Bone in the Throat
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A wildly funny, irreverent tale of murder, mayhem, and the mob.
When up-and-coming chef Tommy Pagana settles for a less than glamorous stint at his uncle's restaurant in Manhattan's Little Italy, he unwittingly finds himself a partner in big-time crime. And when the mob decides to use the kitchen for a murder, nothing Tommy learned in cooking school has prepared him for what happens next. With the FBI on one side, and his eccentric wise guy superiors on the other, Tommy has to struggle to do right by his conscience, and to avoid getting killed in the meantime.
In the vein of Prizzi's Honor , Bone in the Throat is a thrilling Mafia caper laced with entertaining characters and wry humor. This first novel is a must-have for fans of Anthony Bourdain's nonfiction.
he turned and disappeared down the steps into the clatter and hiss of the basement kitchen. "He's cranky today," said Tommy. "What's his problem?" "What do you think?" said Ricky with a smirk. "He's been riding my ass all day," said Tommy. "We never shoulda got him that book." "No shit." "It wasn't me," said Ricky. "It wasn't me that told him." "About the beurre?" "It wasn't me that ratted you out." "I know," said Tommy. "It's okay, man . . . It was probably somebody on the floor. He
there's a waiting list." "I had hoped, I like to think that I would be a patient with a good chance of success," said the chef. "You say you're serious about rehabilitating yourself—" continued Mr. James, oblivious to the pleading tone creeping into the chef's voice. "Very serious," said the chef eagerly. "I have to get out of the life. As soon as I can." Mr. James continued as if he hadn't heard him. "You know this program, this clinic in particular, has been recognized by the state as the
Carol made a face. "I would have loved to say 'I told you so. Harvey groaned. "Lazy. The man is lazy. That never would have happened, I was there. I never would have let that happen . . . " He got up off his bar stool. "Let's go home. I feel like a sack of shit. I gotta get outta these clothes. Office is right over the kitchen, right up the stairs. The cooking odor gets in everything. I smell like Charlie the Tuna in these clothes. I wanna change. First, I wanna shower, then, maybe take a
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
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