Bone in the Throat (4 page)

Seven

T
WO MEN SAT
in a graffiti-covered step van across the street from the Dreadnaught Grill. The dashboard was covered with empty coffee containers and candy wrappers. The men watched the white-clad figure emerge from the trap doors to the kitchen and head east on Spring Street.

"Who's that?" asked Detective Dudziak.

"That's Tommy Pagano," said Detective Rizzo, sitting behind the wheel.

"Yeah?"

"Tommy. The nephew," said Rizzo. "Sally's nephew."

"That don't look like the nephew to me," said Dudziak, fumbling for his scope in the glove compartment.

"That's him," said Rizzo. "That's the nephew."

"You got the pictures?"

"Left 'em onna breakfast table this morning. Kids were late for school. Forgot." Rizzo started the engine.

"What are you doin'?" asked Dudziak.

"I'm thinkin'," said Rizzo.

"You're sure that's him?"

"I'm tellin' you, that's him. That's Tommy. I remember the face."

Dudziak consulted a clipboard on his lap. "Where the fuck is he goin? Says here it's the middle of his shift, he's not due off till nine. What's he doin'?"

"I wanna follow him."

"Maybe he's runnin' an errand . . ."

"Maybe he is. Maybe he's runnin' an errand for Uncle Sally."

"Maybe he's runnin' out for a head of lettuce."

"It would be nice to find out."

"What?"

"C'mon," said Rizzo, "let's find out."

"Leave the post?"

"He who dares, wins."

"Oh, shit . . ."

"If he's not doin' nothin' we don't have to tell nobody. If he is, great. I'm tired a sittin' here just lookin' at a fuckin' restaurant. Maybe we got somethin' here."

"So we follow him?"

"We follow him. Maybe we get lucky."

T
HE TWO DETECTIVES
followed the chef in the van down Spring Street.

"Oh, man . . . It's nice to get a breeze in here," said Rizzo. At Bowery, the chef headed uptown. The van dropped back, waiting for him to gain some distance.

"Don't lose him," said Dudziak.

"I got him, I got him," said Rizzo.

At Houston Street, the chef turned right, heading east.

"Where the fuck is he goin'?" asked Dudziak.

"I dunno, maybe he's got a girlfriend. Little love in the afternoon . . ."

The chef crossed onto the uptown side of Houston at Avenue A. Rizzo had to make a U-turn. The chef turned right at Fourth Street, once more heading east.

"That's Neverneverland in there," said Dudziak. "He's lookin' to cop."

"Look," said Rizzo. "He's slowin' down, he's lookin' . . ."

The chef crossed Avenue B, walking slowly through the suddenly crowded streets, headed for Avenue C.

Detective Rizzo pulled the van over to the side of the street and took the scope from Dudziak. He peered through the lens. The chef was exchanging words with a thin, young male Hispanic wearing a baseball cap. The young man held a short length of plywood; he motioned the chef toward an abandoned tenement. The chef looked up and down Fourth Street a couple of times and then ducked quickly under a corrugated metal barrier that didn't quite block the entrance to the tenement.

"Bingo!" said Rizzo.

"What?" exclaimed Dudziak. "He score?"

"This is just too good to be true," said Rizzo. "They gonna love our asses for this. We're gonna catch him dirty . . ."

"I don't know about this . . ."

"They are gonna love our asses for this at Strike Force! We score . . . We score big time." He imitated a cheering crowd.
"Yessss!
Two days on the job and we score. Are we a pair a swingin' dicks or what?"

"What's he coppin'? Crack?"

"Better," said Rizzo. "Much better. Tommy's a fuckin' dope fiend! I love it!"

"We better call in," said Dudziak. "We better call in before we do anythin'. Are we gonna do anything?"

"I dunno, I dunno. I'll call in a minute. I just wanna savor the moment. I just wanna sit here and enjoy myself for a
sec.
Tommy's a dope fiend. It don't say nothin' about that inna file. This is a break. Tommy Pagano. Dope Fiend. I'm gettin' a fuckin' hard-on just thinkin' 'bout it."

"He could come outta there any fuckin' minute. You better call in."

"He ain't goin' nowhere," said Rizzo. "I know that spot. They sell the Check-Mate in there. That's one of the populuh spots down here, man. They usually got forty, fifty skells lined up in there. Tommy's gonna be busy in there for a while."

"So, what? You thinkin' a grabbin' him he comes out?"

"Damn right. You know he's gonna be dirty. Alright. . . I'll make the call."

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, Detective Rizzo returned from the pay phone.

"They said we can grab him," he said.

"Who'd you talk to?"

"Some AUSA, Lipman, I think his name is. He said we can grab him."

"What about Al? The Fibby . . . He's not there? You ask him? He's supposed to be the supervisor."

"They beeped him. Lipman said it's okay to go ahead. He said grab him when he comes out. We bring him down to the precinct and twist his nuts for him. The feds'll pile on later."

"He's gonna give up his uncle for a few dime bags? Is that the idea?"

"Who knows? Who knows? Greaseballs are funny about their people doin' smack. Tommy's gonna hafta think about that, sittin' there in the interrogation room. He's gonna hafta think about how his uncle's gonna feel about that, him doin' that babania. Tommy might worry a little bit about that. Maybe he can stand up for the bust. But Uncle Sally's not gonna be happy. That's the kinda motivation makes cases."

"So we grab him," said Detective Dudziak.

"Yes we do."

O
UT ON FOURTH STREET
the chef moved at a brisk pace back toward the restaurant. He heard footsteps behind him, closing fast. Thinking he was about to get mugged, he broke into a trot. He crossed the street, reaching into his pants pocket as he picked up speed. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of a man running after him. He put the thin bundle of glassine bags in his mouth. The man looked like a cop, he realized; he was too heavy to be a mugger. Heart racing, the chef broke left for an abandoned lot connecting Third and Fourth streets. He saw another man coming straight at him. He considered swallowing the bags, but his mouth was too dry. He felt his knees weakening as he stumbled through the lot. Suddenly there was an arm around his neck. He felt himself thrown to the ground with somebody's weight on top of him. The arm tightened around his neck. A hand squeezed his cheeks. Yet another hand yanked his head back. Somebody was pinching his nose.

"Spit it out! Spit it out!" somebody was yelling.

The next thing he knew, he was being handcuffed.

Eight

T
HE LUMPY-LOOKING
waitress with the nose ring (Tommy could never remember her name) picked up her appetizers and headed for the dining room. Tommy wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked nervously at the clock.

"Party of twelve," said Cheryl, one of the prettier waitresses. She was dark, with brown hair cut to the shoulders, large, almond-shaped eyes set wide apart, and an easy, sardonic smile. She straightened her bow tie and leaned her elbows onto the slide. "Walk-ins . . . what can I say?"

"Fuck!" said Tommy, bony. . .

Tommy started to say something else but Stephanie, another waitress, just as pretty as Cheryl but taller, crowded in next to her, a cigarette dangling from her lips.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Could you not smoke over the fucking food—please?" said Tommy, turning his back to the two girls and giving a pan full of shrimp a shake.

"What's his problem?" Tommy heard Stephanie say.

"Big table of walk-ins," said Cheryl. "Your station."

"Great. I need the money," said Stephanie, leaving her cigarette still burning on top of the stainless steel shelves, between stacks of plates. She ran up to the dining room, her Cuban heels clattering loudly on the wood steps.

"Where's your expeditor?" said Cheryl, lowering her voice.

"Chef's stepped out for a minute," said Tommy.

It was after six when the chef returned. Service had started an hour earlier, and the board was filled with dinner dupes.

"What happened to you?" said Tommy, irritably. "We're fuckin' swamped."

The chef looked haggard and dirty. "I got robbed," he said quietly, so Ricky couldn't hear him over the exhaust fan. "Three guys got me, comin' outta the place."

Tommy positioned a lobster claw in a big bowl of bouillabaise, then smeared rouille on two croutons and put them on opposite ends of the rim. "Cheryl! Pick up!" he yelled, putting the steaming bowl up on the shelf.

"What did they get?" he asked the chef.

"They got everything. They had a fuckin' box cutter at my neck. What was I gonna do?" said the chef, annoyed.

"Bummer," said Tommy, watching Cheryl take the bouillabaise and a bowl of steamed mussels off the shelf. He took down a dupe and spiked it. "You alright?" he asked the chef

"Yeah, yeah," said the chef, tying his apron. "Just a little freaked. I walked around a little after."

"So they got it all," said Tommy, turning around to lift a piece of sauteed skate out of a pan. He drizzled basquaise sauce around it.

"All of it," said the chef, stepping behind the line. "I had it and they took it. Sorry."

Tommy wiped the rim of a plate with a kitchen towel. "Are you gonna make it through the night?"

The chef shook his head. "No way. I'm sick already. I'll hit Harvey for an advance later and maybe hit Ninth Avenue or the Upper East after service. You wanna go again?"

"Fuck it. I'll get drunk instead. It's free."

"Sorry about the money," said the chef, looking pained.

The chef took his place at the sauté station. Tommy moved over to the grill and scrutinized a long row of fluttering tickets hanging from clothespins over the outgoing food orders.

"Pick up snapper!" yelled Tommy, leaning on the call buttons. Cheryl's chin and breasts appeared under the stacks of plates. She leaned into the narrow opening over the shelf.

"She doesn't want the head," she said. "She says she doesn't want it looking at her."

"Cheryl," said the chef. "I'm lookin' at the ticket right here and I don't see anything where it says 'head off.' "

Cheryl gave him a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry, I vegged out. I forgot. Can't you just whack the head off for me now? This woman is a bitch on wheels. She'll just send it back."

"Take the head off," said the chef, turning to Tommy. Tommy slid the cooked red snapper off the plate and onto the cutting board. He reached to his right and came over with a wide, carbon-steel blade, severing the head from the body in one motion.

"Not with my knife!" howled the chef too late. "Not with my fuckin' knife!"

"Shit," said Tommy. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

The chef ignored the orders on the board and picked up his knife. He held it at eye level and examined the blade. There was a tiny indentation in the soft metal at the heel.
"Shit!"
he exclaimed.

"Shit," said Tommy.

"My baby," said the chef. "You fuckin' mutilated my baby."

"Can't you work that out with a stone?" asked Tommy.

"Where's my snapper?" said Cheryl.

Tommy coated the bottom of a clean plate with beurre blanc and gently lowered the headless snapper on top. Using two plastic squeeze bottles, he drew quick abstract flowers on the plate around the fish, then pulled the tip of a paring knife through the design, making artful swirls through the beurre. He spooned a dot of red pepper relish onto the fish and put the plate up on the shelf for Cheryl.

"You can fix it, right?" he asked the chef, who was still brooding over his knife.

"Yeah, yeah, I can fix it," said the chef. "Please, please don't fuck with my knife unless I tell you, okay? Please?"

"Sorry," said Tommy.

"Where's Stephanie?" shouted the chef, to nobody in particular. "This food is getting cold! Pick it up! It's piling up back here!"

"She just took out a cold order," said Tommy.

"So send it with somebody else," said the chef. "The shits dyin ." He pounded on the call button. A new waitress with a nose ring arrived.

"What do you want?" she said.

"What I want," said the chef, "is for somebody to pick up this fuckin' food for me. This. Will you take this out to A-seven for me? If you would be so kind?" He mopped his brow. His nose was running.

"And can you bring me a Heineken when you come back?" asked Tommy.

"I'll get it for you," said Cheryl, back at the shelf. "Chef? You want something?"

"Gimme a Coke," said the chef.

"Ricky?" asked Cheryl.

Ricky put down a basket of gaufrette potatoes filled with pommes soufflees and pushed a few sweaty strands of blond hair off his face. "Rockin Roll," he said.

"One Heineken, one Coke, one Rolling Rock," said Cheryl. "How about the dishwashers?"

"Yeah," said the chef, "Bring 'em a couple a Cokes and a few packets of sugar. They like extra sugar in it."

"That's fuckin' disgusting," said Cheryl. She turned and headed out the kitchen doors.

"Man," said the chef, "I'd like to suck on her ass till her head caves in."

Tommy gave him a sour look and laid two pieces of center-cut swordfish on the grill, brushing them with garlic and pepper oil. A few minutes later, Cheryl returned with the drinks. She handed Tommy his Heineken first. "There's a call for you on oh-two-two-seven," she said.

"Me?" asked Tommy.

"Yeah. Barry says it's for you," she said.

"I'll get it in the office," said Tommy. He stepped out from behind the line and jogged back to the chef's cramped office. He sat down on an upended milk crate, picked up the phone, and pressed the blinking button for 0227.

"Hello," he said.

"It's me," said Sally. "No names."

"What is it? I'm busy," sighed Tommy.

"I gotta see you. Tonight."

"Tonight? What for? What do you gotta see me about?"

"I'll tell you what I gotta see you about when I see you," said Sally.

"So, what—are you gonna swing by here later?"

"No," said Sally, "I'll meet you next door at the Count's."

Tommy groaned. "Don't do this to me. Does it hafta be there?"

"I'm fuckin' hungry. And I'm pressed for time here. I'm in a fuckin' hurry and I got somethin' else I gotta do over there. Kill two birds with one stone," said Sally.

"Don't make me go over there," said Tommy. "I'm gonna have to talk to Sonny I go over there."

"Listen," said Sally, curtly, "I've gotta meet a guy over there. Come by around ten, ten-thirty. You're outta there by then, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, soon's the rush is over. You sure it can't be here?"

"No," said Sally. "I'll see you later." He hung up.