Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [29]
"He's a numb-nuts," said Danny. "But he earns."
"He earns 'cause I let him earn. I gave that to him. Out of respect for his sister. Out of respect for the brother-in-law. Wasn't for that, he'd be drivin' the fellows around still, pickin' up their fuckin' shirts at the cleaners."
"I gave him a little something extra for Tommy," said Danny.
"Oh, really? Okay, that's good. That's good. That was a surprise. But that's okay He's a good kid, Tommy. Not a fuckin' loudmouth like his uncle. You know the sister? An angel. You shoulda seen her. Hard to believe it's the same blood."
"So he should be patient," said Danny.
"Real patient," said Charlie. "Okay, he's makin' some money for us right now with the Count and with the other place, the other restaurant, a few other things. He's got some money out onna street for us. That doesn't mean I gotta love the guy."
"So we don't do nothin' for him?" said Danny.
"Maybe get him a new car or somethin', make him feel better. Talk to Benny D. Get him a fuckin' car, token of our appreciation. Maybe he'll drive it off a fuckin' cliff."
Fifteen
IT WAS OPPRESSIVELY HOT on the street, a hundred degrees and humid. Inside the basement kitchen, with the ovens on, the grill fired up, the broiler cranking away, and the steamtable and the dishwasher giving off clouds of moist, hot air, it was far worse.
Tommy's chef jacket was soaked through. It clung to his back and shoulders; chafed him under his collar. The bandanna he'd tied around his head didn't prevent the sweat from trickling into his eyes, clouding his vision. Leaning over the grill, he removed the last slices of fennel and eggplant and stepped over to the small hand sink in the corner. He took off his bandanna and the wet towel around his neck and ran them under cold water. He put them both in the small reach-in freezer. He slipped the charred, black skins off some red peppers, covered the peppers with olive oil while he waited. After a few minutes, he took the bandanna and the towel out of the freezer and put them back on.
The chef wasn't hot at all, though he was sweating. He was cold; his teeth were chattering. He stood directly in front of the broiler, arms crossed tightly across his chest, hugging his shoulders. He rocked back and forth on his feet, like a sailor in rough seas. It felt like the marrow in his legs was going to explode, like it was swelling up inside the bones. Any second, he thought, there would be a bang and a long hissing sound, the bones would crack, and it would all come rushing out. Maybe that would relieve the pressure. Anything would be better than this.
Tommy looked over at his suffering chef, huddled and trembling in front of the broiler. The chef's nose was running, of course; his eyes were tearing, and he had just come off a twenty-minute sneezing jag that had the whole damn floor staff asking if he had a cold. Watching the chef's discomfort, he thought about hell and wondered how much worse it could be.
The chef was around less and less these days. Tommy officially picked up an additional shift for which he was paid, and another shift and a half worth of extra work and overtime for which he was not. The chef was just not holding it together, and the only person left in the place who seemed not to know about his heroin addiction was Harvey. The chef was hitting Harvey for an advance every week, usually only a day or two after payday. And this, when he was taking home what, six, seven hundred dollars a week? Tommy had noticed that he'd begun to turn in dummied-up receipts at the bar for items never purchased.