Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [6]
"You got it, baby," said Carol.
"You have your key?"
"Of course, Doctor!" said Carol.
HARVEY SAT at his desk and looked up at the wall clock over the door. It was a quarter to four. He pressed the intercom button on the telephone, "Michael, pick up. Pick up, Michael."
The chef picked up. "Yeah?"
"Is the bartender in?" asked Harvey.
"He's changing," said the chef.
"What about Stephanie? She's early person tonight."
"She called before," said the chef, without inflection. "She said she's gonna be late."
"Thanks for letting me know. How late?"
"A few minutes," said the chef. "Head shots."
"Let me know when she comes in," said Harvey.
"Should I send her up?"
"No, just let me know. I want to know if I got somebody on the floor. Cheryl's due in at five forty-five. And the busboy. What's his name?"
"Hector?"
"That's it."
"Cheryl will be in early. It's chicken pot pie for the shaft meal. She loves chicken pot pie," said the chef.
"I have to go out for a little while in about an hour or so. Barry is off today, so watch the store for me, okay?"
"Okay," said the chef.
Harvey punched off the intercom and pressed down for an outside line. He dialed and heard two rings and a series of clicks on the other end. Finally, someone picked up.
A man's voice said, "Hello?"
"It's me," said Harvey. "This is Moses."
"Yes?" said the voice. "What is it you want?"
"I have to talk to my friend. As soon as possible," said Harvey.
"Is this an emergency?" asked the voice.
"Yes, it's a fuckin' emergency," said Harvey, losing his composure for a second. He paused and took a deep breath. "Alright, maybe not an emergency. But I've got to talk to the guy. Things are getting bad here. I got hurt today. Just now. I think he broke my fuckin' nose."
"Okay," said the voice. "Stay calm. You can meet him in . . . one hour. At the place. You know which place?"
"Yes. I know it," said Harvey.
"One hour then," said the voice.
Harvey hung up the phone and called his ex-wife.
Four
HARVEY STOOD OUT front of Village Cigars at the corner of Christopher Street and Seventh Avenue. The evening sky-was filling with clouds. A line of Lotto players pushed past Harvey and into the store. Commuters scurried by, making for the subway entrances. Looking across the street at the Riviera Cafe, Harvey watched the busboys breaking down the cafe tables in anticipation of rain. A dirty, barefoot old man with sores on his face shook an empty cardboard coffee cup at Harvey and asked him for change. He shook his head and the man moved on to the Lotto players.
A cherry-red Alfa Romeo two-seater pulled up to the curb on Seventh Avenue. The driver rolled down the window on the passenger side and called out to Harvey, "Hop in, Doc!"
The driver was a heavyset man with dark hair, thinning on top, and a carefully groomed mustache. He wore a blue-and-red-striped polo shirt, open at the neck, and a tiny gold crucifix on a thin gold chain. He leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door.
"Come on! Get in!" he said.
Harvey slid into the black leather bucket seat just as it began to rain. "Jesus Christ," said Harvey. "Is this your car?"
"Nope," said the driver. "Perks, man, perks. They say we should blend. I'm blending."
"They let you people have cars like this? This is where my tax dollars are going?" said Harvey.
The driver laughed, "Since when have you been paying your taxes?"
Harvey sat silently for a moment as the Alfa turned right. Another turn on Hudson and they were headed uptown in the early rush hour traffic. "I could have been killed today. Right there in my fuckin' office, he smashes my face in. Look at me . . . He could have killed me. He broke my glasses."
"It doesn't look too bad," said the driver, sneaking a quick look as he steered the car between a bus and a delivery truck. "They said you got yourself a broken nose or something. It doesn't look broken to me."
"I think it might be broken," insisted Harvey.
The