate in there. That's one of the populuh spots down here, man. They usually got forty, fifty skells lined up in there. Tommy's gonna be busy in there for a while."
"So, what? You thinkin' a grabbin' him he comes out?"
"Damn right. You know he's gonna be dirty. Alright.