Anthony Bourdain - Bone in the Throat

BONE
IN THE
THROAT

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Fiction
Gone Bamboo

Non-Fiction
Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly

BONE
IN
THE
THROAT

Anthony Bourdain

BLOOMSBURY

Copyright 1995 by Anthony Bourdain

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
Distributed to the trade by Holtzbrinck Publishers

All papers used by Bloomsbury USA are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

eISBN: 978-1-59691-723-1

Originally published in hardcover in 1995 by Villard Publishers, a division of Random House, Inc.
This paperback edition published by Bloomsbury in 2000

13 15 17 19 20 18 16 14 12

Printed in the United States of America by R.R. Donnelley & Sons,
Harrisonburg, Virginia

To Nancy

... Mise-en-place is also

a state of mind. Someone

who has truly grasped the

concept is able to keep

many tasks in mind

simultaneously, weighing and

assigning each its proper

value and priority. This

assures that the chef has

anticipated and prepared

for every situation that

could logically occur

during a service period.

The New Professional Chef

by the Culinary Institute of America

(Fifth Edition)

Contents

Thanks to: Gordon Howard, David Rosenthal, Tad Floridis, Beth Pearson... and the testimony of Sammy "The Bull" Gravano.

BONE
IN THE
THROAT

THAT A DEAD body should be found washed up on the beach was not sounusual. Sandy Hook had had more than its share of floaters over theyears. Hog-tied union officials in advanced stages of decomposition,crab-eaten torsos, discarded pets, missing children, drug dealers in oildrums; they came down with the current. Carried out of New YorkHarbor, down the Jersey coast, they filled with gas and popped to thesurface before coming in with the tide.

Dr. Russel Breen, the Sandy Hook medical examiner, called awayfrom his breakfast at the Tips for Tops Luncheonette, took one look atthe latest, saw the duct tape around the wrists and ankles, the ligaturemarks under the chin, the welts indicating blunt force trauma, and thebullet holes in the back of the head, and declared him a city boy.

"No way he's local," he said. Another present from the Big Apple, hethought. He took X rays of the dead man's teeth (what was left of them)and some photographs (front and side view) and faxed them to the city.

He couldn't get any prints. The skin fell away from the fingers enmasse. The hair was long gone, and the face, or what was left of it, wasdistorted beyond hope of recognition. The mans belly, swollen by the gas,had an umbilical hernia; the navel extruded like a turkey thermometer.When Dr. Breen turned his attention to the man's mouth, running agloved finger around inside the cavity, he wondered at first if somebodyhad built a fire in there. The tongue was charred, and there were bits ofred and brown paper embedded in the palate. Most of the teeth weregone, and the cheeks, blackened and torn, hung in spongy strips over theears, as if somebody had tried to pull the mans face inside out andfailed. Dr. Breen felt a hard object lodged in the throat and went afterit with a hemostat.

"Son of a bitch," he said, holding it up to the light, "it's a cherrybomb. Guy got a mouthful a' damn cherry bombs. "

Satisfied that the deceased had been shot, beaten, and garroted, andthat an attempt had been made to blow up his head, Dr. Breen had himloaded onto a squeaking gurney and taken off to the cooler. Then hewent back to Tips for Tops for the rest of his breakfast. He would waitfor the inevitable delegation from New York before going any further.Maybe they could get some prints using chemical solvent to dry the fingertips.Maybe they could make an ID with the few remaining teeth.Someone would be down from New York, of that he was sure. In themeantime, he'd get some breakfast.

What was unusual was the size of the New York contingent that arriveda few hours later. Most times, a floater drew two, maybe three citydetectives; once in a great while, there was even a forensics hotshot. Thistime was different. This was an invasion. They couldn't fit, all of them,in Dr. Breen's tiny office. There were guys in suits from the U.S. Attorney'soffice, FBI men in dark blue windbreakers, detectives in blue jeansand warm-up jackets, and others in slacks and polo shirts, as if they'dbeen pulled off the golf course. There was even a sallow-complected trioof pathologists, from Washington, no less, who arrived in a helicopter. Itwas all very strange.

Usually, the two or three detectives who came down to view the latestdead wise guy would swagger around the coroner's office crackingjokes, trying to shock the locals with their indifference. They'd snickerover the remains, eager to demonstrate how "this ain't nothin, we see this alla time." They'd refer to a floater as "Poppin Fresh" or, if the subjectwas dismembered, as "Kibbles 'n Bits," or, if found in a drum, "LunchMeat."

Not this group. They were sullen and humorless; they seemed resentfulabout something. Instead of the usual good-natured banter, theybickered among themselves; unspoken recriminations seemed to hang inthe air, occasionally flaring up into loud, shouted disagreements. Thenthere was a scuffle out in the hallway: A stocky FBI man took a poke atsomebody from the U.S. Attorneys office; a couple of local uniforms hadto separate them. An Assistant U.S. Attorney ended up needing stitches;the FBI man was hustled onto the helicopter and sent back to Washington.

After the scuffle, they all stood out in the hall, glaring at each other,the FBI men sneering at the detectives and making rude comments undertheir breath. A few feet away, the detectives scowled silently back atthem. The AUSAs formed their own little group by the water fountain,FBI men and detectives taunting them from their separate corners.

A reporter from the local paper showed up, only to find herself confrontedby the whole group, which was suddenly, if momentarily, unitedin their hostility. One menacing detective snarled something indescribablyobscene in her ear, and she retreated in tears.

Once the reporter had gone, they continued with their dark, accusatorylooks. They shook their heads. They smoked their cigarettes.They fretted over the perceived repercussions from this latest arrival onSandy Hook's beach. Clearly, they knew who it was. And they weren'thappy about it.

Dr. Breen thought they looked... well, guilty.

T WO-HUNDRED-AND-EIGHTY-POUND Salvatore Pitera, in a powder-blue jogging suit and tinted aviator glasses, stepped out of Franks Original Pizza onto Spring Street. He had a slice of pizza in one hand, too hot to eat, and he was blowing on it as he waddled through street traffic.