Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [89]
"You're talkin' about my fuckin' uncle," said Tommy. "He practically raised me . . . He's my mother's brother . . . You want me to rat on somebody I known my whole life."
"You are a sentimental drunk," said Al. "I just don't see Sally and Skinny and that crew as sentimentalists. Sally, Skinny, Danny, Charlie, and them, they don't strike me as the trusting type. They strike you that way? I see them more as the type a guys who like to be sure about a thing."
Tommy said nothing, he sat there in his seat, arms crossed in front of him.
"So, don't rat," said Al. "Fine . . . I'm not saying you have to do anything, right this second. But the grand jury's another thing. Go home and think about things . . . When you've thought about things a while and you think maybe you're in need of a friend, give me a call. Here's a card, you call this number anytime, day or night, and you don't have to give your name. You just tell the guy who answers your name is Aaron and you wanna talk to Al. He'll connect you . . .
Tommy took the card.
"No matter how bad it is, Tommy, we can make it right together. No matter how bad . . . I just want you to know I'm there when you want a way out. You've got a friend if you need one."
Tommy began to retch. He quickly opened the door, leaned out over the street, and threw up. Al slid over. He patted him gently on the back. "That's alright..." he said. "That's good . . . You'll feel better."
Thirty-Five
THERE WAS YELLING in Harvey's office. Downstairs, in the kitchen, Tommy and the chef cleaned squid and listened. Tommy stripped the skin off the squid, then removed the head and entrails, tiny undigested fish spilling out from the squids' hollow centers. He tore off the fins at the tail and removed the translucent, quill-like spines. The chef pinched each severed head, squeezing out the little balls of cartilage; cut away the tentacles from the eyes. Black squid ink squirted on his apron and ran off the cutting board, collected in pools on the stainless steel work table. He took the cleaned bodies and cut them into rings. When the pile of rings built up, he swept them off the cutting board into a bucket of water at his feet.
"What's goin on up there?" asked Tommy.
"They just fired Barry," said the chef.
Tommy put a squid down and wiped his hands on his apron. "No shit," he said. "What did he do? What happened?"
"He didn't do anything," said the chef. "This new guy, Victor, is in. Barry's out."
"Who the fuck is Victor?" asked Tommy, lighting a cigarette with wet hands.
"I don't know," said the chef, still concentrating on the squid. "I've never seen the guy before."
"Where does he come from," asked Tommy. "Where has he worked?"
The chef, annoyed, turned from the squid. "He was introduced to me as a manager slash consultant. . . That's pretty much all I know. He knows the Count. He talks about the Count's place like he built the place."
"Young guy? Not too tall? Hairy chest?" asked Tommy. "Is that Victor?"
"Yeah," said the chef. "You know him?"
"I think so . . . He's got dark hair, slicked back?"
"That's the guy," said the chef.
"I know him," said Tommy. "He works for my fuckin' uncle."
"Maybe we should discuss this in the war room," said the chef.
The chef stepped into his office for a moment, reaching all the way back in the center drawer of his desk for a joint. Turning to Tommy, he said, "Hydroponic . . . from California. Saving it for a special occasion."
A few moments later, they stood in the walk-in, surrounded by cooling buckets of chicken stock, fish fumet, demiglace, and soup. The chef lit the joint, took a hit, and passed it to Tommy.
"So, I take it this does not portend well, this Victor guy?"
Tommy shook his head, slowly exhaling smoke. He took another hit and passed the glowing joint back to the chef. "No . . . This is bad. This is really bad. I know the guy. He went to my high school. I think he got expelled."
"So is he an asshole or what?" asked the chef.
"He's worse than an asshole," said Tommy. "He's half a wise guy . . . He's half an asshole