Bone in the Throat - Anthony Bourdain [91]
"And wait'll you see the friends. Wait'll you see Sally's friends show up. Hangin' at the bar, drinkin' for free, feelin' up the waitresses. Every inbred motherfucker with a tracksuit an' a gold chain gonna be hangin' out here like at the Count's . . . Why don't they just shoot me in the head—put me outta my fuckin' misery . . ."
The chef looked alarmed. He struggled to put a good face on things. "I worked places before . . . You know, mob places. The food was okay. They weren't hangin' around all the time. You'd see them once in a while, but nobody got in the way—"
"Those places were makin' money. Some place pullin' down ten, fifteen million bucks a year feeding tourists is different. We're not even makin' our nut here. The place has been fuckin' dyin' for months . . . Harvey's gotta be into Sally for some serious bucks if they come in and tell him to start runnin' squid tonight. It's different. The big places, that's a long-term relationship there. Everybody's makin' money, everybody's happy. Here, nobody's makin' money—and I guess he ain't makin' it fast enough, he sends Victor over here."
"You sure this is the same guy? You haven't even seen him yet. Maybe you should wait and see if it's the same guy before you start freakin' out," said the chef.
Tommy stood up again and took off his apron. "I'll go up to the bar, see if I can get a peek. You want anything?"
"Yeah, sure, bring me a Heineken," said the chef.
Tommy walked back through the kitchen and up the stairs. He passed Harvey's office. It was quiet inside. He crossed the empty dining room and walked up to the bar. He slid back the door on the beer cooler and reached in for two Heinekens. He looked over at the men sitting at a table in the empty cocktail area in the front of the restaurant. Sitting in front of the fish tank, a single dead fish floating belly-up behind his head, was Harvey. He was sweating, nodding his head enthusiastically. The tabletop was covered with menus from other restaurants, a binder, a pile of invoices. Next to Harvey sat Victor. He saw Tommy at the bar, and he moved his head slightly in recognition, a smirk on his face. Tommy clenched his teeth and closed the cooler door. He half-turned to head back to the kitchen, beer bottles in hand, when he caught a good look at the third man at the table. Sitting against the wall, his face partially obscured by a flower arrangement, was the Count.
"Well," said the chef, when Tommy returned to the walk-in, "how'd your reconnaissance mission go?" He took a beer from Tommy, opening it with the end of a slotted serving spoon. "Is it him?"
Tommy nodded. He opened his own beer the same way. He made sure the heavy walk-in door was closed. "I've decided," he said. "I'm gonna drop a dime on my uncle." He laughed bitterly. "I'm gonna rat my uncle out over a plate of fuckin' squid."
Thirty-Six
THE JACOB JAVITS Convention Center on the west side was crowded with men in cheap suits. They wore color-coded identification badges and they elbowed each other to get at the free samples of portion-controlled remaki and fish sticks and Swedish meatballs and barbecue chicken wings on the trays and in the chafing dishes around them.
Harvey and Victor wore green badges identifying them as CEO and GM of NEPTUNE RESTAURANTS, INC., a fictitious restaurant chain. Harvey said they'd get better treatment from the sales reps, and he was right. The two men strolled past the latest model infrared broilers, convection ovens, dishwashing systems, nonstick waffle irons, and electric potato peelers.