Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [82]
"You leave the doors unlocked?" asked Sally.
Skinny nodded.
"Good," said Sally. "Maybe some mouli'll steal it."
Sally pulled the car slowly out of the parking lot, not turning on the headlights until he was out in the street. He drove toward the Brooklyn Bridge and the lights of Manhattan.
"You see the fuckin' car those pricks were drivin'?" he asked.
"That's the new Seville," said Skinny, his eyes on the rearview mirror.
"New Seville. Fuckin' cherry. They got a fuckin' cherry Seville to drive and I get another Buick. There's no fuckin' justice in this world no more."
"They ain't drivin' nowhere tonight," said Skinny.
"You got a point," said Sally.
"Drop me at the garage, right? I gotta get rid of the guns," said Skinny. "Then leave the car. Where you parked?"
"I got my car parked over the West Side there, on 125th under the highway," said Sally.
"You park legal?"
"Yeah, I parked legal," said Sally. "What am I, a fuckin' moron?"
"Good, you don't want no tickets tonight. There gonna be a space nearby? Someplace for this one?"
"Yeah, yeah. The spot I picked is perfect. I leave this one, walk half a block and I drive home. Bing, bing, bing."
Sally turned on the radio. "At least this one works," he said, turning to a news channel. There was nothing yet on the radio about the shooting. After a few minutes, Sally said, "That is some beautiful gun."
"Which one?"
"Mine. The one I used. That is beautiful. I couldn't believe it. You see what it did to that guy's fuckin' head?"
"They make that gun to shoot cars with," said Skinny. "I think you supposed to be able to shoot through the engine block and hit a guy behind the wheel. I think it's for state troopers."
"It's a beautiful gun," said Sally.
"I hope you ain't even thinkin' about holdin' on to it," said Skinny. " 'Cause there's no way. An hour from now, it's gonna be all crushed up and on its way with the other one. You smart, you get rid of your clothes, too. Burn 'em. Shoes too. That's the smart thing to do. You can't get naked when you gotta piece of work, you should burn the clothes. That's the next best thing."
"Saves money on the dry cleanin', right, Skin?" joked Sally.
Thirty-Four
THE METRO GRILL on East Twenty-ninth Street was packed with its regular lunchtime crowd of executives. Waiters, captains, busboys, and a wine steward moved gracefully between the generously spaced tables. Colorful arrangements of Casablanca lilies, birds-of-paradise, irises, and wild orchids were scattered artfully around the large dining room. Tommy and Al sat in the rear smoking section, their empty show-plates still in front of them. Tommy drained the last of his third Stoli on the rocks. Al sipped from a half-empty bottle of Heineken.
"I thought you guys lived on doughnuts and coffee," said Tommy.
"I get out now and again," said Al. "I know how to eat with a knife and fork. I won't embarrass you."
"The waiter hates you already," said Tommy. "Drinking outta the bottle."
"I hate beer in the glass," said Al. "Makes it warm. Loses its bubbles."
Tommy's Pacific oysters arrived. The waiter put a plate of New York State foie gras down in front of Al, who eyed it suspiciously. "You're sure I'm gonna like this, huh?" he said.
"Oh, yeah," said Tommy. "I woulda ordered a nice glass of chilled sauterne with it, but I guess you're on a budget."
"I'm fine with the beer, thank you very much," said Al. He took a big bite of foie gras, following it with most of a crustless toast point. "That's not bad."
"You know how they get the goose liver so big and tasty like that?" said Tommy.
"Why do I think I don't want to know this," said Al.
Tommy slurped down an oyster. "They nail the goose's feet to a board, right? Then"—he put his hands up to his neck,