Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [55]
"What the fuck are you talking about?!" roared Charlie.
"Where's your friend Sally Wig?" asked Al. "I don't see him around. I thought you guys were tight. Everybody says he's like a son to you. I thought maybe he'd be here. You think he'd want to help?"
"Get the fuck outta here!" said Charlie, waving his arms. "Motherfucker! You fuckin hand job, get offa my stoop! Get the fuck out! Prick!"
Al looked ostentatiously at his watch. "I guess this is a bad time for you. How about we reschedule some other time. Tomorrow okay with you? We can have lunch, talk about this neighborhood watch thing. Go over the details. I can get some sizes for your friends here, it'll go a lot faster getting the uniforms. How about I take you out for lunch? Or you want to eat here? I could bring lunch. What do you like? I could bring sandwiches. What do you like? Turkey club? Ham? Nice Reuben sandwich? Personally I'm a pastrami man. I know a place over there on Second that makes a great Reuben." Al paused for a moment and looked thoughtful. He patted Charlie on the stomach. "Or you want something light? Maybe a salad? All that starch you guys eat, it's bad for the heart."
Charlie, his face crimson, stalked into the club, muttering curses under his breath. A few seconds later, a big man in a V-neck sweater closed the door.
Al turned to the old men in the chairs. They sat there mute, star ing at him. "Jeez, what a grouch," he said. He got back in the red Alfa and pulled into traffic.
AL FOUND DANNY TESTA sitting on a crate of oranges on the loading dock of Testa Produce in Hunt's Point in the Bronx. Men pushed hand trucks laden with produce onto waiting trucks. They wore leather trusses around their waists and T-shirts with the Testa logo printed on the back. Danny sat smoking a cigar, going over a clipboard full of orders and invoices.
"Hi, Danny," said Al.
Danny looked up from his clipboard and said nothing.
"My name is Al. I'm a special agent assigned to the Organized Crime Strike Force, Southern District of New York. Maybe you read about us in the Post ?"
"So what?" said Danny.
"I'm sorry to bother you at work," said Al. "Really. I know you're a busy man. But something's come up at the office and I could really use some help."
Danny smiled sardonically. "Oh, yeah?"
"It's a missing persons case, really," said Al.
"I didn't know you guys did missing persons," said Danny.
Al continued as if he hadn't heard. "We're seeking to ascertain the whereabouts of a certain Freddy Manso. He's been missing a long time. People are worried. His family must be worried sick. It's been so long nobody's heard from him and frankly"—Al lowered his voice—"people are beginning to, you know, fear the worst."
"I don't know the guy," said Danny, a smile still frozen on his face.
"Freddy Manso? You don't know the guy?" exclaimed Al. "Damn! I feel like a fuckin' jerk. I come all the way out here, use up a quarter tank of gas. You don't even know the guy. This is really embarrassing. I told my boss, I said, 'I'll go out there, Hunt's Point, see Danny Testa. He knows Freddy. I'll bet he's worried too. I'll talk to him. Maybe he knows where we can find him. Maybe he can help.' "
"I guess you made the trip for nothing," said Danny.
"Yeah," said Al. "Looks like it. I guess I got mixed up. It's those damn photos they give you down at the office. The long lenses. You don't get the resolution. So much grain in the picture, the light is bad sometimes. I look at a picture, I see two guys standing next to each other, smiling and clappin' each other on the back. I think—hey, these guys are friends. They know each other. They know each other well. Just look at them there goosin each other like a couple of fags. They must go way back. Then I take another look at the same fuckin picture and I'm not so sure. Maybe the picture's a little fuzzy. Maybe I got it all wrong. Maybe that's not Danny Testa there smilin and laughin'