Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

Which beat the hell out of busting his ass working on the tuna boats, which was what he would have been doing if Momo hadn’t given him a shot. That was what Frank’s old man did, and whathis old man had done, and whathis old man had done. The Italians had come to San Diego and taken over the tuna-fishing business from the Chinese, and that was what most of them still did, and what Frank had done from the time he was big enough to shovel bait.

Out there on a tuna boat before the sun came up, cold and wet, ass-deep in a smelly bait pit, or, worse, cleaning out the scuppers. When he got bigger, he’d graduated to working the net, and then when his old man figured he could wield a knife without cutting his own hand off, he’d gotten to clean the fish, and when he complained about how disgusting and filthy it was, the old man had told him that was why he should finish high school.

So Frank did. He got his diploma, but then what was he supposed to do? His choices seemed to be the Marines or the tuna fleet. He didn’t want to stay on the tuna boats or get his head shaved at boot camp. What he really wanted to do was hang out on the beach, surf, drive up and down the PCH, try to lose his cherry, and surf some more.

And why the hell not. That was what you did when you were a young guy in San Diego in those days. You surfed with your buddies, you cruised the strip, and you chased girls.

Just one of the guys trying to find a way to keep up the sweet life.

Which wasn’t the tuna boat or the Marines.

It was Momo.

The old man didn’t like it.

Of course he didn’t. The old man was old-school. You get a job, you work hard, you get married, and you support your family, end of story. And even though there weren’t a lot of wise guys in San Diego, the old man didn’t especially like the ones who were there, Momo included.

“They give us a bad name,” he said.

And that was about all he’d say, because whatcould he say? Frank knew full well why the old man got a fair price from the fish buyers, how his catch got unloaded while it was still fresh, and why the truckers took it straight to the markets. If it weren’t for the Momos of the world, then the good, honest, hardworking civilians of the business community would have screwed the Italian fishermen like a two-dollar whore in a Tijuana donkey show. You ask what happened to the longshoremen in this town when they tried to get a decent wage and organize a union and they didn’t have the wise guys backing them up. The cops beat them and shot them until blood ran down Twelfth Street like a river to the sea, that’s what. And that didn’t happen to the Italians, and it wasn’t because they worked so hard (which they did) to support their families.

So when Frank started to spend less time on the boat, and didn’t go into the Marines, but signed on with Momo instead, the old man griped a little bit but mostly kept his mouth shut. Frank was making money, he was paying room and board, and the old man didn’t really want to know the details.

Actually, the details were pretty boring.

Until the thing happened with Momo’s wife.

It started out okay.

Frank was hanging out one day when Momo came out and told him to wash the Caddy and wax it, ’cause they were going to the train station to pick up a special visitor.

“Who, the Pope?” Frank asked, because he thought he was a funny guy in those days.

“Better,” Momo said. “The boss.”

“DeSanto?”

Old Jack Drina had finally died and the new boss, Al DeSanto, had taken over in L.A.

“Mr. DeSanto to you,” Momo said, “if you open your mouth at all, which you shouldn’t unless he directly asks you something. But yeah, the new king is coming down to visit the provinces.”

Frank wasn’t quite sure what Momo meant by that, but he picked up this tone, and he wasn’t sure what that was, either.

“Jesus, I’m gonna drive the boss?”

“You’re going to wax the car forme to drive the boss,” Momo said. “I’m gonna bring him to the restaurant; you’re going to go pick up Marie, bring her over after.”

After they’ve discussed business, Frank knew.

“And dress decent,” Momo added, “not like a surf bum.”

Frank dressed up. First he polished that car until it shined like a black diamond; then he went home, showered, scrubbed his skin until it hurt, shaved again, combed his hair, and changed into his one suit.

“Look at you,” Marie said when she answered the door.

Look at me? Look atyou, Frank thought. Her black cocktail dress was cut low, practically down to the nipple, her full breasts pushed up by what had to be a strapless bra. He couldn’t help but stare at them.

“You like the dress, Frank?”

“It’s pretty.”

She laughed, then went to her dressing table, took a drag on her cigarette and another swallow of the martini that was sweating on the table. Something in her manner told Frank that it wasn’t her first drink of the night. She wasn’t drunk, but she wasn’t exactly sober, either. She turned back to Frank and gave him the whole view, then patted her frosted hair to place it perfectly on her neck, picked up her little black bag, and said, “So you think they’re done with their business now?”

“I don’t know about that, Mrs. A.”

“You can call me Marie.”

“No, I can’t.”

She laughed again. “Do you have a girl, Frank?”

“Yes, Mrs. A.”

“That’s right,” she said. “That little Garafalo girl. She’s pretty.”

“Thanks.”

“Youhad nothing to do with it,” she said. “Does she put out?”

Frank didn’t know what to say. If a girl put out, you didn’t tell, and if she didn’t, you didn’t tell that, either. Anyway, it wasn’t any of Mrs. A.’s business. And why was she asking, anyway?

“We better get to the club, Mrs. A.”

“There’s no hurry, Frank.”

Yes, there is, Frank thought.

“Can’t a girl finish her drink?” she asked, setting those bee-stung lips into a pretty pout. She reached back and picked up her drink and sipped on it, never taking her eyes off his, and it was like she was giving him a blow job, which Frank had never had but which he’d heard about. In fact, this was just like a scene from one of those dirty books he’d read, except reading one of those books wouldn’t get him killed and this could.

She finished her drink, looked kind of hard at him, then laughed again and said, “Okay. Let’s go.”

His hand was shaking as he opened the door.

She saw it and it seemed to make her a little happier.

They didn’t talk on the drive to the club.

It was the most expensive supper club in town.

Momo wasn’t going to take the L.A. boss anyplace but the best; plus, the club was owned by a friend of his. A friend oftheirs. So they got a big table in the front, right by the stage, and most of the wise guys in San Diego were there with their wives, the girlfriends having been left in their apartments for the night with strict orders to wash their hair or something, but not to go anywherenear the club. This was a state visit, Frank knew, to establish that DeSanto was the new boss of Los Angeles, and therefore also the boss of San Diego.

Except DeSanto hadn’t brought his wife. Neither had the handful of guys he’d brought down with him. Nick Locicero, DeSanto’s underboss, was there, and Jackie Mizzelli and Jimmy Forliano, all very heavy guys sitting at that table, all guys who were going to expect to get laid that night. Frank was glad he didn’t havethat job, but he knew it was all set up, that a few of the cocktail waitresses had already agreed to go with these guys after the party but were supposed to stay away from the table in the meantime.

So was Frank. Not that he’d expected to be at the table. He knew he was about thirty-seven rungs down that ladder and his job was to hang around the edges of the room in case Momo looked up like he needed something.