Bone in the Throat (24 page)

Still holding on to the methadone, the chef reached with his right arm across the desk for something to hit Victor with. Victor nailed him with an uppercut to the ribs that staggered him, but he felt his right hand brush up against an empty Stoli bottle. He grabbed it firmly by the neck and clubbed Victor as hard as he could over the right ear. There was a loud
ping
and the unbroken bottle fell to the floor. Stunned momentarily, Victor straightened up, while the chef stepped in and head-butted him on the bridge of the nose.

Victor stumbled into the hallway, bleeding from the nose and ear. He spat a long stream of pink saliva onto the floor and reached into the waistband of his pants. The chef saw the butt of a revolver and he felt the anger drain out of him and turn to fear.

This wasn't supposed to happen like this, thought the chef. This was not how it went in the movies . . . Victor was supposed to be unconscious now, lying in a heap on the floor. He'd hit him with a bottle. He'd head-butted him as hard as he could. Why wasn't the man unconscious? The chef's first instinct was to yell "TIME OUT!" like he had when he was a kid when somebody got hurt. Or "DO-OVER!" so he could hit Victor again with the bottle.

Instead, in a mad panic he ran gracelessly into the kitchen. He slipped onto all fours, scrambling to get away. His back burned him, as if anticipating the bullets he imagined would come tearing into his spine at any second. He made it a few more steps. He was aware of a hand grabbing him by the collar, then he felt the pistol butt come crashing down against his skull.

Forty-One

T
HIS COULD BE
a nice fuckin' place," said the Count while Tommy squirmed uncomfortably. "But we need somebody down there handlin the food. Somebody knows what they doin', ain't gonna stab us inna back every time we turn around, tryin' to grab a piece for himself. We need somebody we know down there. With some experience . . . This could be a real good thing for the right person. Bein' a chef is a important responsibility . . . We can't have some fuckin' jerk down there don't know what he's doin. We need somebody who can work with us . . ."

Tommy was staring at Sally, trying to imagine what he'd look like when he found out he'd been betrayed. He tried to picture Sally at the defense table, looking up at Tommy in the witness stand. A shudder of pleasure went through Tommy.

" . . . That's why we want you to be the new chef," said the Count.

"Congratulations, Chef," said Sally.

W
HEN HE NEXT NOTICED
that he was still alive, the chef was being hauled up off his knees. Victor's foul breath was in his nose, the hand with the gun knotted up in his hair. The chef's injured left hand was twisted up behind his back, between his shoulder blades, and Victor was leaning into it, every painful jerk squeezing tears from the chef's eyes.

He felt himself being guided down the line by his hair, head first, his arm twisting in its socket, his hip banging noisily against the speed rack, the bottles jingling. He was being propelled forward and down, he saw, straight toward the rotary slicer.

S
ALLY WAS GRINNING
at Tommy. "What did I tell ya?" he said. The Count clapped him on the shoulder. Tommy sat blinking dumbly. How could they be so blind? So stupid? Sally knew he hated the Count, hated everything about him . . . How could this be happening? How could they even ask such a thing, much less announce it like he was expected to be happy, even grateful? Tommy wondered what Skinny thought about all this, sitting behind him at the bar. He couldn't be too crazy about it. Tommy shook his head in disbelief. Sally was mussing his hair now, saying, "It's a big step up inna world for you . . . Whaddaya say?" when a dreadful sound came from downstairs. His cat had made a sound like that once when she got her paw caught in a door hinge. Tommy knocked his chair backward onto the floor as he bolted to the kitchen.

V
ICTOR HAD THE CHEF
bent over, still working the twisted arm like a rudder for everything it was worth. The chef felt the side of his face rammed into the stainless steel safety guard on the rotary slicer. The guard moved forward a little, rolling smoothly along on its ball bearings. The pain from his twisted arm sent shock waves up into the chef's brain. With one eye, the chef could see that Victor had changed the setting on the slicer, opening it up all the way, widening the space between the razor-sharp circular blade and the safety guard, like you would for cutting prime rib. The chef thrashed and twisted, trying to pull himself back from the blade, but Victor had a firm grip on his hair, keeping his face pressed against the cold metal. There was a momentary relaxation on the arm as Victor reached down and flicked on the switch. The big blade began to spin, making its metallic, whirring sound. The chef tried to brace himself against the work table with his free arm, tried to straighten the elbow, get away from the blade, but Victor shoved the other arm up hard against his shoulders and his face banged down once again against the sliding steel guard. He felt himself being pushed forward into the blade.

He screamed. He felt his knees buckle, and as his head moved forward, he slipped down and back a bit, suddenly a dead weight in Victor's grip. The blade took him just below the right eye; a glancing but thick slice across the cheekbone. Blood sprayed up into the chef's eyes. A thick slice of the chef's cheek fell neatly away from the bone, dropping with an audible
slap
onto the tray below.

The chef fell to the floor. He was vaguely aware of Victor standing over him, his mouth moving, tugging at his clothes, cursing, trying to get him to stand up. There was something in his eyes, he knew that, and he thought he heard noises, somebody cursing in the distance. Then he saw a pair of legs moving across his narrow field of vision. In a second, they were planted on both sides of him like the Colossus of Rhodes. They looked like Tommy's legs. He thought he recognized the boots.

W
HEN TOMMY CAME
charging into the kitchen, he saw Victor standing by the slicer with a gun, the chef sliding to the floor at his feet. Tommy vaulted the steamtable, surprising himself, and knocked Victor above his hip as fiercely as he could. The revolver flew from Victor's hand, landing in the cold grease in the Frialator. Tommy yanked open a utility drawer, pulling it completely out of its housing, scattering knives and utensils everywhere. He reached for the first thing he could find and came up with the short, five-pronged ice shaver. He lunged forward and buried all five steel teeth up to the hilt in Victor's armpit.

"You miserable fuckin mutt!" he heard himself say, and he yanked the wooden handle toward himself, ready for another thrust. The steel teeth stayed in the arm. They raked down the underside from armpit to elbow, leaving five bloody trenches.

Victor took a few steps back and stumbled over the chef's semiconscious body. He lost his balance, put a hand out to steady himself and fell into the slicer. There was a terrible, grinding peal as the still-whirring blade chewed through Victor's fingernail. It changed pitch, a lower tone, as it continued lengthwise up the finger, halving it to the second joint.

His shirtfront and neck spattered with blood, Victor managed to pull back his hand and take a few wobbly steps. He stood there, one good hand wrapped tightly around the wrist of the other, gaping at his ruined finger and the blood sprinkling out of his elbow. The color started to drain out of his lips, and his face became blotchy, then white. He did a sort of dispirited jig, no sound coming out of his mouth, and flopped helplessly to the floor, coming to rest at Sally's feet.

"What the fuck is going on in here?" said an incredulous Sally, taking in the carnage.

The Count stood behind him, his eyes bulging. He seemed to shrink back, looking for an exit. Skinny stepped forward past the Count, seemingly unconcerned. He walked behind the line, saw the chef lying there, bleeding from the face, a silver-dollar-size patch of white cheekbone visible through the blood. Skinny reached over and calmly turned off the slicer. He looked down at Victor, who was getting whiter by Sally's feet. And there was Tommy, still standing over his chef, the bloody ice shaver in his fist.

Tommy felt ready to kill them all. He looked down at Victor and considered whipping out his cock and pissing on him. Instead, he took a deep breath, looked straight at Skinny, and with a shaking voice said, "We had a work-related accident here. We're gonna say there was an accident with the slicer . . . the chef's feet slipped . . . That's what we're gonna say. I'm gonna take him to St. Vincent's." He pointed at Victor on the floor. "He's goin' inta shock it looks like. You don't get him to a hospital, he'll probably fuckin die. Per sonally, I don't give a shit. . . But if he don't get that hand, the arm wrapped up, you're gonna be lookin' at a dead guy. I don't know how you feel about the guy," he said, "but I'd get him to Emergency pretty quick. I recommend Beekman. He doesn't look too good."

"Jesus, Tommy," said Sally, "I didn't know ya had it in ya . . . You're right, he don't look too good."

"I'll go bring the car around," said the Count. He scampered up the stairs, happy to get away.

Tommy noticed that Skinny was smiling at him. He looked almost affectionate.

He spoke directly to Skinny, encouraged by the amused look on his face. "So we're not gonna have a problem with this, I hope. The man was in the wrong. We gotta stick up for our friends, right Skin?" Tommy turned his back on the others and helped the chef to his feet. As he started walking him slowly to the delivery entrance, he noticed the little orange bottle, still grasped tightly in the chef's hand. He pried loose the chef's fingers and gently placed the bottle in a front pocket. "It's okay, Chef," he said. "Everything's gonna be okay. No problem."

"No problem," repeated the chef weakly.

When Tommy and the chef were out of the room, Skinny got an apron from the laundry room and threw it down over Victor's hand.

"Get yourself together, Vic," he said. "We're takin' you to a hospital."

Sally bent down and reached under his arms to lift him up. Victor howled in pain, suddenly awake.

"Sorry, Vic," apologized Sally "I didn't see it."

Blood dripped freely from Victor's elbow onto Sally's sneakers. Skinny stepped back, not wanting to get blood on his suit.

"Jesus, Tommy," Sally called after him. "I guess this means you don't want the fuckin' job."

Forty-Two

S
ALLY SAT
in a black leatherette recliner, feet up, in front of the television.
The Flintstones
was on, Fred and Barney propelling their Stone Age vehicles with rapidly moving feet. Sally was dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. There was an open box of Froot Loops on the carpet next to his chair and a half-empty glass of Slim-Fast wedged between his meaty thighs. He wiped his fingers on the front of his T-shirt, leaving brightly colored pink-and-blue trails of Froot Loop dust across his belly. '

Sally threw the lever on the side of the recliner and brought his feet down to the floor. He rocked back and forth a few times, gathering momentum to get out of the chair, and then hauled himself to his feet. He lumbered into the bathroom and returned with a toenail clipper. He was just starting in on the big toe of his left foot when the doorbell rang. It was Skinny and Victor.

"You're early," said Sally. "I'm just eatin' breakfast. You bring some crullers or somethin' at least?"

Victor looked dubiously at the box of Froot Loops. "That's some fuckin' breakfast. I don't eat nothin' that color. Gives you cancer."

Victor's arm was heavily bandaged above the elbow, and his hand was in a cast. There was an aluminum splint on the middle finger; it extended out from the hand in a fixed reproach, the gauze around it stained with yellow antiseptic and dried blood.

"How's the hand?" asked Sally. "You ever gonna be able to play the violin again?"

"S'alright," said Victor, settling into the recliner. "It's my fuckin' arm that's killin' me. They wanted to keep me overnight inna hospital. It throbs like a motherfucker. They gimme some pills . . ."

There were some dark threads from the stitching running along the top of Victor's right ear. His nose was swollen, and he had two black eyes. "I'd like to kill that fuckin' nephew a yours . . ."

Sally chuckled, "You gotta admit, the kid showed he had some balls . . ."

"I'd like to cut his balls
off.
Feed 'em to a fuckin' dog. Did anybody find my fuckin' gun?"

Sally shook his head. "Why don't you just relax a little bit there, Vic. You look like shit."

"Yeah . . . " said Victor, turning his attention to
The Flintstones.
"Fuckin pills they gimme got me buzzed."

"We gotta be in his office in a hour," said Skinny.

"He said eleven o'clock. He said eleven yesterday, didn't he?" asked Sally.

"It got moved up," said Skinny. "He's got another client he's gotta see, so we got moved up."

"I'll get dressed," said Sally.

Sally went into the bathroom and shaved with an electric razor. He slathered Bijan for Men all over his face and neck, and went into the bedroom and laid out a V-neck sweater and a Members Only bomber jacket on his unmade bed. He kicked off his pajama bottoms and put one foot in a pair of black, pleated slacks. He was having trouble bending over his belly to reach the other leg of his pants when Skinny came into the room. Skinny was naked, holding a Sig Sauer nine-millimeter automatic in one gloved hand. The rubber nipple from a baby bottle was stretched over the muzzle.

Sally had time to look up at Skinny with a puzzled expression and wonder how he got undressed so fast before the first round crashed into his forehead. The gun made a loud
fwap-fwap
sound as Skinny kept firing, the noise getting louder as the rubber nipple disintegrated. His pants around his ankles, Sally was knocked backward between his night table and his bed, an ashtray falling to the floor. He crashed down onto the carpet in a heap, his arms pushed forward from his shoulders in the narrow space. Sally's shiny black wig slipped down over his face, blood running out from under it, soaking his T-shirt. The colorful pink-and-blue trails merged with the spreading blood and disappeared.

Skinny walked back to the living room, took off the single glove, and put it in the brown paper bag with the gun. Victor was engrossed in
The Flintstones,
still sitting in Sally's leatherette recliner. Skinny put on his clothes, then walked back into the bedroom and collected the shell casings from the floor. He put them in the bag and put the bag in his jacket pocket.

"That was loud," said Victor.

"So's the television," said Skinny. "This neighborhood, we should be okay."

"Do we gotta wipe the place down?" asked Victor, his eyes still on the screen.

"No," said Skinny. "We're here alla time. It's normal they find prints. Long as nobody
sees
us comin' in or out. Try and keep your hand in fronta your face onna way to the car."

"That's good . . . My fuckin' arm . . . I don't feel like cleanin' no apartment the way I feel . . . " Victor jerked a thumb toward the television. "You believe this Betty Rubble? The dress she got on? You can almost see bush unner there!"

"We're all done," said Skinny.

Victor got up from the chair. "Wilma's not too bad . . . " he said. "But that Betty, she's got it all over the other broad. Barney's got the better piece a ass hands down. I'll bet she's better inna sack too."

"Let's go see the lawyer," said Skinny.

They let themselves out the door and closed it behind them. They left the television on.