Bone in the Throat (2 page)

Two

S
ALLY FOUND HARVEY
looking out the window of his cluttered office. Harvey was a man of medium height with dark curly hair graying slightly around the sideburns and receding from a high forehead. He had bushy black eyebrows and horn-rimmed glasses. He was very tan. Harvey's desk was stacked with bills and invoices and bundles of dinner checks. On the wall, next to a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit calendar, two schedules, and a diploma stating that Harvey was certified to practice dentistry in the state of New York, hung a photograph of him in his white smock, smiling, with his arm around a plump, blond dental assistant.

"Hey, Harve," said Sally.

"Sally, what do you hear about the weather? Last time I heard they said it might be nice," said Harvey.

"I heard rain," said Sally. "They were playing the radio at Frank's."

"Why does it have to rain every weekend?" said Harvey. "Every fucking weekend now. I've never heard such shit."

"Yeah, well—"

Harvey turned and eased himself into an oversize swivel chair. He let out a long sigh. "Sally, I got nothing for you this week. I'm sorry. I'm dying here. It took everything just to make payroll this week. It's getting so the kids here run to the fuckin bank Thursday to cash their checks before they fuckin' bounce."

Sally moved closer to the desk and looked down at Harvey. "You know this makes three weeks. You're three weeks behind here. I mean, where are we going?"

"I don't know what to say. I don't know what to tell you. It's the fuckin' weather. I'm getting killed." Harvey leaned forward and flipped through a Page-a-Day calendar. "I just need a couple of good weekends—a couple of good Friday, Saturday nights, maybe a couple of brunches. I can get right with everybody no problem. I just don't have it right now."

"That's no good," said Sally. "That's no good at all. Some people are going to be real sad I come back there again with no money from you. It looks bad."

"I'm sorry. Really," said Harvey "Three times I come down here," said Sally.

"I know, I know," said Harvey, "I'm doing the best I can."

"I just can't have this," said Sally. "You got me?"

"I'm doing everything I can," said Harvey.

Sally shook his head. "I cant walk back there again and be coming up empty with you."

"I'm doing everything I can," insisted Harvey. "I get my meat from the man. My poultry, my fish There he tells me. Where to get my dairy. I got to get my linen and it doesn't even come back clean. And the garbage. These guys who come for the garbage—"

"That's not us," said Sally, pointing a thick finger at Harvey. "That's not us—the garbage. That's somebody else. You don't talk to them like you talk to me. They're friends but not friends like we're friends. You just let them haul your trash for you and then you pay them on time. You don't do no more than that with them. Somebody from them comes around and says they want to do something else with you and you come tell me. Right?"

"Sure," said Harvey "You understand that?" asked Sailv.

"I understand," said Harvey.

"Okay, how are we gonna straighten out this problem here that we got?" asked Sally.

"Maybe if you can wait another week," said Harvey.

"Listen," said Sally, raising his voice, "you're not even making the fuckin vig here and you're talking maybe'? You're saying next week'? This is not a next week' situation. I like you, Harvey, you're a nice guy. You did nice work that time on my niece's teeth and all. You gave my nephew Tommy a job. I appreciate it. But the way things are . . ."

"How about steaks?" Harvey said hopefully. "I got some beautiful shell steaks down there in the walk-in. I got lobster tails—"

"I don't want any fuckin' steaks," said Sally, his voice rising. "What the fuck am I gonna do with fuckin' steaks? I'm up to my ass in fuckin' steaks anytime I fuckin' want 'em! You've gotta do better than that. I'm not playin' with you here. This is serious. It's three fuckin' weeks. The man wants his money. He wants it regular. You understand where we are here?"

"I just don't know what I can do," said Harvey, looking defeated behind his desk. "I don't know what else I can do."

"I can tell you what we're gonna do," said Sally. "I—me personally—am going to cover you for this week. Out of my own pocket. This week only. This once. And next week . . ."

Sally reached across the desk and grabbed a handful of his cheek. Harvey noticed how the gold Piaget watch on Sally's wrist hung like a charm bracelet over his hand. Then Sally started to bounce his head off the desk, and he could hear his glasses breaking.

Harvey dabbed at his bloody nose with a crumpled tissue. Sally stood across the room examining Harvey's face with a clinical detachment.

"We're not playing around here anymore," he said. "I'm not gonna get jerked off again. No more next weeks' outta you, you lit tie prick. No more I'll do my bests'. Just get me my fucking money Get it on time. Borrow it. Steal from your partners. Go back to pulling fucking teeth if you got to. This is serious. You seen
The Godfather,
right?"

Harvey nodded.

Three

H
ARVEY STOOD
, head tilted back, in front of the restaurant's bathroom mirror, pressing a tissue to his nose. He was bleeding from both nostrils and was a little swollen over one eye. He rocked back and forth in front of the mirror saying, "Son of a bitch, son of a bitch." He noticed, from the corner of his eye, that the flowers in the vase by the sink were beginning to wilt. The lilies looked fine. Holding the tissue under his nose with one hand, he turned the vase around with the other so that the irises faced the rear. He took a long piss and saw that the porter had missed a spot in the urinal, and that the white hockey puck had melted down to the size of a Life Saver. He checked the inside of the toilet stall. There was no extra roll of paper.

Harvey left the bathroom, muttering under his breath. He walked across the empty dining room to the ice machine by the bar and filled a dinner napkin with some ice. He held it over his nose.

The interior of the Dreadnaught was fitted out like the lounge of an ocean liner. In fact, the fixtures, the zinc bar, the sconces, the curved banquettes, even the china and the silver, were from an old cruise ship. Harvey had bought the whole lot at auction. There were seats for forty customers in the back dining room, another twenty in the front cocktail area by the picture window. Two enormous murals, painted in the Social Realist style, ran the length of the restaurant. They depicted brawny, square-jawed dockworkers working on the New York waterfront of the 1930s. The murals matched the restaurant's color scheme, shades of black, gray, and beige, with little highlights of pink, painted in later, to match the tablecloths.

A single skylight, streaked with dirt and lined with silver alarm-system tape, allowed a little sun into the dining room above a lonely potted palm. A thin fluorescent tube ran around the edges of the black ceiling, glowing pink on the banquettes.

From his position at the bar, Harvey surveyed the room. Few things looked more tawdry than an empty restaurant during daylight hours. A bulb had gone out over the bar. There were scuff marks on the black baseboards, and he noticed that the bar stools needed reupholstering. Harvey tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that it would look better at night.

B
ACK IN HIS OFFICE
, Harvey picked up the phone and called his old office number. Carol picked up.

"Dr. Rosenberg's office. Hold one moment please."

Harvey listened to Billy Joel play through the receiver until Carol came back on the line.

"Thank you for holding. How can I help you?"

"Carol, it's me," he said.

"Harvey, how are you?"

"What, has that jerk got you answering the phones now? Where's the girl?"

"She's out sick," said Carol. "I'm helping out."

"Carol, I got a little problem here. I wonder if you can do something for me," said Harvey.

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"Can you stop by the apartment and pick me up my other pair of glasses and maybe a clean shirt and bring them down to the restaurant?"

"I can do that. After work, right?"

"Yeah," said Harvey. "Later. When you finish. I just can't get away till then. A light blue shirt. If there's no blue, a pink."

"What happened?" asked Carol.

"I was in—I had a little accident," said Harvey. "I hit my head."

"Oh, my poor baby," said Carol. "Is it serious? What happened?"

"It's those low ceilings in the kitchen. They got all those pots and pans hanging off of there. I walked into a saucepot."

"Oh my god! Are you sure you're alright? Should you see somebody?"

"No, no, no. It's nothing."

"You should really talk to those boys down there in the kitchen. Somebody could be seriously hurt. You could get sued or something."

"It's okay, really."

"Do you want me to come right down?"

"No. After work is fine. I just need the glasses and a shirt. I'll see you . . . what, around six or seven? We can have a drink and maybe some dinner down here. I'll get them to make us up something nice.

"You got it, baby," said Carol.

"You have your key?"

"Of course, Doctor!" said Carol.

H
ARVEY SAT
at his desk and looked up at the wall clock over the door. It was a quarter to four. He pressed the intercom button on the telephone, "Michael, pick up. Pick up, Michael."

The chef picked up. "Yeah?"

"Is the bartender in?" asked Harvey.

"He's changing," said the chef.

"What about Stephanie? She's early person tonight."

"She called before," said the chef, without inflection. "She said she's gonna be late."

"Thanks for letting me know. How late?"

"A few minutes," said the chef. "Head shots."

"Let me know when she comes in," said Harvey.

"Should I send her up?"

"No, just let me know. I want to know if I got somebody on the floor. Cheryl's due in at five forty-five. And the busboy. What's his name?"

"Hector?"

"That's it."

"Cheryl will be in early. It's chicken pot pie for the shaft meal. She loves chicken pot pie," said the chef.

"I have to go out for a little while in about an hour or so. Barry is off today, so watch the store for me, okay?"

"Okay," said the chef.

Harvey punched off the intercom and pressed down for an outside line. He dialed and heard two rings and a series of clicks on the other end. Finally, someone picked up.

A man's voice said, "Hello?"

"It's me," said Harvey. "This is Moses."

"Yes?" said the voice. "What is it you want?"

"I have to talk to my friend. As soon as possible," said Harvey.

"Is this an emergency?" asked the voice.

"Yes, it's a fuckin' emergency," said Harvey, losing his composure for a second. He paused and took a deep breath. "Alright, maybe not an emergency. But I've got to talk to the guy. Things are getting bad here. I got hurt today. Just now. I think he broke my fuckin' nose."

"Okay," said the voice. "Stay calm. You can meet him in . . . one hour. At the place. You know which place?"

"Yes. I know it," said Harvey.

"One hour then," said the voice.

Harvey hung up the phone and called his ex-wife.

Four

H
ARVEY STOOD OUT
front of Village Cigars at the corner of Christopher Street and Seventh Avenue. The evening sky-was filling with clouds. A line of Lotto players pushed past Harvey and into the store. Commuters scurried by, making for the subway entrances. Looking across the street at the Riviera Cafe, Harvey watched the busboys breaking down the cafe tables in anticipation of rain. A dirty, barefoot old man with sores on his face shook an empty cardboard coffee cup at Harvey and asked him for change. He shook his head and the man moved on to the Lotto players.

A cherry-red Alfa Romeo two-seater pulled up to the curb on Seventh Avenue. The driver rolled down the window on the passenger side and called out to Harvey, "Hop in, Doc!"

The driver was a heavyset man with dark hair, thinning on top, and a carefully groomed mustache. He wore a blue-and-red-striped polo shirt, open at the neck, and a tiny gold crucifix on a thin gold chain. He leaned across the passenger seat and opened the door.

"Come on! Get in!" he said.

Harvey slid into the black leather bucket seat just as it began to rain. "Jesus Christ," said Harvey. "Is this your car?"

"Nope," said the driver. "Perks, man, perks. They say we should blend. I'm blending."

"They let you people have cars like this? This is where my tax dollars are going?" said Harvey.

The driver laughed, "Since when have you been paying your taxes?"

Harvey sat silently for a moment as the Alfa turned right. Another turn on Hudson and they were headed uptown in the early rush hour traffic. "I could have been killed today. Right there in my fuckin' office, he smashes my face in. Look at me . . . He could have killed me. He broke my glasses."

"It doesn't look too bad," said the driver, sneaking a quick look as he steered the car between a bus and a delivery truck. "They said you got yourself a broken nose or something. It doesn't look broken to me."

"I think it might be broken," insisted Harvey.

The driver pointed at his own nose. "That's what a broken nose looks like. You put ice on it?"

Harvey nodded.

"It looks a little swole-up maybe," said the driver. "But it doesn't look broken."

"It hurts," said Harvey.

It was pouring rain now. They pulled up at a stoplight, and the driver turned and looked at Harvey. "So what happened today?"

"He wanted money. It's Friday," said Harvey.

"So you gave him some?" asked the driver.

"I didn't have it to give," said Harvey. "I had to pay the liquor. You have to pay them or they put you on COD. You know what happens when they put you on COD? Once that happens, I may as well close the fucking doors."

"Harvey," said the driver, putting the Alfa into first gear as the light changed. "You are pissing me off. Our office disperses you certain funds. You, in turn, are to disperse those funds in the precise fucking manner we agreed. You are not supposed to pay your liquor bills with that money. You are not supposed to pay rent, or make payroll, or buy gifts for your bimbos. We've had this conversation before. You are to use those funds for the express purpose of making controlled payments at the appropriate times. You are supposed to give the nice Mr. Pitera his money when he asks for it." Seeing a long line of green lights in front of him, the driver quickly shifted gears and raced to make them.

"I'm sorry, Al," said Harvey. "I'm just trying to stay afloat till Labor Day. I'm jus' tryin' to pay my bills here. Tryin' to run a fuckin business. Tryin' to make a fuckin' living. And it's getting damn near fucking impossible."

"That's just too bad, buddy," said Al, lighting a Marlboro 100 with the lighter from the dashboard. "But it sure beats spreading your cheeks up at Greenhaven, don't it?"

Al gave Harvey an affectionate pat on the left knee and then down shifted into second gear as he swung the Alfa east, heading toward the park.

"Now don't pout," he said. "We'll take a nice drive in the park. I got a stack of cassettes there, the previous owner was a Stones fan. Is that a break? We'll have a nice drive and you can tell me your troubles. We can go over a few things together, listen to a few tunes. You just relax and tell Uncle Al all about it."