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By Root 400 0

pink fillet free of the backbone. He repeated the movement on the other side of the bone. Holding the skin at the tail with a kitchen towel, he worked the knife blade along in a gentle, rocking motion under the meat, removing the skin. Then, with a pair of needle-nose pliers, he plucked the translucent rib bones out of the fillets. He worked quickly, leaving a little pile of the bones on the cutting board. He took a larger knife from a shelf and, using an ounce scale, cut the fillets into seven-ounce servings.

There was a tall stockpot on low flame on the stove filled with water, lobster shells, and mirepoix. Tommy put in the rack, skin, and head from the salmon. He sprinkled whole cloves, peppercorns, bay leaves, thyme, crushed red pepper, fennel seed, and a bit of saffron into the pot. He found some leek tops and parsley stems in the reach-in and a halved head of garlic, and he threw those in, too. He checked the flame under the stockpot for a final time and walked into the chef's tiny office.

"You wanted to talk to me?" asked Tommy.

"Yeah," said the chef. "But not here. Let's take a walk."

Still dressed in their whites, the chef and Tommy walked west on Spring Street toward the river. It was a cool afternoon, and the smells from the restaurant kitchens along Spring wafted out over the street.

"Burnt garlic," said the chef as they passed the Count's Villa Nova. "Sons of bitches don't know how to handle garlic. Disgraceful for an Italian restaurant. You smell that?"

"So what's up?" asked Tommy. "What do you want to talk to me about? I do something wnrong?"

"Tommy," said the chef. "I don't know how to say this—but I'm in trouble. You're in trouble."

"What, are we getting canned?"

"No, no. Worse trouble. Worse than that, a lot worse. Legal trouble. Police trouble. Found dead in the trunk of a fuckin car kinda trouble," said the chef.

"Oh," said Tommy.

"Yeah," said the chef, shaking his head.

"I know I've got trouble," said Tommy. "What's your problem?"

"I had a conversation with somebody from the FBI yesterday," said the chef. "He works for some federal strike force they got."

"Big guy?" asked Tommy. "Guy named Al?"

"That's the one," said the chef. "He talked to you?"

"Fuckin guy ambushes me at breakfast the other day," said Tommy. "What did he say?"

"Tommy," said the chef, "he says you're involved in some kinda murder or something."

"Fuck!" said Tommy. "Fuck, fuck, fuck . . ."

"Tommy, he says you're in a real world of shit. He says you could be arrested, subpoenaed—"

"I don't see why he's tellin' you this shit. What's he tellin' you for? Why's he gotta go around talking to my friends for?"

"Don't get mad, okay? Please don't get mad at me. But I gotta tell you, I got popped a few months ago. They got me comin outta Checkmate with a few bags of dope. Before I was on the program. They cuffed me and hauled me downtown. They were gonna throw me in a fuckin' cell and I was sick like a dog. I was sick before I even scored and they hauled me down there and made me watch them put my dope in the evidence baggies and take it away. I didn't have a chance to do anything. I didn't want to—I couldn't kick in a fuckin' cell . . . I just couldn't do that the way I was. That guy Al comes down and talks to me. He says they'll let me skate on the possession charge if I tell them some things."

"What did you tell them?" asked Tommy.

"I told them what I knew, which was fucking nothing. I didn't know anything! They wanted to know about you and your uncle. I tried to tell them some things about Harvey. They didn't want any of that. I told them I'd seen Sally around, that I knew him to say hello, but I didn't really know the guy. I didn't know anything to tell. Even if I wanted to. And I didn't want to."

"Shit!" said Tommy.

"I told them you're a friend. I told them you're my sous-chef, that you're a good guy. I didn't want to talk about you at all, but that's all they were interested in, was you. I didn't wanna detox in a fuckin' holding cell, Tommy. That was the thing. I couldn't do that."

"Maaan."

"I didn't tell them