Bone in the Throat Read Online Free PDF

still-simmering chowder. "That smells fuckin' great. If I think I can hold anything down, I might have a bowl for breakfast. You get the lobster squared away?"
    Tommy nodded. "Yeah. And I hated every minute of it. We should get the dishwasher to do that shit."
    "The dishwasher'll throw half the fuckin' lobster meat in the trash. They don't get the knuckles. And he gets upset. He's not too crazy about getting involved with shellfish. I think it's a religious thing."
    "I got a fish sauce together," said Tommy. "Mustard tarragon vinaigrette with crispy leek garnish. That okay?"
    "Yeah, that's fine," said the chef. "An oldie but goodie."
    "I haven't cut the leeks yet," said Tommy "I wondered if you'd let me use your knife. The house knives just mash them to shit."
    "Looks like you were at my knife already. Half the fuckin' bag is gone," said the chef.
    "It was half empty when I found it. I just did a tiny poke," said Tommy.
    "That was my wake-up, man," whispered the chef. "You don't need the shit. I need it."
    "Sorry I tapped it," said Tommy. "Spur of the moment. Mea culpa. Sorry."
    "Now I gotta go east," said the chef, jerking his head to the east.
    "They got nothing uptown, it's too hot in the forties. I was gonna go over later, but now I gotta go sooner. I don't want to turn into a fuckin' pumpkin halfway through dinner."
    "Really, I didn't do a lot," said Tommy.
    "Now I gotta go over there," said the chef.
    "Why don't you just send a busboy later. Hector's coming in in an hour," suggested Tommy.
    "I thought about that," said the chef, "I don't like doing that anymore. It's not too cool. What if he gets popped? They'll probably deport the guy. On top a that, you know Hector. I sent him over there a few times, now he thinks he can shake me down for a steak dinner for his shaft meal. Can't you see Hector, the fuckin' busboy, sittin' up there, munchin' on a twenty-ounce sirloin and all the waitrons and the manager are trying to choke down their shepherd's pie? Doesn't look too good. On top of that, the son of a bitch eats his steak well done. I got principles."
    "So you're going over now?" asked Tommy.
    "Yeah, can you set up my station?"
    "Yeah, sure." He hesitated. "Well, since you're going, can you pick me up a couple?"
    "You have any money?" asked the chef.
    "Enough for two bags."
    "You got twenty extra till next week? I'm short."
    "Alright," said Tommy, reaching for his wallet. "But I gotta have it back."
    "No problem," said the chef. Though Tommy knew it would be a problem.
    "So, you're gonna get four?" Tommy asked.
    "Two for me, two for you," said the chef. He turned and headed for the door.

Seven
    T WO MEN SAT in a graffiti-covered step van across the street from the Dreadnaught Grill. The dashboard was covered with empty coffee containers and candy wrappers. The men watched the white-clad figure emerge from the trap doors to the kitchen and head east on Spring Street.
    "Who's that?" asked Detective Dudziak.
    "That's Tommy Pagano," said Detective Rizzo, sitting behind the wheel.
    "Yeah?"
    "Tommy. The nephew," said Rizzo. "Sally's nephew."
    "That don't look like the nephew to me," said Dudziak, fumbling for his scope in the glove compartment.
    "That's him," said Rizzo. "That's the nephew."
    "You got the pictures?"
    "Left 'em onna breakfast table this morning. Kids were late for school. Forgot." Rizzo started the engine.
    "What are you doin'?" asked Dudziak.
    "I'm thinkin'," said Rizzo.
    "You're sure that's him?"
    "I'm tellin' you, that's him. That's Tommy. I remember the face."
    Dudziak consulted a clipboard on his lap. "Where the fuck is he goin? Says here it's the middle of his shift, he's not due off till nine. What's he doin'?"
    "I wanna follow him."
    "Maybe he's runnin' an errand . . ."
    "Maybe he is. Maybe he's runnin' an errand for Uncle Sally."
    "Maybe he's runnin' out for a head of lettuce."
    "It would be nice to find out."
    "What?"
    "C'mon," said Rizzo, "let's find out."
    "Leave the post?"
    "He who dares,