W. Griffin - The Murderers

The cops might be watching him, and they might wonder how come he could afford to quit fucking Wanamaker’s, not to mention where he got the money to go to Vegas. In a couple of weeks, about the time he would go see Atchison and remind him about the maitre d’ job, the cops would lose interest in the Inferno job, and in him. There would be other things for the cops to do.

Neither was he, Frankie decided, going to start to spend the five grand he got right away, get a better car or something, or even some clothes. That would attract attention. When he was working at the Inferno, it would be different. If he turned up with some dough, he could explain it saying he’d won it gambling. Everybody knew that maitre d’s were right in the middle of the action.

Having decided all this, Frankie then concluded that there would be no real harm in going by Meagan’s Bar and having a couple of drinks, and maybe letting Tim McCarthy see that he was walking around with a couple, three, hundred-dollar bills snuggled up in his wallet. Not to mention letting Tim see that he was walking around not giving a tiny fuck that detectives were asking questions about him.

And who knows, there just might be some bored wife in there looking for a little action from some real man. Tim, and if not Tim, then ol’ diarrhea mouth himself, Sonny Boyle, were talking about him to people, telling people not to let it get around, but that cops was asking about Frankie Foley. Tim and Sonny would be passing that word around, that was for damn sure, you could bet on it.

Women like dangerous men. Frankie had read that someplace. He thought it was probably true.

Frankie got home from Wanamaker’s warehouse a couple of minutes after six. He grabbed a quick shower, put on the two-tone jacket and a clean sports shirt, told his mother he’d catch supper some other place, he had business to do, and walked into Meagan’s Bar at ten minutes to seven.

He really would have liked to have had a couple of shooters, maybe a jigger glass of Seagram’s-7 dropped into a draft Ortleib’s, but he thought better of it and ordered just the beer.

Not that he was afraid of running off at the mouth or something, but rather that there maybe just might be some bored wife in there looking for a little action-you never could tell, he thought maybe he was on a roll-and if that happened, he didn’t want to be half shitfaced and ruin the opportunity.

He paid for the Ortleib’s with one of the three hundred-dollar bills he’d put in his wallet, told Tim to have a little something with him, and when Tim made him his change, just left it there on the bar, like he didn’t give a shit about it, there was more where that come from.

He was just about finished with the Ortleib’s, and looking for Tim to order another, when somebody yelled at Tim:

“Hey, Tim, we need a couple of drinks down here. And give Frankie another of whatever he’s having.”

At the end of the bar, where it right-angled to the wall by the door, were two guys. Guineas, they looked like, wearing shirts and ties and suits. That was strange, you didn’t see guineas that often in Meagan’s. The guineas had their bars and the Irish had theirs.

But these guys had apparently been in here before. They knew Tim’s name, and Tim called back, “Johnnie Walker, right?” which meant he knew them well enough to remember what they drank.

“Johnnie Black, if you got it,” one of the guineas called back. “And, what the hell, give Frankie one, too.”

What the hell is this all about? Frankie wondered. What the hell, a couple of guineas playing big shot. They’re always doing that kind of shit. Something in their blood, maybe.

Tim served the drinks, first to the guineas, and then carried another Ortleib’s and the bottle of Johnnie Walker and a shot glass to where Frankie sat.

“You want a chaser with that, or what?” Tim asked as he filled the shot glass with scotch.

“The beer’s fine,” Frankie said.

He raised the shot glass to his lips and took a sip and looked at the guineas and waved his hand.

One of the guineas came down the bar.

“How are you, Frankie?” he said, putting out his hand. “The scotch all right? I didn’t think to ask did you like scotch.”

“Fine. Thanks. Do I know you?”

“I dunno. Do you? My name is Joey Fatalgio.”

“Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” Frankie said.

They shook hands.

“I know who you are, of course,” Joey Fatalgio said, and winked.

What the fuck is with the wink? This guy don’t look like no fag.

“I come in here every once in a while,” Frankie said.

“And maybe I seen you at the Inferno,” Fatalgio said. “Me and my brother-Dominic-that’s him down there, we go in there from time to time.”

“Yeah, maybe I seen you in the Inferno,” Frankie said. “I hang out there sometimes. And I’m thinking of going to work there.”

“Hey, Dominic!” Joey Fatalgio called to his brother. “Bring your glass down here and say hello to Frankie Foley.”

Dominic hoisted himself off his stool and made his way down the bar.

“Frankie, Dominic,” Joey made the introductions, “Dominic, Frankie.”

“How the hell are you, Frankie?” Dominic said. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Frankie said.

“Frankie was just telling me he’s thinking of going to work at the Inferno,” Joey said.

“Going to work? The way I heard it, he already did the job at the Inferno,” Dominic said, and he winked at Frankie.

Frankie felt a little nervous.

There were guineas on the cops. Are these two cops?

“Shut the fuck up, for Christ’s sake, Dominic,” Joey Fatalgio said. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” He turned to Frankie. “You should excuse him, Frankie. Sometimes he gets stupid.”

“Fuck you, Joey,” Dominic said.

“There are places you talk about certain things, asshole,” Joey said, “and places you don’t, and this is one of the places you don’t. Right, Frankie?”

“Right,” Frankie agreed.

“No offense, Frankie,” Dominic said.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Frankie said.

“He don’t mean no harm, but sometimes he’s stupid,” Joey said.

“Fuck you, Joey, who do you think you are, Einstein or somebody?”

“Where do you guys work?” Frankie said, both to change the subject-Dominic looked like he was getting pissed at the way his brother was talking to him-and to see what they would say. He didn’t think they were cops, but you never really could tell.

“We’re drivers,” Joey said.

“Truck drivers?”

“I’m a people driver,” Joey said. “Asshole here is a stiff driver.”

“Huh?”

Joey reached in his wallet and produced a business card, and gave it to Frankie. It was for some company called Classic Livery, Inc., with an address in South Philly, and “Joseph T. Fatalgio, Jr.” printed on the bottom.

“What’s a livery?” Frankie asked.

“It goes back to horses,” Joey explained. “Remember in the cowboy movies where Roy Rogers would park his horse in the livery stables?”

“Yeah,” Frankie said, remembering. “I do.”

“I think it used to mean ‘horses for hire’ or something like that,” Dominic said. “Now it means limousines.”

“Limousines?”

“Yeah. Limousines. Mostly for funerals, but if you want a limousine to get married in, we got white ones. We even got a white Rolls-Royce.”

“No shit?”

“Costs a fucking fortune, but you’d be surprised how often it gets rented,” Dominic went on.

“Most of our business is funeral homes,” Joey said. “Only the bride, usually, gets a limousine ride for a wedding. But if you don’t get to follow the casket to the cemetery in a limousine for a funeral, people will think you’re the family black sheep.”