Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [62]
"Well your friend is in the toilet. You didn't put him there. He did it all by himself. He put himself in. That's the sad fact. But you—you're the one holding the chain right now. You don't get him to come in, you're as good as flushing him down the tubes yourself. 'Cause you know, you know what's going to happen to him if he doesn't come in."
"Why put it all on me?"
"Because you're the only chance he's got. You think anybody else is gonna talk reason to the guy? I don't. You think any of his old pals, his uncle, you think they're gonna give two shits if he goes away for a nice ten-year jolt? I don't think so. Hell, that's college to them. They'll give him a nice going-away party, and if he gets too unhappy in the joint, maybe they get some citizen up there to stick a shank in him so he doesn't get too unhappy."
"Why does it have to be me?"
"Why you? Why you? Because it's your sorry junkie ass we own and not somebody else's. That's why," said Al.
"Nice fucking lunch," said the chef, unhappily.
"Hey, I'm sorry," said Al. "But that's where it is."
"What am I supposed to say to him. He's never talked about any of this. It's not like he confides in me. What am I supposed to say?"
"Listen. You go to Tommy. You take him out for a walk, you go somewhere private. You have a quiet talk with him. Just tell him how it is. Tell him how the big, bad FBI man is squeezing your nuts. Tell him how the Strike Force on Organized Crime is looking very seriously at him for accessory to murder. Ask him what kinds of problems he thinks he's gonna have when somebody shows up on a slow Saturday night at the restaurant and hands him a subpoena to go up and see the grand jury. Tell him if he doesn't get his ass down to the Federal building and start talking to us real damn soon, that it's gonna be you who goes directly to jail."
"You're kidding, right?" asked the chef.
"No. I'm not fucking kidding you. It's you that goes straight to the fuckin' can. You," said Al.
"But why?" protested the chef. "You said . . . they said if I helped, if I helped—I did help."
"You get to detox off the methadone in a holding cell. Who knows what happens to Tommy. I imagine you'll be able to read about it in the day room."
"They'll medicate me out there," said the chef. "My counselor said they can do that."
"There's a happy thought. I guess you have no problem then," said Al, smirking.
"They will. Half the people on my program are in and out of there all the time. They can get you medicated right there," the chef insisted.
"You'll lose your job," said Al.
"Restaurant's fuckin' terminal anyway. It's probably only got a few months to live."
"And there's your reputation to consider. Amongst your culinary brethren. It's a fairly small community—restaurants, chefs, owners. That's what I hear anyway. Always bumping into the same people. I'll bet people get squeamish about hiring ex-cons. I'll bet they get even more squeamish about hiring junkies to handle their food for them. People don't like to think about things like that, they sit down to order a nice dinner. Am I right? They think they might catch something . . ."
"We made a deal," said the chef, his upper lip sticking to his teeth.
"Let me explain something to you, Michael. You were a NYPD collar, in case you didn't know. Now, I was able to exert some influence, I was able to keep you out of the shit because of, and I quote, your ongoing assistance of a confidential nature in an investigation of the highest sensitivity.' The key word here is 'ongoing.' That means when the information is not 'on,' then you're the one who's gonna be going.' I've kept you out of it for months, out of a dead-bang drug case the DA would be happy to prosecute, and you've been feeding me shit. You try to serve up your boss, fine. Only we're not interested in your boss. I told you then what I was interested in. You haven't delivered. You haven't told me anything I don't know already. All you got to trade is your influence on Tommy. I can't hold the dam forever. Some of these local boys would be happy