Alas, the Chef was a man's man, and no flu bug on earth was going to scare him away. “Get over here!” he snapped. “Cold or no cold, it's times like these when you find out who your true friends are.”
Who your true friends are? Christ—such gut-wrenching guilt!It now had the distinct pleasure of meeting the sheer panic that had already taken up residence in my brain. Then came a lightning-fast fight to the death. The guilt was saying, “How could you rat out someone as loyal as the Chef? Have you no shame?” to which the panic replied, “Fuck the Chef! If you don't rat him out you'll end up like that drooling old bastard Mr. Gower.” The guilt countered, “It doesn't matter; the Chef has been loyal and true, and to rat him out would make you lower than pond scum!” and the panic replied, “Who gives a shit! I'd rather be pond scum than sitting in jail the rest of my life! Besides, the Chef will end up ratting out the Blue-eyed Devil to save his own skin, so what's the fucking difference?” The guilt argued, “That's not necessarily true. The Chef isn't a pussy, like you; he's a stand-up guy.” Then suddenly— a fresh wave of panic!-the Chef had brushed past my hand and was rapidly closing the distance.
Christ!What should I do? Think, you little rat!The high road or the low road? Guilt or self-preservation? Alas, when you're a rat, self-preservation outweighs all: Just before the Chef and I embraced, my rat brain unleashed a flood of emergency signals to my musculoskeletal system. Faster than I knew it, my ass popped out like a male hooker advertising his trade, my shoulders slumped forward like Quasimodo ringing a church bell, and that was how we embraced—with the Jersey Chef standing tall and proud, and the Wolf of Wall Street standing hunchbacked and hookerlike.
“Are you all right?” asked the Chef, releasing me from his embrace. He grabbed my shoulders and held me at arms’ length. “Did you hurt your back again?”
“No,” I answered quickly. “It's just a bit sore from sitting in that jail cell. And also from my cold… sniff, sniff”I rubbed my nose with the back of my hand. “You know, it's amazing, but if I get even the least bit sick it goes straight to my back.” Jesus! What the fuck was I talking about? I shrugged, trying to organize my thoughts. “Come on, let's sit outside. I could use a little fresh air.”
“You lead, I follow,” said the Chef.
A pair of prodigious French doors led out to the stone patio, and the moment we stepped through them I could feelthe click click clickof the Mormon's dreaded Minolta. It seemed to be burning holes through me, like a laser beam. When we reached the teak target zone, I offered the Chef the overpriced armchair facing the bedroom window.
I resisted the urge to look up at the Venetian blinds, pouring each of us a glass of iced tea instead. Then I started in with small talk. “I'll tell you,” I said wearily. “I can't believe these cocksuckers”—as cocksuckersescaped my lips, it occurred to me that OCD and the Bastard might not be appreciative of that characterization of them. I made a mental note to be more considerate in the future—”have me under house arrest. Like I'm really a flight risk with a wife and two kids.” I shook my head in disgust. “What a fucking joke.”
The Chef nodded in agreement. “Yeah, well, that's the game these bastards play,” he said venomously. “They'll do whatever they can to make your life miserable. How's the Duchess holding up?”
I shook my head and let out a great sigh. “Not well,” I said. I paused, fighting down the urge to pour my heart out to the Chef. Even rats have pride, after all, and I knew that countless others would be listening to this tape at some point. “She's acting like all this comes as a great shock to her, as if she thought she was married to a doctor or something. I don't know… I don't think we're gonna make it through this, not as a couple.”
“Don't say that,” the Chef replied quickly. “You two are gonna make it through this thing, but only if youstay strong. She's your wife, so she's gonna follow your lead, one way or the other. Show weakness to her and badabing”—the Chef clapped his hands a single time—”she'll be out the door in two seconds flat. It's the nature of the female animal; they gravitate toward strength.”
I took a moment to consider the Chef's words, and for a brief instant my spirits lifted, but then they sank again. Indeed, the Chef's words were usually full of wisdom, but, in this case, he was completely off the mark. Whether or not I stayed strong had nothing to do with it; the Duchess was strong enough on her own-strong enough to know that under no circumstances would she allow my problems to diminish her quota on ore extraction one iota. She had grown up dirt-poor on the trash-lined streets of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, and there was no way she would be willing to risk history repeating itself.
Nevertheless, this was a perfect opportunity to make an important point to the Chef, namely, that I had no intention of cooperating. In a dead-serious tone, I said, “Yeah, well, maybe I can't control the Duchess's actions, but I can control my own. You don't have to worry about me staying strong, Dennis. I'm gonna fight this thing to the bitter end, with my last dying breath if I have to. I don't care how much it costs, or how bloodyit gets, or how many bodies get buried along the way. I don't give a flying fuck about any of it! I'm taking this thing to trial, and I'm gonna get fucking acquitted.” I shook my head, liking the way my blustering sounded. It was very Wolflike. Too bad I was such a pussy. “You just fucking wait and see,” I added, twitching my nose menacingly.
“Good for you!” the Chef said emphatically. “That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Just keep thinking like that and those bastards downtown are gonna be in for a rude awakening.” He shrugged confidently. “They expect you to just roll over and play dead, because that's what everyone else does. But when it comes down to it—they got theirversion of things and we got ourversion of things, and ourversion of things will make just as much sense to a jury as theirversion of things.”
“And the burden of proof isn't on us,” I added confidently, “it's on them.”
“Exactly,” said the Chef, “and last time Ichecked, you're innocent until proven guilty in this fine country of ours.” He flashed me a quick smile and winked. “And even if you areguilty, they still gotta provethat guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, and that ain't so easy to do when you got two versions of things, understand?”
I nodded slowly. “I do,” I said halfheartedly, “but… I mean… it's a pretty good cover story we have, but it's still not as believable as the truth. You know?”
“Don't kid yourself,” snapped the Chef. “The truth is stranger than fiction sometimes.” He shrugged. “In fact, I'd take a good cover story over the truth anyday of the week. Anyway, I think the biggest problem we're facing here is that Danny is still in jail. The longer he sits in there, the more likely he is to flip.” The Chef paused, as if searching for the right words. “See, while he's sitting in there, he has no idea what's going on on the outside. He doesn't know that I'mwith him and that you'rewith him; he might be thinking that he's alone in all this—maybe even that you'recooperating. God only knows what the feds are whispering in his ear.” The Chef shook his head in consternation, then suddenly his face lit up. “I'll tell you what I reallyneed to do: I need to get myself into that cell to speak to Danny, to let him know that everything's gonna be all right.” The Chef compressed his lips and nodded slowly. “That would be the best thing for us right now. Maybe I can get myself on the visiting list. Whaddaya think?”
Good Lord-the Chef was as tough as nails! He was prepared to go right into the heart of enemy territory! Did he know no fear? Was he really that much of a warrior? It was all starting to make sense now: The feds had never been able to nab the Chef and the Devil because they didn't think like other men. They were true Scarfaces, white-collar mobsters of a wholly different sort.