Tommy 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.