"Tommy," said the chef "Take a walk with me. I gotta talk to you."
Tommy was filleting a salmon. He looked up from the cutting board. "I'm wrestling with this, gimme a second." He zipped a long, thin knife along the length of the fish and deftly lifted the pink fillet free of the backbone. He repeated the movement on the other side of the bone. Holding the skin at the tail with a kitchen towel, he worked the knife blade along in a gentle, rocking motion under the meat, removing the skin. Then, with a pair of needle-nose pliers, he plucked the translucent rib bones out of the fillets. He worked quickly, leaving a little pile of the bones on the cutting board. He took a larger knife from a shelf and, using an ounce scale, cut the fillets into seven-ounce servings.
There was a tall stockpot on low flame on the stove filled with water, lobster shells, and mirepoix. Tommy put in the rack, skin, and head from the salmon. He sprinkled whole cloves, peppercorns, bay leaves, thyme, crushed red pepper, fennel seed, and a bit of saffron into the pot. He found some leek tops and parsley stems in the reach-in and a halved head of garlic, and he threw those in, too. He checked the flame under the stockpot for a final time and walked into the chef's tiny office.
"You wanted to talk to me?" asked Tommy.
"Yeah," said the chef. "But not here. Let's take a walk."
Still dressed in their whites, the chef and Tommy walked west on Spring Street toward the river. It was a cool afternoon, and the smells from the restaurant kitchens along Spring wafted out over the street.
"Burnt garlic," said the chef as they passed the Count's Villa Nova. "Sons of bitches don't know how to handle garlic. Disgraceful for an Italian restaurant. You smell that?"
"So what's up?" asked Tommy. "What do you want to talk to me about? I do something wnrong?"
"Tommy," said the chef. "I don't know how to say this—but I'm in trouble. You're in trouble."
"What, are we getting canned?"
"No, no. Worse trouble. Worse than that, a lot worse. Legal trouble. Police trouble. Found dead in the trunk of a fuckin car kinda trouble," said the chef.
"Oh," said Tommy.
"Yeah," said the chef, shaking his head.
"I know I've got trouble," said Tommy. "What's your problem?"
"I had a conversation with somebody from the FBI yesterday," said the chef. "He works for some federal strike force they got."
"Big guy?" asked Tommy. "Guy named Al?"
"That's the one," said the chef. "He talked to you?"
"Fuckin guy ambushes me at breakfast the other day," said Tommy. "What did he say?"
"Tommy," said the chef, "he says you're involved in some kinda murder or something."
"Fuck!" said Tommy. "Fuck, fuck, fuck . . ."
"Tommy, he says you're in a real world of shit. He says you could be arrested, subpoenaed—"
"I don't see why he's tellin' you this shit. What's he tellin' you for? Why's he gotta go around talking to my friends for?"
"Don't get mad, okay? Please don't get mad at me. But I gotta tell you, I got popped a few months ago. They got me comin outta Checkmate with a few bags of dope. Before I was on the program. They cuffed me and hauled me downtown. They were gonna throw me in a fuckin' cell and I was sick like a dog. I was sick before I even scored and they hauled me down there and made me watch them put my dope in the evidence baggies and take it away. I didn't have a chance to do anything. I didn't want to—I couldn't kick in a fuckin' cell . . . I just couldn't do that the way I was. That guy Al comes down and talks to me. He says they'll let me skate on the possession charge if I tell them some things."
"What did you tell them?" asked Tommy.
"I told them what I knew, which was fucking nothing. I didn't know anything! They wanted to know about you and your uncle. I tried to tell them some things about Harvey. They didn't want any of that. I told them I'd seen Sally around, that I knew him to say hello, but I didn't really know the guy. I didn't know anything to tell. Even if I wanted to. And I didn't want to."
"Shit!" said Tommy.
"I told them you're a friend. I told them you're my sous-chef, that you're a good guy. I didn't want to talk about you at all, but that's all they were interested in, was you. I didn't wanna detox in a fuckin' holding cell, Tommy. That was the thing. I couldn't do that."
"Maaan."
"I didn't tell them anything bad," insisted the chef.
"Anything you tell them is bad," said Tommy.
"I'm sorry, Tommy. I'm really, really sorry."
"It's alright. It's alright. It's not your fault."
"So this guy Al, he's giving me a really hard time. He's got my balls in the fuckin' vise. He says he's gonna throw me in fuckin' jail I don't talk to you. He was gonna throw my case back to the cops. Just when I got off dope. Just when I was beginning to see a little fuckin' light at the end of the tunnel. Tommy, he says you're involved in this thing. He says if I don't get you to come in and talk to them, he was gonna throw me back in it. He said everybody would find out about the dope. I'd never work after that, he said. He meant it. People be saying, maybe I got AIDS or some shit, they don't want me cookin' their food. He says you don't talk to them, they're gonna throw you in jail. They'll come and drag you off to the grand jury or something and make you testify and if you don't do that, they're gonna put you in prison. Not some tennis camp. Attica, some place like that."
"Fuck them," said Tommy.
"He said your uncle'll probably kill you," said the chef.
"They don't know shit about shit," said Tommy.
"Tommy, he said they'll call you before the grand jury. That could happen. He says you know something, Tommy."
"I don't know anything I want to tell them," said Tommy.
"Tommy, you're not a fuckin' wise guy, right? You don't want that. I'm right about that, right? Maybe you saw something, you did somebody a favor one time. I don't know. But why does it have to be you who goes to jail? Why you?"
"They want me to rat on my uncle," said Tommy.
"So you know something," said the chef.
Tommy was silent.
"Okay," said the chef. "Don't tell me. What I mean is, you didn't do anything. Not really. I told them that, that you wouldn't. You didn't do anything yourself. I'm right about that, right Tommy?"
"They want me to rat on my uncle for something. That's what this is. They want me to help them put my mother's brother in jail."
"But, you do know something? They think you know something. They say they know you know something. They wouldn't be doin' all this shit otherwise, right? This guy, Al, he wasn't kidding. He's fuckin' serious. They're really going to do what he said."
"Shit," said Tommy. He stopped walking, sat down on the stoop of an empty storefront, and put his head in his hands.
"I saw them do it," he said.
"Oh, shit," said the chef. "Don't tell me that. Don't say that."
"I saw them kill a guy," said Tommy.
"Don't be fucking saying that! What guy? Where? How'd you get yourself—"
"They killed a guy right in the kitchen," said Tommy.
"I don't want to know this," said the chef. "I don't want to know this . . . MY KITCHEN??!! They killed a guy in MY kitchen?"
"I didn't know it was gonna happen till it happened. They told me they were just gonna like talk to this guy," Tommy said, speaking to the sidewalk.
"So, it's not like it's your fault or anything. You didn't know. You didn't know anything," said the chef, hopefully.
"They whacked a guy out right in front of me, for Chrissakes. They chopped the guy up right there on the dishwasher."
"You saw them do it?" said the chef, incredulously.
"I saw them kill the guy. I didn't see them cut him up. I was in the office then. They made me clean up after."
"Oh, shit. . . Tommy, Tommy . . . What are we gonna do? We're fucked," said the chef.
"I don't know. I don't know."
"What am I gonna tell them now? I can't tell them this. What am I gonna say?" Tommy didn't respond; he remained sitting, head in his hands, staring at the pavement. "What are you gonna do?" said the chef. "You saw it. You saw it happen. Your uncle's gonna kill you."
"I could go to this guy I know. He's like Sally's boss. He likes me. He could get me a lawyer. Maybe he could help," said Tommy.
"How's that gonna help? You trust these guys?"
"I don't know, alright? I don't know."
"What do I tell this guy Al? What do I say to him now? I can't tell him this shit," said the chef.
"I gotta think," said Tommy.
"If you don't talk to them, I'm gonna be washing somebody's socks for them out there."
"I've got to think about the situation for a while. This is a pretty fucked-up thing. I gotta think about it."
"Does Cheryl know anything?" asked the chef. "You been seeing her, right?"
"No, she doesn't know anything. I mean she knows who my uncle is. She knows that, but the other thing, no."
"Tommy, he said he's gonna take you away in fucking handcuffs. They'll subpoena you. They'll indict you. Grand juries do whatever the prosecutor wants them to do. They'll indict you. It's not even you they want. You're gonna have to tell them something."
"I'm not gonna rat on my uncle. What's my mother gonna think she sees me sending her brother to prison? What happens then? Where do I live? What do I do? What am I gonna say to my mother?" Tommy was looking in the chef's eyes.
"What's she gonna think if you go to prison?" asked the chef.
"It'll break her heart. What do you think? She's not going to like it at all," said Tommy.
"You gotta do something. You can't just sit there, waiting for something to happen . . ."
"What am I gonna do? Run away? Split for South America? Live in Argentina like some sort of fugitive Nazi under another name? Shit . . . I lived around here my whole fucking life. I don't even speak Spanish! What am I gonna do, I run away down there? Where am I gonna go?"
"Shit," said the chef. "I speak Spanish. I'll go with you. We can make a break for it together."
"Yeah, right," said Tommy. "What are you gonna do for methadone down in Argentina or Brazil?"
"I hadn't even thought about that," said the chef.
"I don't even like the food," said Tommy, starting to break into an embittered laugh.
Soon they were both laughing, tears rolling down their faces. The chef began to cough uncontrollably. When he recovered, he wiped the tears out of his eyes. "That guy Al," he said. "Is he a piece of fuckin' work or what?"
"He's some kind of asshole, that's for sure," said Tommy. "He tracked me down to the Pink Teacup the other day, just to ruin my breakfast."
"How did they do it?" asked the chef. "You know, how did they kill the guy? If you don't mind me asking about it."
"They shot him," said Tommy. "Then they stabbed him, here." He pointed to an area below the solar plexus on his chef's coat.
"Right there in the kitchen," said the chef. "Right there in the fuckin' kitchen. I still can't believe it. Where? Behind the line? What?"
"The garbage area. Then they dragged him over to the dishwasher. They put him in the trash." Tommy started to laugh again.
"What?" said the chef. "What's so funny?"
"They used your knife. I figured it out when I came back. I saw what happened to your knife, I figured it out they must have used it to cut the guy up. Sorry, it's not funny, I know. I just can't help It.
"They used my knife? My knife?"
"Chopped him into hunks with it. I guess that's why your knife was so fucked up. Sorry, man."
"Woooaah," exclaimed the chef. He pondered for a moment and then started to laugh, too. "And it's hangin' over my fuckin' desk right now! It's still hangin' over my fuckin' desk!"
"Sorry, man," said Tommy. "I didn't know until I came back to work and saw it. After they killed the guy, I just sat there in the office, sucking down the vodka. I was sort of reevaluating things at that point, I can tell you."
"Jesus, Tommy," said the chef. "I gotta say this, you've turned out to be a pretty interesting dude to know. I mean, I've had sous-chefs mishandle my knives before—but this"—he exploded in laughter—"this is fucking ridiculous."
"It wasn't me, it wasn't me," said Tommy. "I'm sorry I couldn't say anything. I mean, what am I gonna say, 'Sorry chef, I had a couple of friends over last night and they sort of chopped a guy up with your knife and I think it's maybe damaged a little bit'?"
"I know, I know," said the chef. "I knew it couldn't have been you. I'm sure you didn't do it. You know you use a boning knife, with something that big. Shit, I don't even break down chickens with that knife."
"It's not funny," said Tommy.
"So how come we're laughing?"
"I don't know."
"Let's walk some more. People are gonna talk, they see us standing here like a couple of hysterical babies," said the chef.
They crossed Hudson street. It was starting to get dark. "Who's minding the store?" said Tommy.
"Fuck it," said the chef. "We'll make it back for service. Ricky'll set up the stations if we don't show up in time."
"I guess," said Tommy, dubiously.
"So what did . . . what happened to the body? I remember the place was a fuckin' mess when I came in," said the chef.
"They threw him out with the garbage," said Tommy. "In pieces. They broke him down into his primal sections and put him in the garbage."
"You didn't come in that day. I remember. So, that was when—Wait a minute . . . You mean the whole day, that whole day you didn't come in, I'm walking around and there's a dead guy in there somewhere?"
"Yeah, the porters were off, the garbage didn't go out until that night, the next night," said Tommy. "That was the reason, that was one of the reasons I didn't show for work."
"I still can't get over it," said the chef. "A guy chopped up with my knife."
"Yeah . . . well, it's been driving me fuckin' nuts. You don't know what it's been like for me. It's not like I've seen anything like that before . . . It totally blew my mind," said Tommy. He paused. "I can't believe I'm even telling you this."
"What do you mean?" asked the chef, defensively.
"I mean, five fucking minutes ago, you tell me you're talking to the fucking FBI, and here I am telling you all this shit that happened."
"I won't say anything to anybody," said the chef. "You don't tell me it's okay first, I won't say a word."
"Who are you kidding? You're gonna have to, sooner or later." Tommy sighed, "I'm an idiot, get myself in the shit like this."
"Really," said the chef. "I won't say anything."
"You gotta understand. They fuckin' lied to me. They said they just had to talk to the guy. That wasn't too hard to believe. They're always talkin' to guys like that, having meetings in walk-ins, in cars, places nobody is gonna see. I didn't like it. I didn't want to do it, but I went ahead and did it anyway. I let them in the door and they go ahead and kill a fuckin' guy."
"We're talking about your uncle, right?" asked the chef abruptly.
"You figure it out, okay?" said Tommy. "I don't want you to know for sure anything. I told you what happened. That's enough for right now."
"That's alright. That's okay. I understand," said the chef.
"No. You gotta understand. I fuckin' freaked after. It's been driving me crazy. I can't sleep. I get stuttering fucking drunk every fucking night. I got so drunk . . . I got so drunk the other night, I went downstairs with Stephanie."
"Duuuude!" exclaimed the chef.
"I know, I know," said Tommy, sheepishly.
"Well, that's the least of your worries, right?"
"It's another one. I really like Cheryl. I really like her. I'm worried she finds out when she gets back."
"Well, Stephanie at least won't be hanging around your balls gettin' all cow-eyed on you," said the chef.
"No," said Tommy. "She's not like that."
"So, maybe you'll be okay," said the chef.
"I don't think so. She'll find out. You know how the place is. It'll be all over the place. Cheryl's not going to be too happy with me.
They crossed West Street and walked along the stretch of abandoned piers. There was a strong breeze from the Hudson. The chef wrapped his apron around his shoulders, and Tommy buttoned up his chef's coat.
"I don't want to go to jail," said the chef.
"Believe me, I don't want to go to jail either," said Tommy. "Who wants to go to jail?"
"Who was the guy?" asked the chef.
"What guy?"
"You know . . ."
"I don't know. I know his first name 'cause they introduced me. But I never seen him before."
"Wild," said the chef.
"My uncle's an asshole. Drops me in the shit. Funny thing. My whole life he treats me like I'm some sort of retard for not getting with the program. After this thing happened, he showed up, with some money, all proud of me."
"Did you take it?" asked the chef, alarmed.
"Fuck, no. I was pissed."
"I don't want to go to jail," repeated the chef.
"You're like a fuckin' broken record. I don't want to go either, okay? I don't want to go either. I was in a holding cell for an hour, one time in my life. I didn't like it there. It smelled," said Tommy.
"I bet the food sucks," said the chef.
Tommy chuckled, "I hadn't thought about that."
"Maybe we could say we're Muslims or something, Orthodox Jews . . . Maybe we'll get better food," said the chef.
"Yeah. Now I'm all cheered up. That's a consolation. Thanks."
"On the other hand, then we'd miss pork chop night. My old junkie buddies at the clinic say that's a big thing out there. Major event of the week," the chef said with a smile.
"The thing of it is . . . the thing of it is, I just can't give up my uncle. That's a real problem I have. I know he's an asshole. I know that. I know what he's done to me. I'm not stupid. I can see how things are. But, it's my mother's brother. I just can't do that."
"Would she have to know? If you just talked to the guy. If you talked to Al. Just a few things."
"That would be sort of a break with tradition in my family, you know—talkin' to the FBI," said Tommy.
"Actually, it's the U.S. Attorney's office," said the chef.
"Same shit. Either way. I don't think they'll be satisfied with me if I just want to whisper a few things in their ear. I'm gonna have to testify to make them happy."
"You don't know that," said the chef, "Give me a break," said Tommy.
"Unusual problems require unusual solutions," said the chef.
"Unusual? That's the thing. This isn't so unusual. For me it's unusual. For Sally and them? Sally went away for five fuckin years 'cause he wouldn't talk about another guy. Five fuckin' years for a guy he didn't even like. He hated the guy! And he went away for him. Five years on a contempt charge, couple a' other things, without so much as a peep. That's what's expected."
"Yeah, well, fuck that," said the chef, "I did everything that was expected of me, I'd be the chef at Lutece or some shit."
Tommy grunted.
"Am I your friend?" asked the chef.
"Yeah, man. You're my friend," said Tommy.
"We gotta make some kind of pact. That we're not going to do anything to hurt each other. That we're gonna figure some way to get out of this shit where you and I end up okay, and nobody gets hurt."
"Nobody we like, you mean," said Tommy.
"Right," said the chef.
"Somebody always gets hurt. People are gonna get hurt over this," said Tommy.
"I'm sorry, Tommy," said the chef. "I'm sorry about before. You know. . . right? I had no choice when I did it, when I talked to them. We'll figure out something."
"Sure, Chef."
"Nobody's gonna shoot me in the head or anything, are they?" asked the chef.
" 'Cause of me?" said Tommy. " 'Cause of what you told me? I'm not going to say anything to anybody."
" 'Cause I don't want to die."
"Who does? I don't," said Tommy.
"But, I'm like okay with you now, right?" said the chef.
"You're okay. I'm not even mad. I'm not gonna say anything.
Who'm I gonna tell, anyway? My uncle? My fuckin' uncle? Then maybe he will kill me. No, forget it. You did what you had to do. I just gotta get things straight in my head. I gotta get this FBI guy off our backs, so I can live like a normal person."
"Me too, me too," said the chef.
"Maybe you should go talk to this Al. Tell him you talked to me. Tell him I'm thinking about it. Tell him anything you want. I just need more time."
"I don't know," said the chef.
"You know how to get in touch with the guy, right?"
"Yeah . . ."
"Well, buy us a little time. Tell him I'm thinking about it," said Tommy.