Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [58]
"Hey, Sally Wig," said Al. "New car, Sally?"
Sally stared at the man. He looked like a cop. What was a cop doing in a nice car like that? Probably on the take. Sally mentally reviewed all the friendly policemen he was aware of, trying to place the face.
"Hey candy-ass," the man was saying, "they make you drive that piece a shit? What? You don't rate a Caddy? Not even a Lincoln? What the hell's wrong? I thought you were comin' up in the world . . . Drivin' around in a car like that . . ."
Infuriated, Sally struggled with the door handle, anxious to get out of the Buick, to reach over into the Alfa and strangle this son of a bitch, talking to him like that. . . He wanted to cave the guy's head in, tear his goddamn teeth out of his head, leave him slumped over the wheel in that fancy car of his. He pawed angrily at the handle. It came off in his hand. The red Alfa pulled away from the crosswalk, leaving Sally at the light, cursing at the top of his lungs and pounding his fist against the dashboard.
IT WAS ELEVEN O'CLOCK in the morning, and Tommy lingered over his pecan pancakes, reading the food section of The New York Times. The Pink Teacup was almost empty, the only other customers an elderly gay couple, sitting at the other end of the dining room next to the door. Tommy had his newspaper spread out across two tables. He had precut his pancakes into bite-size pieces, so he had his left hand free for the paper while his right hand traveled freely between his plate and his mouth. The Teacup's cook was putting on the collards for dinner sendee, and the lone waitress sat behind the register on a stool, reading People magazine aloud to the cook in a thick Southern accent.
The front door opened and Al entered the restaurant. "Man, I'm hungry," he announced. He turned to the waitress, "You still serving?" The waitress nodded and went back to reading her magazine.
Al sauntered over to Tommy's table. "Tommy Pagano, right?"
Tommy looked up at him, surprised.
Without hesitating, Al pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. He put his elbow on Tommy's paper.
"Mind if I join you, Tommy?" he asked.
Tommy's lips moved but nothing came out. Eventually, he man aged to stammer, "I'm sorry . . . I forget. . . Do I know you? Do I know you from somewhere?"
Al leaned closer. "FBI, Tommy. My name is Al. I'm a special agent attached to the U.S. Attorney's office here in Manhattan. Boy, is this a coincidence or what?"
"W-what do you mean?" asked Tommy, putting down his fork.
"Finding you here. I love this place. You know I been coming here for years. Back in the seventies I used to eat here all the time. What are you eating there, the pecan pancakes? I love those." He turned and called over to the waitress, "Lemme have some of what he's having, dear. And some black coffee." The waitress got up off her stool, wrote out a check, and handed it to the cook.
Al turned his attention back to Tommy. "I can't get over it. There I am, just a couple of hours ago, sitting in my office looking over your file and I go out to get myself some of those good pecan pancakes they got over here and there you are. Small world."
"File?" echoed Tommy.
"Oh, yeah," said Al. "You got a file. I was just reading up on you before I came over."
"Why, what do I have a file for?" asked Tommy.
"You got a file. Your uncle, he's got a file. Your uncle's file is this thick, weighs a ton." Al held up one hand with the fingers wide apart from the thumb. "Your file's pretty skinny, you want to know the truth. All bones, no meat."
"Why do I have a file?" asked Tommy. "What did I do? I didn't do anything."
Al grinned. "Tommy, you don't have to do anything to get yourself a file. They love filling up files where I work. Like a big vacuum cleaner down there suckin' up all kinds a shit."
"But—" Tommy protested.
"I know, I know," said Al sympathetically. "You feel kinda violated. I can understand that. Lotta people