Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [75]
"What shit has been going on?" asked Cheryl.
"I've been having some problems with my uncle," said Tommy.
"The gangster? That uncle?"
Tommy nodded.
"What does your uncle have to do with your fucking Stephanie? That is utter fucking bullshit. That is really lame, Tommy You're having trouble with your uncle and you have to fuck Stephanie? Is that what you're saying?"
"I can't really. I don't want to talk about it," said Tommy. "Okay? I'm having big problems? I don't want to get into it, but I'm having really serious problems right now with shit that has nothing to do with the restaurant or you or me or anything else. Guinea problems. I got into some trouble and I'm worried about some things."
"Was she any good?"
"What?"
"Was Stephanie any good? She seems to think she is."
"I can't remember. I was drunk."
"So it was bad?"
"I told you it . . . I told you—I was drunk. It lasted around twelve seconds."
"So you do remember," said Cheryl.
"I remember that it was unmemorable," said Tommy.
"So where did you go? Where did you do it?"
"I really don't want to talk about it, okay? I'm embarrassed."
"You did it in the fucking restaurant, right?"
"Downstairs," said Tommy.
"Dry humping in the dry-goods area? Delightful."
"I'm sorry," said Tommy. "I'm sorry it ever happened. If I could go back in time and fix it, I would. There's a lot I'd do over again."
"What does that mean?"
Tommy sat up completely, feet on the floor, and held the ice pack over the towel. "I'm in a lot of fucking trouble, alright? A lot of trouble. I've never been in so much trouble my whole fuckin' life, that's how much trouble. The cops could come and take me away any fuckin' minute, that's what kind of trouble."
"What? Are you gonna tell me you're in the fucking Mafia or something, now, Tommy? 'Cause that's bullshit. You're a fucking cook, okay? You're gonna have to do a lot better than that."
Tommy looked her in the eyes and put one hand gently up to her elbow. "I'm in serious shit. Serious, serious shit. I've been going nuts for over a month now, worrying about it. I've been going so nuts I thought I was gonna lose my mind. The other night, I was drunk and I was lonely and I wanted somebody to hold me and tell me everything was gonna be alright."
"So, instead you took Stephanie downstairs and threw it in her. That's what your mother's for, Tommy. Go home and cry on her shoulder."
"It's my mother's brother, my Uncle Sally, who got me into this, okay? I can't talk about it. I can't tell anybody. The fucking FBI came and talked to me the other day. Alright? The FBI . . . I'm sitting there having breakfast and the FBI comes right up to my table, right there in the Pink Teacup, and starts messing with me, dicking around with my head. They got files on me and everything. Can you believe that? They even know where I eat breakfast!"
Cheryl looked surprised. "Are you shitting me? Are you kidding? You're not kidding, are you? The FBI?"
Tommy nodded.
"What do the FBI want with you? What do they want, a fuckin' recipe?"
"They want to know about something my uncle might have done."
"You didn't do anything, right? Why are they bothering your
"Cheryl, I don't know. I don't know. Because I'm there. Because they feel like it. Because they think I did something with him. They want me to rat on my uncle, alright?" Tommy ran his hands through his hair, put the ice pack back on his eye, and flopped back down on the bed.
"So why don't you tell them?" asked Cheryl.
"It's a fucked-up situation," said Tommy.
"They're not going to put you in jail," said Cheryl.
"They said they will," said Tommy.
"Just 'cause you don't talk to them, they can't put you in jail . . . They can't do that. Can they?"
"I think they can."
"Why? What is your problem? Why don't they just arrest your uncle, he did something wrong?"
"They think I saw something. They want me to be like a witness," said Tommy.
"Witness