Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [76]
"I really don't want to talk about this," said Tommy. "I shouldn't have really said anything at all."
Cheryl moved closer to Tommy and lay down, resting on one elbow, beside him. "Listen, Tommy," she said, "You were doing real well there for a while. I was almost forgetting about what a sleaze-bag you've been. Almost, but not quite . . . Now what is it that's so bad that you have to get drunk and fuck the house slut for?" She took the ice pack off Tommy's eye and tossed it in the sink. She ran her fingers through Tommy's hair, through the wet strands near his eye, pushing them back off his forehead. "You're gonna have to tell me. If you don't tell me, I'm gonna go in there tomorrow and kick Stephanie's ass into outer fuckin' space."
So he told her.
Thirty-One
HARVEY ARRIVED at the restaurant early. He had been jogging: three times around Washington Square Park and then down to the Dreadnaught. He wore a white terrycloth sweatband, a T-shirt with the name of a health club on it, faded blue shorts with HORACE MANN printed in small white letters on one leg, and a pair of running shoes, no socks. His face was shiny from exertion, and once inside the door, he wiped himself off with a clean dinner napkin and headed straight back to the bathroom. As he passed Cheryl and Hector setting up for brunch in the dining room, he nodded hello.
Inside the bathroom, Harvey stood in front of the urinal and feigned taking a piss. He took a white paper bindle out of his shorts pocket, rolled up a bill, and packed both nostrils with generous snorts of cocaine. Now he felt healthy.
When he got out of the bathroom, Harvey sat down at a stripped deuce at the front of the dining room. He asked Cheryl for a double cappuccino and watched her as she made it, tapping nervously on the table with a pen. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and wrote himself a little reminder—"Can we make our own muffins for brunch? Ask chef"—and waited for his coffee. Cheryl arrived with his cappuccino, and he grasped both sides of the small table with his hands and rocked it back and forth. It wobbled.
"What? Am I on the fuckin' Titanic here? Tell Hector to chock this table, okay? Where is he? He was just here a minute ago."
Cheryl gave Harvey an accommodating smile, "He's on the pay phone. You want me to get him?"
"Yes, I want you to get him . . . He's always on the phone this kid. I don't want him using the phone during business hours. I don't want him using the phone period. It's ridiculous, the amount of time he spends on the phone. Enough. Tell him to get off that thing and set up for brunch. I've got the band coming in and I want everything to look right. And please, get him to chock these tables . . . I'm getting seasick just sitting here."
"Karen called in, she's going to be a little late," said Cheryl.
"Fabulous . . . just fabulous," said Harvey "When she comes in get her started on the specials board right away, then send her in to see me. I'll be in my office."
IN HIS OFFICE, Harvey finished the last of his cocaine. He pushed some papers around on his desk, forsaking a tall stack of bills and past-due notices for a catalog advertising gelato machines. After a few minutes he left the office and walked down the steps to the kitchen.
The chef was squeezing blood oranges into a mixing bowl full of hollandaise for sauce maltaise. Mel was toiling over the Hobart with his bare hands, shoving great chunks of corned beef into the grinder for hash. Harvey found Big Mohammed bent over a two-compartment sink washing salad greens.
"The bathroom . . . the bathroom, Mo', please," said Harvey. "Clean for me please."
Big Mohammed was up to his arms in the sink full of cold water and salad. He stood up, dried his hands on his apron, and looked at Harvey with an indulgent smile. "Is clean. I clean," he said.
"Clean again," said Harvey. "No clean inside . . . Inside . . . " He struggled for a word to describe urinal. For the second time this morning, Harvey found himself mimicking the act of pissing. "Urinal, u-rin-al. . ."
Big Mohammed