Bone in the Throat (23 page)

Thirty-Eight

T
HERE WERE THREE
men in the room with Harvey in the basement of Testa Produce, Inc. Danny Testa stood in the open doorway of the refrigerated room, blowing cigar smoke through an opening in the plastic curtain. Sally stood on one side of Harvey, pulling on the end of a length of metal wire. The wire was wrapped once around Harvey's neck. Skinny stood on the other side, the other end of the wire wrapped around his gloved hand. Harvey sat in a chair, his wrists tied behind him with duct tape. His ankles were taped together also, and a rope around his waist kept him lashed to the chair. He was making a rattling sound as Sally and Skinny tugged on the wire, and his pants were wet.

"Look at that," said Skinny. "He pissed himself."

"Couldn't hold it?" said Sally, giving the wire another jerk. "Witta baby couldn't hold it? I told you, you shoulda gone before we left."

Sally laughed and gave his end of the wire another tug. The rattling sound stopped. He let go of the wire. Skinny, wearing a full-length apron, took a short length of coaxial cable and a miniature baseball bat from Danny. He gave the cable to Sally and held on to the bat.

"What the fuck is this?" said Skinny.

"I got it at Bat Day at the stadium," said Danny. "Don't fuckin' knock it. Use it right, it hurts."

Harvey sat trembling and wheezing in the cold room, his breath condensing in the refrigerated air.

"Hurry up," said Danny. "I got the day crew comin' in in a few hours. I got a fuckin' business to run here, I don't want this to take all fuckin' night. Find out what we gotta find out and we can go home."

Skinny brought the little bat down sharply across Harvey's nose. There was a crunching sound as the nose broke. Harvey shrieked, and blood ran down over his lips and dribbled off his chin. The refrigerated room was packed floor to ceiling with crates of vegetables, cases of Chinese fireworks, and two racks of men's suits. They absorbed the sounds of the bat as Skinny brought it down twice more, once on each knee. Harvey shrieked again. Sally whipped the coaxial cable across Harvey's cheeks a few times, back and forth. Harvey's screams tapered off into a broken moan, then a whimper. He sat, head bowed, crying silently in pain. Sally stomped on the arches of his feet, eliciting another scream. Skinny leaned in close and pressed the narrow end of the bat against Harvey's broken nose. "Ask him," he said to Sally.

"What did you tell them, asshole," demanded Sally. "What. . . did . . . you . . . tell them?" Skinny pressed the bat harder against the bloody nose.

"I had no . . . no choice," spluttered Harvey.

Sally hit him in the mouth with the cable, shattering teeth.

"Don't hit him inna fuckin' mouth, Sally," admonished Danny. "The fuckin' guy's gotta talk."

Skinny gave Harvey another tap on the nose.

"How long, asshole?" asked Sally. "How long have you been talking to the fuckin' cops?"

"Thinna beginnin," said Harvey, through broken teeth. "Thinna beginna . . ."

Skinny whacked him another time with the bat, on the right knee. Harvey jumped in the chair. Skinny hit him in the left knee.

"Tapes . . ." said Danny. "Ask him if they got tapes."

"Tapes," said Sally, his upper lip trembling near Harvey's ear. "They got tapes?"

Harvey nodded, and Sally punched him in the jaw.

Danny shook his head.

"The fuck's been wearin' a fuckin' wire, you asshole," he said to Sally. "They got you on tape." He gave Sally a fierce look.

Sally punched Harvey again. It made a wet, slapping noise.

"I don't think they got much," he said. "I was careful."

"Whaddaya mean, they don't got much?" yelled Danny. "They prolly got the fuckin place wired up like a fuckin' Christmas tree! Jerk!"

Sally put his face up close to Harvey's. "How long?" he asked. "How long they been listenin' to me?"

"The begin . . . " managed Harvey.

"You already know that, you fuckin' moron," said Danny, disgustedly. "It's a sting, got it? He was workin' with the fuckin' feds from the start. You been lendin' our fuckin' money to the fuckin feds, unnerstand?"

Sally stepped back, fuming. He started to take another swing at Harvey and backed off. He stood, blinking with rage in the cold room, opening and closing his fists.

"They had that beef with the clinics hangin' over him," said Danny. "He's been with them from the fuckin' start."

Sally walked over to a stack of cartons stamped MADE IN MACAO and ripped off the top of one. He rummaged around inside for a moment, withdrew his hand and tore open another carton.

"What the fuck are you doin'?" said Danny.

Sally turned away from the carton with a handful of cherry bombs.

"Hey, I get money for those," complained Danny. "They don't fuckin' buy 'em, the box is open."

"You eat yet, Harvey?" said Sally. "You eat yet?" He reached over and pinched Harvey's nostrils closed. Harvey's eyes raced around the room. He began rocking back and forth in the chair, straining violently at the rope around his waist, trying to keep Sally's other hand away from his face.

"Hold him!" yelled Sally. "Will you fuckin' hold him!" He pressed the handful of cherry bombs roughly against Harvey's mouth.

"I'm holdin', I'm holdin'," said Skinny, pulling back on the twisted metal wire around Harvey's neck. Harvey struggled to keep his mouth closed. Skinny raised the bat high up over his head and smashed it down against his collarbone. There was a sharp
snap
and Harvey passed out; his head fell forward onto his chest and his mouth opened, bloody spittle running onto his shirt.

Sally pulled his head up by the nose and crammed the cherry bombs into his open mouth, distending his cheeks. Two of the cherry bombs rolled out and fell on Harvey's lap. Skinny looked over at Danny, raising an eyebrow. Danny nodded at him. "Finish him," he said.

Skinny walked over to a shelf, reached behind a case of escarole, and removed a brown paper bag. He took a .22-caliber Colt Woodsman out of the bag.

Sally was on his knees, in front of Harvey, fumbling with a book of matches. The draft from the cooling-system compressor kept blowing them out. He tried to light one of the fuses in Harvey's mouth, but the blood and saliva extinguished it.

"Wait, wait," he said. "I almost got it lit."

"C'mon, Sally, we don't got time for this," said Danny. "We know what we gotta fuckin' know."

Skinny shook his head without expression.

"I almost got it that time," said Sally, lighting another match. "Fuckin fuses are fuckin' wet. Keep gettin' blown out . . ."

Danny looked at Skinny and nodded again. Skinny pressed the barrel of the .22 against the back of Harvey's head at an upward angle and squeezed the trigger. He moved the gun in a semicircle along the base of Harvey's skull, letting off round after round. The room filled with the smell of cordite, the smoke blowing quickly around in the draft from the compressor. When the hammer clicked on a spent cartridge, Skinny put the pistol back in the brown paper bag and took off his apron. He wrapped the bag in the apron and tied the strings neatly around the package with a bow.

"Go get Victor," said Danny. "Get Victor and them upstairs. Tell them they can take him out to the place and dump him."

Sally still crouched in front of Harvey with the matches.

"C'mon Sally," said Danny. "What's the point?"

A few sparks sputtered out of Harvey's mouth, followed by a plume of smoke. There was a loud hiss. Sally stepped back and covered his ears, and Harvey's cheeks blew apart, spraying bits of flesh and enamel around the room.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" said Danny, wiping the corner of his eye with his pinky. "I got fuckin' food in here!"

"The fuck," said Sally. "The fuck! . . . He really put me innit, didn't he?"

"What the fuck you do that for?" asked Danny. "You didn't hafta do that. It's a fuckin' mess in here. Look at this fuckin' place!"

"I hope he felt that," said Sally.

"He didn't feel nothin'," said Danny. "The fuckin' guy was dead."

"Maybe he felt it," said Sally. "You never know."

"You can be a real fuckin' asshole sometimes," said Danny. "Now go upstairs with Skinny and tell Victor, get a hose down here and clean this fuckin' place out. It's a fuckin' mess."

Thirty-Nine

A
T THE LAW OFFICES
of Benson, Richardson, Hale and Clawson, James Benson wiped a coffee ring off the heavy glass conference table and waved his hand disapprovingly in front of his face. "There's no smoking in here," he said.

Danny Testa, sitting in an upholstered chair at the table, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and stubbed out his cigarette in his empty coffee container. Benson, dressed in a white squash outfit, picked up the container with two buffed and manicured fingers and dropped it in a trash can next to his desk.

"So I guess you've been reading the papers? That's what this is about?" said Benson, sitting down at the head of the table.

Danny nodded. "Whaddaya think?" he asked.

"What I think," said Benson, "is the man is going to be having some problems. You too. And maybe some others as well."

"What do you hear?" asked Danny.

"What I hear," said Benson, "what I hear is there's a grand jury meeting in secret about to indict any day now. United States versus a bunch of John Does . . . " He brushed a few imaginary crumbs off his lap.

"What does that mean . . . John Doe?"

"That means they don't want you to know who's the person going to get indicted, simply put," said Benson. "I gather they've been hearing testimony for some time now."

Danny nodded gravely and cleared his throat.

"Now on the face of it," said Benson, "it doesn't look too good. You can be pretty sure for starters that they're going to get their indictments. They almost always do."

"So, what are you gonna do?" asked Danny.

"I need a better picture of what they have before I can do much. I have to identify the problem areas. Maybe you can help me with that."

"Whaddaya think they have?"

"Well, if they've been hearing testimony in secret, it's a good bet somebody is talking to them. They've got informer testimony, somebody on the inside, somebody close enough to provide probable cause for wiretaps, that sort of thing. I'd have to say they have that at the very least."

"So, you're sayin' we got a nigger in the woodpile," said Danny.

"I don't know if I'd put it exactly like that," said Benson. "But it looks that way. I know Sullivan pretty well, as you know, and I can t see him going before the grand jury without that. In order to get court approval for wiretaps, he's got to demonstrate . . . he's got to have somebody submit an affidavit stating that there's reasonable expectation of criminal activity—specific criminal activity, mind you—that is going to show up on the tapes. You understand? He's got to show what
kind
of activity. To me, that says there's an informant."

"Okay," said Danny. "Okay, I see that."

"Good . . . " said Benson. He leaned closer to Danny. "Now, would you have any idea who that person might be? That would be helpful..."

"We got a couple ideas," said Danny.

"That's good. That's good. Because you can be sure they have tape recordings. You have to assume that. . . Now, the tapes, whatever they are, in and of themselves are not an insurmountable problem. There's ways to get around that. Maybe I can have them excluded. Failing that, tapes are ambiguous. Especially the way you guys talk to each other. No offense . . . Without a real live witness, somebody to give context to the tapes, somebody who was there for the conversations, who can explain them to the jury, well, an argument could be made that it's all a bunch of guys sitting around bullshitting each other. If it's just tapes they've got, we have a good chance of beating them."

"Okay. I see what you're sayin'," said Danny.

"Now this thing that happened in Brooklyn, that's something else . . . I don't think they have anything there or they wouldn't be crying to the newspapers, pointing the finger at each other. Clearly it's the U.S. Attorney in the Southern District you've got to worry about right now. The federal case—that's the case we have to concentrate on."

"I'm thinking if we solve the one problem, we won't have no problems with the other," said Danny.

"Really? Well that
is
good news. That would make things much easier. Are you certain there's only one problem area?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, in my experience, when I was working for the prosecutor's office, I had a person with an allegedly criminal past for a witness, somebody who may have even taken part in some of the activities for which I'm prosecuting some other people . . . well, I always liked to have more than one, if you see my point. Corroboration. Juries tend not to like informers, people who testify against their former associates, to get off scot-free. It's always better for the state's case to have some corroboration. Is that possible? That there's more than one:

"Well, counselor," said Danny. "It's possible. The one guy we think could hurt us . . . the one guy . . . I don't think he's gonna be a problem. I don't think you gotta worry about the one guy I'm thinking of. . . There is another guy . . . I can see that. I talked about it with the man. I mean, there is another guy I'm not so sure about. . . But the old man, he says this person is not somebody who would hurt us. That's what the old man says."

"But you're not so sure," said Benson.

"I'm not so sure," said Danny.

"It would be better for everybody if you could be sure."

"I'll talk to the man," said Danny. He took a thick manila envelope out of his jacket pocket and left it on the table when he got up. "Thanks for seeing me on short notice," said Danny.

"That's perfectly alright," said Benson. "Anytime."

Forty

C
HERYL WAS HUMMING
the "Final Jeopardy" theme in the shower. She used it, Tommy knew, to time the conditioner after she shampooed her hair. He listened, smiling to himself, for a few seconds before his thoughts returned to Al and when it was that he was going to call him.

The phone rang, and Tommy was grateful for the interruption. He didn't like thinking about Al. He picked up the phone thinking he'd call him tonight.

It was the chef calling.

"They closed the restaurant for the week," he said.

Tommy was taken aback. "No shit! How come?"

"Closed for renovations. Victor called."

"So, we don't have to go in? What about the food? It'll go bad."

"I don't know. They want us to come in today. Just you and me. They want to have a meeting, talk about the menu, some changes."

"Uh-oh," said Tommy.

"Yeah," said the chef.

"What time?"

"Eleven . . . Listen, is Cheryl there? They probably tried to reach her at home. Tell her she doesn't have to go in today, I guess they'll get back to her on the schedule. You want to meet at the corner of West Broadway and Spring? We can go in together."

"Yeah, sure."

"See you there at eleven."

W
HEN TOMMY
and the chef walked in the door, Sally, Victor, and the Count were seated at a table in the front cocktail area, examining a stack of payroll sheets and invoices. Skinny sat apart from them at the bar, drinking coffee from a glass and leafing through the paper.

The Count gave them both a big smile. "Tommy," he said. "Have a seat!" Victor pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet to intercept the chef.

"Hey, chef," he said. "Why don't we go downstairs. There's some things I wanna talk about with you."

The chef shot Tommy a curious look and followed Victor across the empty dining room.

Tommy took this as an ominous sign. He looked around the room for Harvey. He saw only Skinny at the bar, which gave him no comfort. He sat down in Victor's chair, across from the Count, painfully aware of Skinny's presence behind him.

"Where's Harvey?" Tommy asked.

"He ain't comin' in I don't think," said Sally. "Vic said he wasn't feelin too good yesterday." At the bar, Skinny made a snorting sound that could have been a laugh.

The Count was wearing reading glasses. He pushed them up over his large, liver-spotted forehead. He sighed melodramatically and moved his hands over the pile of papers in the center of the table.

"Tommy, this place is a fuckin' mess. We been goin' over some papers, me and your uncle, and you wouldn't believe how bad things are. We're gonna be makin' some changes . . . " He smiled obsequiously at Sally. "Yer uncle here has axed me to come over and see what I can do to help out, try and get this fuckin place back on its feet."

Tommy, thinking of the chef downstairs alone with Victor, tried to keep from wincing. Here it comes, he thought.

"This place been losing money like it was nothin," said the Count. "This guy Harvey's run the fuckin' place inta the fuckin ground. He owes everybody. You got no idea . . ."

He owes Sally, Tommy was thinking. That's what this is about.

"He owes rent, he owes for food, half these guys want COD now . . . He owes power, gas, water. They're this fuckin' close to shuttin' off the telephone . . . This can't go on."

Tommy nodded politely, trying to tune in on what the Count was really saying. Were they going to close the restaurant? Was that what this was about? Was the Count going to buy it? Villa Nova II?

Tommy examined Sally's expression. He looked relaxed, his dark, close-together eyes narrowed to lazy slits; he was leaning back in his chair, content to let the Count do the talking. Tommy wondered if he was about to be fired. He continued listening without much interest. How long had the chef been downstairs with Victor? That was what concerned him.

"Even a fuckin' blind man can see what's been happenin' here," the Count was saying. "I mean lookit some a this shit this guy has been buyin'."

The Count held up an invoice from Amazon de Choix, a specialty food purveyor. The Count read from a list of items: "Black truffles . . . chestnut puree . . . imported flageolets, whatever that is . . . nasturtium flowers—What the fuck is that? . . . Candied fuckin' violets . . . " He held up another invoice. "And this fuckin' tomato bill. . . Guy's buyin' Jersey vine-ripes for sixteen fuckin' dollars a box. Sixteen dollars! What for? You use 'em for fuckin' sauce?"

"We use 'em for sauce, yeah . . . Tomato Provencale . . . some other things . . . " said Tommy.

"Tommy, you need tomatas for sauce, I can get you inna can for practically nothin'," said the Count.

"You
can
get 'em for nothin'," interjected Sally with a chuckle.

"I mean, that's just throwin' money inna fuckin' garbage. I may not be a financial genius . . . I come inta this business, I didn't know shit. But I learned. I learned what you gotta do to make a dollar. I gotta good fuckin' business goin' over there now. You know what kinda business we do in a week there? Guess..."

Tommy shrugged disinterestedly. The Count droned on.

"A fuck of a lotta money. Me and my partners, we take a nice piece a money outta that place every week. Whatever you might think about my place, we do all fuckin' right over there. 'Cause I work. 'Cause I keep an eye on things. 'Cause I don't buy no tomatoes sixteen dollars a fuckin' box . . . "

Tommy tried to tune the Count out. He hoped it would be over soon. By this time, he was sure he was going to be fired. That was what was happening downstairs, he guessed. Victor was canning the chef. He sat half-listening to the Count, more concerned with Skinny at the bar. He looked out the window, hoping to see the chef standing outside on the sidewalk, waiting for him.

"And the crew you got down there . . . What's he been payin' people . . . " the Count was saying. "It don't make no sense!
Marrone!
What I wanna pay a fuckin' dishwasher that kinda money for? Minimum fuckin' wage? An American gets that kinda money. . .You don't pay these fuckin' sand-niggers that kinda money! They ain't even fuckin' legal. . . You spoil 'em!"

The Count held up a recent payroll sheet between two fingers like it would contaminate him. "And that ain't the worst of it. That ain't the worst of it. Now, I dunno you friends with this chef or what . . . But I gotta tell you—this guy, he's paddin' the fuckin' payroll. He's gettin' money for stuff he says he's gotta buy and he don't buy it. I can read these things. You gotta, in this business. I can count. Vic been keepin' an eye on who been workin' an' who ain't been workin', and this chef you got, he been skimmin' . . . Nobody works no seven days a week here, Tommy. Am I right or what?"

He didn't pause to let Tommy answer. He dismissed any possibility of disagreement with a flick of the wrist. So, that's definitely it for the chef, thought Tommy. He wished they'd hurry up and fire him, too. He wanted this all to be over with. He could go out for some drinks with the chef, compare notes, try to find something to laugh about.

D
OWNSTAIRS
, the chef walked through his kitchen, Victor at his side. The chef had a pretty good idea of what was coming as he walked toward his office, his mind on the bottle of methadone in the center drawer of his desk. He had put his Sunday take-home bottle in there the night before and had forgotten to take it with him when he left. Just outside the office, Victor stopped and took his elbow.

"They want you out, chef," he said.

The chef turned and faced him, unsurprised. He had to get that bottle.

"Today?" he said, trying to sound shocked. "I don't get any notice?"

Victor gave a short, nasty laugh, "No, you ain't gettin' no notice . . ."

"What about severance pay . . . two weeks—" the chef began, knowing full well he wasn't going to get it.

"You think I'm fuckin' stupid?" said Victor. "You think I don't know what you been doin'? You been stealin' from the fuckin' house . . . You been takin' money ain't yours. And if that ain't bad enough . . . if that ain't bad enough, you're a lousy fuckin' chef. I ate some a that shit you been sellin here. It sucked. They got a chef next door could cook you unna the fuckin' table."

The chef looked inside his office, eyes focused on the center drawer of his desk. He was wondering how he could be alone for a minute without Victor breathing down his neck; he wanted to scoop up his bottle and get out of there. It seemed unlikely he was going to get the opportunity. The way Victor was talking, he had another couple of minutes at best. . . He thought of Tommy upstairs with Sally, the Count, that other man at the bar. They were probably firing him, too. He had to get that bottle.

The chef tried to step past Victor into the office.

"Where the fuck you think you're goin'?" said Victor, putting a hand against his chest and blocking his way.

"I gotta get something outta my desk," said the chef, trying his best to sound nonchalant, though in fact, his heart was racing. He was startled by the physical contact of this hand on his chest. Things were escalating in a way he didn't like. His forehead broke out in a sweat. He had to have that bottle . . . If he didn't get his dose, he'd be sick in a few hours. Worse, far worse, he'd lose the bottle itself. If he didn't return the empty bottle to the clinic tomorrow, he was going to be in deep, deep trouble. Losing his job would be nothing next to that. . . They could kick him off the program for mishandling his methadone. He'd have no job, no money, and a habit he couldn't afford. His head swam with the implications.

"Where's Harvey?" said the chef.

"You don't fuckin worry about Harvey," said Victor. "I'm tellin' you you're out. Nobody else gotta tell you—I'm tellin' ya."

The chef flashed on Mr. James, his counselor. He tried to imagine explaining to him how he came to lose his bottle. It would be a disaster. Mr. James would disbelieve him as a matter of policy. Junkies lie. He imagined the things he'd have to do if he were kicked out of the program. It meant he'd be back scoring on the street again. His mother; he'd have to hit her again for money, and so soon after the last time . . . He had nothing left to sell but what . . . his TV set, the CD player. The chef thought of the look on his mother's face when he came crawling to her for money; the disappointment in her eyes, the bony white hand reaching across a table holding a check. Christ! he thought; even before the check cleared, he'd be in full-bloom withdrawal. He decided to dig in his heels. He wasn't leaving without that fucking bottle. Better Victor than Mr. James.

T
OMMY WAS
barely listening to the Count. He focused on the dust motes floating in the light from the Venetian blinds over Sally's head. He tried to avoid Sally's gaze, hating him. When was the Count going to get to the point? Couldn't they just get it over with? He imagined the Count was taking his time, explaining things to him before the axe fell, out of delicacy to Sally. He wished he wouldn't. He wanted to reach across the table and shut him up, break his glasses over his nose . . . Him and his lousy food; his lousy, ridiculous restaurant; his idiotic television show, still showing in perpetual syndication, invading even Tommy's home. And Sally . . . he'd call Al tonight, Tommy decided. Definitely tonight, you fat, fucking embarrassment. He saw in his mind what the Dreadnaught would become under the Count's less-than-tender mercies: canned tomatoes, deep-fried breaded veal cutlets, the same specials night after night every time somebody dropped by with a load of hijacked frozen lobster tails . . .

T
HE CHEF TRIED
again. "I got something in my desk I gotta get," he said, "It's mine."

"That ain't your desk no more, asshole," said Victor, the hand still planted on his chest. "You can walk out that fuckin' door right now and consider yourself fuckin' lucky."

"My check . . ." said the chef. "What about my last paycheck?"

"You must be fuckin' kiddin' me," said Victor. "You owe me. I don't owe you nothin' . . . The door, that's what you get. You been gettin' plenty around here . . . now you get zippo . . . goose-egg . . .
nuh-thing.
Got it? You got that, asshole? The door, that's what you get.

Victor removed his hand from the chef's chest to point forcefully at the trapdoors to the street. His eyes fixed beyond Victor's shoulder, on the center drawer of the desk, the chef charged past Victor and into the tiny office. He managed to get the drawer open and pawed at the little orange bottle, aware of Victor coming up behind him. His hand was in the drawer, fingers curling around the bottle, when Victor shoved him hard from behind and kicked the drawer closed. The chef felt his fingers bend backward; a sharp pain shot up his arm to his elbow. He pulled himself up off the desk with his right hand and turned to face a smirking Victor.

Angry and desperate, the chef fumbled again for the bottle with his traumatized hand. He managed to get his fingers around it and tightened his grip. Victor shoved him again. The chef pulled his hand from the drawer. In a smoking rage, he punched Victor full in the mouth, busting his lip.

Victor looked more surprised than hurt. He stepped forward and swung wildly at the chef, his hand grazing the wall and missing the chef's head. He swung again and connected with a left, a glancing blow off the temple. He hit the chef in the side of the neck, knocking him back into the swivel chair. The chef tried to stand up, but Victor was still coming at him. He was punching downhill, having trouble hitting with any force, the narrow confines of the office preventing him from delivering any roundhouse blows. The chef felt another punch land over the ridge of his left eye. He hooked his legs under the chair, planted his feet solidly against the concrete floor, and stood up, burying his head in Victor's solar plexus. They crashed awkwardly around in the small space, knocking papers everywhere, Victor flailing at the chef's crouched figure, trying to bring his elbows down into his kidneys, bringing his knees up repeatedly to hit him in the stomach.