Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [7]
Harvey nodded.
"It looks a little swole-up maybe," said the driver. "But it doesn't look broken."
"It hurts," said Harvey.
It was pouring rain now. They pulled up at a stoplight, and the driver turned and looked at Harvey. "So what happened today?"
"He wanted money. It's Friday," said Harvey.
"So you gave him some?" asked the driver.
"I didn't have it to give," said Harvey. "I had to pay the liquor. You have to pay them or they put you on COD. You know what happens when they put you on COD? Once that happens, I may as well close the fucking doors."
"Harvey," said the driver, putting the Alfa into first gear as the light changed. "You are pissing me off. Our office disperses you certain funds. You, in turn, are to disperse those funds in the precise fucking manner we agreed. You are not supposed to pay your liquor bills with that money. You are not supposed to pay rent, or make payroll, or buy gifts for your bimbos. We've had this conversation before. You are to use those funds for the express purpose of making controlled payments at the appropriate times. You are supposed to give the nice Mr. Pitera his money when he asks for it." Seeing a long line of green lights in front of him, the driver quickly shifted gears and raced to make them.
"I'm sorry, Al," said Harvey. "I'm just trying to stay afloat till Labor Day. I'm jus' tryin' to pay my bills here. Tryin' to run a fuckin business. Tryin' to make a fuckin' living. And it's getting damn near fucking impossible."
"That's just too bad, buddy," said Al, lighting a Marlboro 100 with the lighter from the dashboard. "But it sure beats spreading your cheeks up at Greenhaven, don't it?"
Al gave Harvey an affectionate pat on the left knee and then down shifted into second gear as he swung the Alfa east, heading toward the park.
"Now don't pout," he said. "We'll take a nice drive in the park. I got a stack of cassettes there, the previous owner was a Stones fan. Is that a break? We'll have a nice drive and you can tell me your troubles. We can go over a few things together, listen to a few tunes. You just relax and tell Uncle Al all about it."
Five
SO, HOW IS YOUR DENTIST FRIEND?" asked United States Attorney Raymond Sullivan.
"Whining," said Al. "As usual."
"What's his problem?" asked Sullivan, a fiftyish, athletic-looking man with a full head of snow white hair and a ruddy complexion.
"He got a boo-boo on his nose today. I had to kiss it and make it better. Sally Wig is unhappy with him."
"What's he unhappy about?"
"Harvey's behind with the money," sighed Al.
"Our money. What's he doing with it?"
"Fuck if I know. He says he's paying bills," said Al. "I think the guy's maybe taking things a little too seriously."
"Like what is he taking seriously?" asked Sullivan, annoyed.
"He's got delusions of grandeur. The guy thinks he's really going to make a go of the restaurant. You should hear him talk about it. He thinks he wants to be a success at it. I have to say, I was hesitant to disabuse him of the notion."
"And why is that?" said Sullivan, one bushy white eyebrow raised.
"Listen . . . We all know how Harvey got in the restaurant business. We put up his end, for Chrissakes. He knows that. We kept him out of the pen, made his problem go away and all. He's a snitch. He knows he's a snitch and he knows he's our snitch. It's just, I think he's beginning to think that if he makes some good cases for us he's gonna somehow get to keep the restaurant. I don't want to rub his nose in it."
Sullivan leaned over his government-issue desk and clasped his hands together. "I really don't see why we should give a shit one way or the other what he thinks. I mean, handling an informant is all about control. You know that. It seems to me, the way I read it, the tighter control we have, and the more he knows it, the better. We own him. He knows it . . . So what? He's hardly in a position to haggle."
Al settled back in his chair and smiled. "We want some indictments, right? We want