Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [70]
"I've got to think about the situation for a while. This is a pretty fucked-up thing. I gotta think about it."
"Does Cheryl know anything?" asked the chef. "You been seeing her, right?"
"No, she doesn't know anything. I mean she knows who my uncle is. She knows that, but the other thing, no."
"Tommy, he said he's gonna take you away in fucking handcuffs. They'll subpoena you. They'll indict you. Grand juries do whatever the prosecutor wants them to do. They'll indict you. It's not even you they want. You're gonna have to tell them something."
"I'm not gonna rat on my uncle. What's my mother gonna think she sees me sending her brother to prison? What happens then? Where do I live? What do I do? What am I gonna say to my mother?" Tommy was looking in the chef's eyes.
"What's she gonna think if you go to prison?" asked the chef.
"It'll break her heart. What do you think? She's not going to like it at all," said Tommy.
"You gotta do something. You can't just sit there, waiting for something to happen . . ."
"What am I gonna do? Run away? Split for South America? Live in Argentina like some sort of fugitive Nazi under another name? Shit . . . I lived around here my whole fucking life. I don't even speak Spanish! What am I gonna do, I run away down there? Where am I gonna go?"
"Shit," said the chef. "I speak Spanish. I'll go with you. We can make a break for it together."
"Yeah, right," said Tommy. "What are you gonna do for methadone down in Argentina or Brazil?"
"I hadn't even thought about that," said the chef.
"I don't even like the food," said Tommy, starting to break into an embittered laugh.
Soon they were both laughing, tears rolling down their faces. The chef began to cough uncontrollably. When he recovered, he wiped the tears out of his eyes. "That guy Al," he said. "Is he a piece of fuckin' work or what?"
"He's some kind of asshole, that's for sure," said Tommy. "He tracked me down to the Pink Teacup the other day, just to ruin my breakfast."
"How did they do it?" asked the chef. "You know, how did they kill the guy? If you don't mind me asking about it."
"They shot him," said Tommy. "Then they stabbed him, here." He pointed to an area below the solar plexus on his chef's coat.
"Right there in the kitchen," said the chef. "Right there in the fuckin' kitchen. I still can't believe it. Where? Behind the line? What?"
"The garbage area. Then they dragged him over to the dishwasher. They put him in the trash." Tommy started to laugh again.
"What?" said the chef. "What's so funny?"
"They used your knife. I figured it out when I came back. I saw what happened to your knife, I figured it out they must have used it to cut the guy up. Sorry, it's not funny, I know. I just can't help It.
"They used my knife? My knife?"
"Chopped him into hunks with it. I guess that's why your knife was so fucked up. Sorry, man."
"Woooaah," exclaimed the chef. He pondered for a moment and then started to laugh, too. "And it's hangin' over my fuckin' desk right now! It's still hangin' over my fuckin' desk!"
"Sorry, man," said Tommy. "I didn't know until I came back to work and saw it. After they killed the guy, I just sat there in the office, sucking down the vodka. I was sort of reevaluating things at that point, I can tell you."
"Jesus, Tommy," said the chef. "I gotta say this, you've turned out to be a pretty interesting dude to know. I mean, I've had sous-chefs mishandle my knives before—but this"—he exploded in laughter—"this is fucking ridiculous."
"It wasn't me, it wasn't me," said Tommy. "I'm sorry I couldn't say anything. I mean, what am I gonna say, 'Sorry chef, I had a couple of friends over last night and they sort of chopped a guy up with your knife and I think it's maybe damaged a little bit'?"
"I know, I know," said the chef. "I knew it couldn't have been you. I'm sure you didn't do it. You know you use a boning knife, with something that big. Shit, I don't even break down chickens with that knife."
"It's not funny," said Tommy.