Bone in the Throat (25 page)

Forty-Three

T
HEY GOT GRABBED
comin outta Sally's place," said Charlie Wagons.

"A terrible thing," said Danny Testa, shaking his head.

The two men walked, side by side, down Elizabeth, Charlie in his bathrobe and slippers, Danny in a dark double-breasted suit that was snug around the shoulders. Danny stepped around a dog turd.

"Fuckin people should clean up after their dogs," he said.

"The cops were right across the street," said Charlie. "They were listening the whole time. They heard it happen. Got it on tape, the whole fuckin' thing. They been there—who knows how fuckin' long they been there . . . They could hear every goddamn thing in the apartment. Sally farted in his sleep, they could hear."

"I read the paper," said Danny. "What really happened?"

"What happened is they walk outta Sally's and a million fuckin' cops come runnin outta the place across the street. You know the bakery there? They were up there in the apartment over the store. Takin' their pictures, listenin' in . . . Vic and Skinny aren't even in the car yet, they got cops swarmin' all over 'em. Squad cars, plainclothes, feds . . . They still had the gun . . . everything . . . Skinny had the gun in his pocket when they grabbed him."

"You talk to them?"

"No," said Charlie. "The lawyer called me. I hadda walk five blocks to the pay phone, call the guy back. It don't look good. They got 'em cold. They gonna have to go away for a while."

"Son of a bitch," said Danny "

Yeah . . . " said Charlie.

"So is there a problem for us?"

"From them? From Skinny and Vic? No . . . They ain't gonna be able to separate them from the lawyer, and the lawyer's gonna do what I tell him to do."

"Skinny did the actual work . . ."

"Skinny, forget about, he ain't gonna say nothin' . . ."

"And Vic?"

"He'll do what the lawyer tells him."

"There's nothin' we can do?"

"On this? Nah . . . I don't think so . . . Looks like they gotta go to the can."

"That's too bad. Skinny's a great guy," said Danny.

"Skinny's worried about the other thing," said Charlie. "He's got the one count hangin' over him he's gonna go away for . . . He's thinkin' about the other thing. The thing he done with Sally."

"The guys the other night?"

"Nah, that's no problem. The other guy. You know that guy? The one—"

"The one from the fish market?"

"That guy," said Charlie. "Skinny's worried about the nephew, Tommy. Sally's gone, so he has no worries there. But he's thinkin' about the nephew. The kid was there, he said. He saw everything that happened. Skinny doesn't want another charge."

"How about us?" asked Danny. "Can the kid hurt us?"

"No," said Charlie. "That was the only thing, that one time. That's been handled. You talked to Sally. Sally's gone. So you don't have a problem."

"What does Skinny wanna do?"

"He wants the kid clipped . . . One conviction, one count, he's out in fifteen years. Two, he's gonna grow old in there. So he's worried."

"Can't blame the guy," said Danny. "So, you want me to do something about it?"

"Not right now," said Charlie. "The way things are, with this rat dentist gone, Sally gone, those two inna can, the lawyer says he thinks they gonna lose interest in the racketeering thing. All they had there was Sally and them, and Sally ain't around to prosecute no more. The dentist ain't gonna be talkin' to nobody, so the lawyer says we should be okay. I don't wanna do nothin' makes 'em interested again." Charlie stopped walking and wrapped the bathrobe closely around his neck, "Fuckin cold," he said.

"What about the kid?" asked Danny.

"You ain't listenin' to me or somethin'?" said Charlie. "I don't wanna do nothin' right now . . . I got enough shit right now with that fag out there in Brooklyn all pissed at me and the fuckin' lawyers callin' me every ten fuckin' minutes. Let's give it a fuckin' rest. . . We don't have no problem . . . Somethin' needs to be done, we can do it later. The lawyer'll let me know they callin' witnesses. He thinks of a thing before the fuckin' prosecutor even thinks of it. The cops got a nice easy case to try. They're happy. I want 'em to stay happy."

"The lawyer told me it would be good if the kid wasn't around," said Danny.

"He said that?"

"He said it would be better. You know how they talk."

"Listen," said Charlie. "I hadda fuckin' dime for every time some smart fuckin' lawyer told me maybe somebody or other should get clipped, that maybe it would be a good thing . . . I . . . I'd be a rich man. As it is . . . I gotta pay this prick a hundred thousand bucks and the son of a bitch is gonna end up pleading anyways . . . Fuckin' lawyers. They watch too many fuckin' movies out there in Scarsdale, wherever they live . . . Always wanna whack a guy first . . . You know, I pay those pricks cash? You think they tell the tax people about that? I tell you, Danny, that's who the real fuckin' gangsters are, the fuckin' lawyers."

"Can he do somethin with the jury?" asked Danny. "He's gotta plead?"

"I told him I didn't wanna do that. I don't wanna go that route. First of all, it costs. Second of all, it's just gonna piss everybody off, the cops, the feds, it'll be all over the papers I pull somethin' like that. They don't get a conviction, there's gonna be all kinda problems. Then they come after you and me . . . Who needs that? They gonna do that thing with the jury anyways—where they lock 'em in a fuckin' room, nobody knows the names, they put 'em up in a Holiday Inn somewheres till the trial's over. They catch somebody you know, any friend of ours even talkin' to somebody who knows somebody on that jury and there's gonna be all sortsa problems. Nah . . . even Skin don't expect me to do nothin' about that . . . I don't need that right now. They just gonna have to suck it up and do some time."

"What about the restaurant? What happens there?" asked Danny.

"The place is closed. When the cops are done snoopin' around down there they'll probably sell it, put it onna block, take care a the people this guy owed money to. A course I ain't gonna see dollar one. You watch, those people in Brooklyn are gonna get fifty cents on the dollar for haulin' trash . . . Me, I'm stuck for around ninety long. Fuckin' Sally. Been givin' my fuckin' money to the fuckin' feds. I ain't gonna see nothin' outta there. Fuckin' Sally . . . I'd like to kill that pile a shit all over again. 'Solid' is what he tells me . . . this guy, the dentist, he's 'solid people,' that's what he says . . . They done business before, made some money onna clinics, that thing they had goin' on with the union awhile back. He doesn't say nothin' about no indictment hangin' over the guy's head. Sally doesn't tell me that. . . He's too busy talkin' inta little microphones . . ."

Charlie took a deep breath of air and looked up at the late afternoon sky. He turned to Danny and squeezed his shoulder affectionately.

"I tell ya, Danny. Even with alla problems I got comin' up, I feel like a new man with that prick outta my hair. I don't gotta sit there and watch that guy eat no more . . . I feel like I just had a good fuckin dump just knowin' that guy is inna ground. I can breathe the air again."

Charlie started back to the Evergreen, a little more spring in his step, his bedroom slippers making a flip-flop sound on the pavement. Danny had to hurry after him to catch up.

"You hear about the Count?" asked Charlie, laughing. "They got him for receiving. Can you believe that? They down there searchin' the place for that guy from the fish market and they don't find nothin'. So some smart-ass cop opens up the freezer and they find a load a shrimps gone missin' awhile back. Somebody musta lost a truck. Count's gonna get off with a fine, but he's gonna have problems now with the license. That's okay 'cause we got somebody else run it for him. Did you see the picture they had inna papers?"

"No," said Danny. "I missed that."

"Looks like they got the poor bastard outta bed. You shoulda seen the guy, swingin' at the photographers, he's got his gut hangin' outta his pants, and the best part, he ain't got his fuckin' teeth in . . . I saw it onna TV at the club. We had a good laugh."

Forty-Four

T
OMMY AND THE CHEF
sat on the step in front of the Dreadnaught. The chef had a large, square piece of gauze taped over his right cheekbone. There was a star-shaped welt in the center of his forehead, and his left arm was inside his jacket, supported by a makeshift sling.

There was a marshal's notice taped to the front door saying the restaurant had been seized. The picture window had been covered on the inside with newspaper; a framed copy of the menu lay on its side on the windowsill, trapped like a dead insect between the paper and the glass.

"Ricky got a job at the Lion's Head," said the chef.

Tommy shrugged, "Good for him . . . At least somebody's working. . .

"Cheryl find anything yet?" asked the chef.

"Not yet," said Tommy. "She doesn't know what she wants to do. I think she wants to get out of the restaurant business."

"You never called the guy, did you?" said the chef.

"No," said Tommy. "I never did."

' 'Cause I saw you on the phone in the emergency room. I thought you were calling him . . ."

"No. I was calling somebody else," said Tommy.

The red Alfa Romeo pulled up with a screech in front of the curb. Al got out, the Rolling Stones' "Memo from Turner" escaping from the car when he opened the door. He approached Tommy and the chef, a sheepish smile on his face, palms turned up at his sides in a kind of frozen shrug.

"What happened to you?" said Al, noticing the chef.

"I fell down some stairs," said the chef sourly.

Al took a deep breath, then looked around, letting the air out slowly. After a minute, he said, "So, what are you kids gonna do?"

"Unemployment," said Tommy and the chef in unison.

"Sorry guys . . . " said Al. "Was gonna happen anyway. One way or the other. Harvey or Sonny, makes no difference. They were ordering up enough shit to fill a fuckin' warehouse . . . That wouldn't a lasted long. I see Sonny's still open . . ."

"I just saw him goin' in over there. He's gonna have his cousin run it for him, take over the liquor license," said Tommy. "Nice case . . . He says it's been good for business. I read he's gonna plead, have to pay a fine."

"Yeah, well," said Al. "Sometimes you have to take what you can get.

"So what's gonna happen to the restaurant—this one?" asked Tommy.

"They'll sell it at auction," said Al. "Some other genius'll buy it. Maybe you can work there again . . . Who knows?"

"No way," said Tommy.

"No hard feelings, I hope?" said Al.

"I'll miss lunches at the Metro," said Tommy sarcastically.

Al laughed. "You weren't gonna get too many more a those."

"I won't miss you," said the chef. "I won't miss you a bit. I think you suck. I hope I never see you again."

"No reason you should, Chef. . ." said Al. "No reason at all."

"What about me?" asked Tommy. "You done with me or what?"

"Nothing has been decided officially," said Al. "I just wrote a memo on that this morning . . . I gotta hear back before I can say for sure. It would be nice if you were available for questioning, I guess . . . should it ever come to that. Unofficially. . . my best guess? They'll pretty much leave you alone. Your uncle's dead. They got a nice, easy dead-bang homicide case against Skinny and Victor and it probably won't even be my office that prosecutes . . . I think in a few days or so, you'll be off the hook. Don't quote me." He winked.

"What happened to Harvey?" asked Tommy.

Al grimaced. "I don't know . . . That's a good question."

"He's landfill, right? He's out at Fresh Kills," said Tommy.

"Is there anything you can tell me—" Al began. He looked at Tommy and the chef, their faces closing up like a door slamming, "Ah . . . forget it . . . It's just that his chick Carol has been raising hell. She called her congressman. It's a fuckin' mess."

"Nobody's gonna be mad at me . . . mad at Tommy, are they?" asked the chef.

Tommy turned and looked at the chef, shaking his head at him, exasperated. "Nobody's mad at anybody. Nobody gives two shits . . . We didn't do anything wrong. Right, Al?"

"Sure, Tommy. It's all on the record. You told me to go fuck myself. End of story. Some hard-on from the Manhattan DA wants to ask you questions about your uncle's death, you do what you think is right. I'm out of it. Any of Sally's old friends, any problems you think you might have with them, I don't know about. You know better than me . . . If I hear of anything should concern you, I'll give you a call. You're still at the same number?"

Tommy nodded.

Al turned to the chef. "So, how's things with you? You behavin' yourself?"

The chef nodded and stood up. "Let's go," he said to Tommy. "I don't wanna miss the movie."

Tommy stood up and gave Al a long last glance. Al offered his hand to Tommy. Tommy turned away as if he hadn't seen it.

"Awwwww,"
chided Al. "Don't be like that. . . Don't go away mad . . ."

Tommy and the chef walked down Spring Street without saying anything. Al got back in the Alfa. In the rearview mirror, he could see the two of them, standing next to each other in West Broadway traffic, Tommy's arm outstretched, hailing a cab.

Forty-Five

C
HARLIE WAGONS
was wearing a red chef's hat that had been puffed out, then flattened and pushed slightly to one side. He reached under the fire with the worn Dexter meat fork and speared a veal chop. He pressed the center of the chop with his thumb and then licked the thumb. The broiler in the rear kitchen area of the Evergreen was a pull-out Garland of the old kind, and Charlie had it fired up all the way. Humming cheerfully, he pulled the grill out and located another chop. He stuck the big fork in between the thin layer of fat and the lean veal, then swung around with a practiced ease and deposited it with a thud on Tommy's plate. He put the other chop on his own plate and, with his hip, nudged the grill back under the flame. The chops smelled of fresh rosemary and garlic, and Tommy's stomach growled.

"I heard that," said Charlie, with an easy smile. "Smells fuckin' good, don't it? I bake the garlic now, like you said. I wrap it inna foil an' I put it inna oven. Sweet. I squeeze a little a that on there—"

"That's fresh rosemary you got there," interjected Tommy, pleasantly surprised.

"Damn right, it is," said Charlie. "I don't use none a them fuckin' pine needles they sell inna supermarket. Fresh." Charlie smiled affectionately at Tommy, sitting at the small, round table in his jacket and tie.

"You didn't hafta dress up for me, you know, Tommy," said Charlie. "I don't think I seen you in a tie since you was a kid."

"I thought it was right," said Tommy.

"Well, that was nice," said Charlie. "That was nice, but, you see what I'm wearin' . . . My fuckin' lawyers say I gotta wear this alla time . . . a fuckin' bathrobe. They make me out like I'm simple in the head if I gotta go to court."

Tommy laughed and leaned over his veal chop for a sniff.

"Is that some beautiful veal, or what? Look at that," said Charlie proudly. He put a large white bowl filled with steamed artichokes in vinaigrette down on the table.

"It's gorgeous," said Tommy.

Charlie took off the red chef's hat and padded off to a double-doored Traulsen reach-in. He opened the right-hand door and pulled out a large wooden bowl filled with salad.

"What have you got there?" asked Tommy.

"Ho, ho," beamed Charlie. "I got some radicchio, I got some Belgian endive, I got some arugula, a little red-tip lettuce, a little romaine." He put the salad down in the center of the table. He went back to the refrigerator and returned with a small glass bowl of roasted red peppers. "Somebody makes these for me down the street . . . " He brought a plate of sliced vine-ripened tomatoes over. "None a that shit they grow in the fuckin' greenhouse, that shit they spray with the gas . . . " He reached up on a shelf for a box of Genoa toast. "I like this better than croutons," he said. He put some black olives on the table with some extra-virgin olive oil and a bottle of vinegar.

"I forgot the mozzarella," said Charlie. "You gotta try this stuff, it's outta this world . . . They put just the right amount a salt." He placed a dripping ball of fresh mozzarella on the large wooden butcher block next to the broiler and took a ten-inch Wiisthof chef's knife out
of
a well-stocked utility drawer. He unhooked a steel from a hook on the shelf and honed the blade with a few quick strokes. He put the steel back on the hook and hovered over the mozzarella. Grasping the cheese with his left hand, his fingers perpendicular to the knife, the tips tucked in and away from the blade, he began to slide the knife through. "Am I doin' it right, Chef?" he asked. He sliced four perfect thin slices onto the board.

"You handle that like a pro," said Tommy. "You don't need me to tell you that."

Charlie beamed at him. He arranged the slices of mozzarella on a plate and put it next to Tommy's veal chop. Then he reached for a serving fork and spoon from the table. He took them both in one hand and expertly served the salad.

"Who showed you how to do that?" said Tommy. "I didn't show you that."

Charlie laughed and poured some red wine into their glasses. "Some things you don't forget how to do. I worked tables for my brother-in-law Bobby when I was a kid. Out there on City Island, a rug joint. All the waiters hadda wear these little green jackets with the tails on 'em. Bow ties, the whole nine yards . . . You know, I musta been about fifteen years old . . . And did that fuckin' joint do business. They worked us like we was animals at that place. You hadda make the Caesar salads right there onna floor. You hadda do the thing with the egg, get the yolk out, grind up the anchovy and all that. . . and you hadda do everything with a fork an' spoon. No hands . . . You shoulda seen this fuckin' place . . . They had these carts for everything . . ."

"Gueridons?" asked Tommy.

"That's those carts you cook on, right? Yeah, they had those. They had a cart for everything. You had your salad carts, your dessert cart, your cheese cart. . . You had those things you cook on with the sterno, the gueridons. The fuckin' waiters hadda do everything. Mosta these kids workin there, they're doin' it like a summer job, or maybe they know somebody who wants to give a friend a job . . . they don't know what the fuck they're doin' out there. They hadda make these things, these crepe suzettes, steak inna brandy sauce, all sortsa flamin coffees . . . And these punks are lightin themselves up like the fuckin' Human Torch on a regular basis. Right there inna fuckin' dining room, they spill the fuckin' sterno all over the place, they light a match and—
Boom!
Or, like they lean over the burnin' brandy and the hair goes up—happened at least once a fuckin' week, these jerks . . . Customers dumpin' water outta the water glasses tryin' to put their fuckin' waiter out 'fore he burns the fuckin place down. You wouldn'ta believed it. . . How's your veal?"

"Outstanding," said Tommy, chewing enthusiastically.

"Try the artichokes," suggested Charlie. "Anyways . . . they had alla these carts . . . And, like I said, this is a very busy place. The customers come in six-thirty, seven o'clock and then all of a sudden everybody wants cheese, coffee, dessert at the same fuckin' time . . . There ain't enough carts for everybody, so all the waiters gotta fight over them. So, it's like fuckin bumper cars at the amusement park in there—guys smackin' inta each other, pushin' and pullin' their carts around real fast. It was like a fuckin' demolition derby. More than once, a guy'd go back there in the kitchen, some other guy'd come through the swingin' doors, and he'd take a poke at him. Guys whalin' on each other on the kitchen floor, cooks hafta break 'em up . . . A fuckin' zoo.

"So that's where I learned the bit with the fork and spoon." Charlie held the fork and spoon up and clicked them together a few times in his hand.

"This is really good," said Tommy, nibbling on an artichoke. "You ever think about opening your own place?"

"Nahhh . . . " said Charlie, with a scowl. "One thing I learned in the restaurant business is I never want to be in the restaurant business. You do better goin' out to the fuckin' track and puttin' your money on a horse. No shit. . . The percentages are better, you might come out of it with some money. Somebody wants to borrow money from me, open a restaurant, that's fine. But, me? My own place? No fuckin' way."

"I thought about it a few times," said Tommy, taking a bite of salad. "I've thought about my own place someday. In the future. I guess I gotta see how things turn out."

Charlie pulled his chair closer to the table, and his demeanor changed. "Listen, Tommy. The way I been thinkin', I don't think there's gonna be any problem for you. I been givin' it a lotta thought. I mean, you're outta work and all, and that's rough. But we gotta talk about some other things . . . First of all, I'm sorry about your uncle. I'm sorry all this shit that happened hadda happen. Your uncle wasn't a very smart guy. He made a lotta mistakes. I guess you know that. He got you involved in somethin' he never shoulda got you involved in. If I was payin' more attention, if I'd a thought about it some more, things woulda been different. He shouldn'ta got you involved. There's always another way to do things. You made a decision a long time ago not to come in with your uncle . . . I shoulda respected that. I feel real bad about that . . . I appreciate you didn't say nothin' to nobody. Your mother woulda been real pissed, real disappointed, she knew. You know how I feel about your mother, God bless her . . . I sent her a basket a fruit the other day . . . You know she got that alright?"

"Yeah, she got it," said Tommy. "She said to say thank you."

"Well, you know how I feel about that. I think the world of that lady Always did, always did. When your father was gone—well, that's another story. Things don't always turn out the way you want them. That's life, though, right?"

"She likes you, too, Charlie," said Tommy. "Really."

"Yeah, well . . . I hope there's no hard feelin's there," sighed Charlie. "Anyways . . . This thing goin' on right now . . . I talked to some lawyers I got. These guys are pretty sharp, and they tell me there ain't gonna be any problems with that thing that happened. They said they're shuttin' down this grand jury that was makin' such problems for everybody. . . Okay, Skinny and Victor, they got a problem. But they ain't gonna be talkin' about anything to anybody, so you don't have nothin' to worry about there.

"The feds don't like to get embarrassed—this one fuckin' U.S. At torney in particular don't like it—so, there might be some bad feelings, all the money they spent tryin' to put a guy away who ain't even around anymore. They got fuckin' nothin', they got no case . . . So, they could, like, bust your balls for a little while, they want to, but the lawyer says in the end, they'll probably forget about it. Still, they could be hangin' aroun' your neck for a while, and that, you don't need. Right?"

"Right," said Tommy.

"So, here's the thing . . . I was thinkin' maybe you should take a nice trip somewheres . . . For a couple years. Take a nice trip down there, the Caribbean. Take the girlfriend. You hang around the beach, get yourself a suntan. Maybe, when you're down there, you wanta look a few places over. You see some nice little shack onna beach somewhere, it's gotta few chairs, a bar, right onna beach there . . . you give me a call. You know how to call me. I send you down a few bucks, you can start your own place."

"Charlie, that's awful nice a you," started Tommy, "but—"

"No, no, no . . ." said Charlie. "It's not like that. You don't owe me nothin'. I'm talkin' about some mom-and-pop type a' place, you serve a few pina coladas to the tourists when you're not out gettin' a tan. This'll be your place and yours alone. You won't owe me nothin'. You manage to make yourself some money, good for you . . . You lose money, also good. No obligation."

Charlie reached across the small table and took Tommy's hand. "You see, kid, you'd be doin' me a favor. We gotta get you outta town. You see? There ain't gonna be any problems with the law, but some of the fellows don't feel too good you walkin' around seein' what you seen. Skinny and Victor and Danny, they get to talkin' with the lawyers and you know, with that case comin up . . . Skinny and Victor's case . . . Well . . . I know how these guys think. You gotta get outta town. It's better for you, it's better for me. You unnerstan' what I'm sayin' to you here?"

"I understand," said Tommy.

"So, is that gonna be alright with you? I give you a few bucks, you go downa beach for a while? Start up a little joint down there, look at the waves, scratch your balls under a palm tree? That don't sound too bad to me . . . Somebody offer that kinda thing to me, I was your age, I woulda grabbed it with both hands. Whaddaya say?"

"That sounds fine, Charlie," said Tommy. "That sounds great."

"Well, alright," said Charlie, slapping his palm on the table. He refilled their glasses with wine and held his up to Tommy. "Salud," he said.

"Salud," said Tommy.

"See, I knew there was a solution to everybody's problems. Just do me a favor, okay? Don't tell your mother I'm involved. You make it sound like it was your idea. Tell her you been savin' up. I'd appreciate it."

"Sure, sure," said Tommy. "No sweat."

"Maybe we can get her down there for a weekend over the holidays or somethin'."

"That would be great," said Tommy.

"Okay. That's that. . . Now eat your fuckin' veal chop."