Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

Momo was sitting at the center of the table, next to DeSanto, of course.

Except DeSanto wasn’t talking with Momo.

He was talking with Marie.

And saying something funny, too, because Marie was laughing real hard, and leaning way over and showing him a lot of tit.

DeSanto was looking, too, not even bothering to disguise it. And she was giving him lots of chances, leaning over so he could light her cigarette, so he could smell her perfume, leaning in real close, pretending she couldn’t hear him over the music and the conversation.

Frank was watching this; he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

There were rules about wise guys and their women, different sets of rules for sisters, cousins, mistresses, and wives. You wouldn’t treat a made guy’sgumar the way DeSanto was acting toward Momo’swife. And if a guy’s girlfriend flirted with another guy the way Mrs. A. was flirting with DeSanto, that girlfriend was letting herself in for a good beating when they got back to her place.

There are rules, Frank thought, even for a boss.

He had certain privileges, but this wasn’t one of them.

So Frank was pissed off for Momo, and he also had to admit he was a little jealous. Shit, Frank thought, she was making a move on me two hours ago. Then he felt guilty thinking that about Momo’s wife.

He watched her laugh again, her tits jiggling, then saw DeSanto lean into her neck and whisper something in her ear. Her eyes widened, and she smiled, then playfully slapped him on the cheek, and he laughed back.

DeSanto’s not abad -looking guy, Frank thought. He’s no Tony Curtis, but he’s no Momo, either. He wore glasses with thick black frames and had his graying hair Brylcreemed straight back, with a little widow’s peak in the middle of his receding forehead, but he wasn’t ugly. And he must be kind of charming, Frank thought, because he’s sure as shit charming Mrs. A.

Momo didn’t look so charmed.

He was steaming.

He wasn’t stupid enough to show it, but by this time Frank knew Momo well enough; he could tell the man was pissed off. Frank could feel the tension coming from the whole table-all the guys were drinking a lot, laughing a little too loudly, and the wives-the wives were torqued off. It was hard to tell if they were angrier at DeSanto or Mrs. A., but their necks were stiff from not looking even as their eyes couldn’t stay off the little scene. And they were leaning down and whispering to one another, the way wives do, and it didn’t take any imagination to know what they were talking about.

When Momo got up to go to the men’s room, one of the San Diego guys, Chris Panno, went with him. Frank waited until they went in; then he wandered down the corridor and stood outside.

“He’s your boss.”

“Boss or no boss, there are rules!” Momo said.

“Keep your voice down.”

Momo lowered his voice a little, but Frank could still hear him say, “L.A. pisses on us. They piss all over us.”

“If Bap was here…,” Frank heard someone say.

“Bap ain’t here,” Momo said. “Bap’s inside.”

Frank knew they were talking about Frank Baptista, who’d been the San Diego underboss until he got hit with a five-year rap for trying to bribe a judge. Frank had never met Bap, but he’d sure heard about him. Bap had been a legendary button man since the thirties. There was no telling how many guys Bap’d put in the dirt.

“Jack would not have allowed this,” Momo was saying.

“Jack’s dead and Bap’s in the joint,” Panno said. “Things are different now.”

“Bap’ll be out soon,” Momo said.

“Not tonight he won’t be,” Chris Panno said.

“This isn’t right,” Momo said.

Then Frank saw Nick Locicero coming down the hall.

Shit, what to do?

He decided fast and walked into the men’s room. The guys looked at him, like, What the fuck?

“Uhh…,” Frank said. He jerked his head toward the hallway. “Locicero.”

The guys looked at him for a second, then got their faces on.

Locicero came in.

“What are we, broads?” he asked. “We all gotta go the little girls’ room the same time?”

Everyone laughed.

Locicero looked at Frank. “Or is this the littleboys’ room?”

“I’m just going,” Frank said.

“D’you come in to take a piss?” Momo asked Frank. “Take a piss.”

Frank had a hard time with it. He unzipped, stood at the urinal, but nothing came out. He pretended it did, though, shook his dick off, put it back in. He was relieved to see that the men were all carefully washing their hands and paying no attention to him.

“Nice party,” Locicero was saying.

“The boss seems to be having a good time,” Momo said.

Locicero looked at him, trying to see if he was just busting balls or if he was serious. Then he said, “Yeah, I think so.”

Frank just wanted to get out of there. He headed for the door.

“Frankie,” Momo said.

“Yeah?”

“Wash your hands!” Momo said. “What are you, raised by wolves?”

Frank blushed as the men laughed. He stepped in, washed his hands, and managed to get to the door, when Momo said, “Kid, nobody else comes in here, okay?”

Jesus, Frank thought as he stood on guard in the hallway. What’s going to happen in there? He half-expected to hear gunshots, but he only heard voices.

Nicky Locicero was saying, “Momo, we came down here to be nice.”

“What’s going on out there isnice?”

“You guys have been going your own way down here,” Locicero said, “for too long. It’s time you came back under control.”

“When Jack-”

“Jack is gone,” Locicero said. “The new guy out there wants you to understand that you are not your own family down here; you are just another L.A. crew, a hundred miles down the road, that’s all. He wants your respect.”

Chris Panno weighed in. “If hewants respect, Nick, he shouldshow respect. What’s going on out there is not right.”

“I don’t disagree,” Locicero said.

A guy came down the hall to use the men’s room.

“You can’t go in there,” Frank said, stepping in his way.

The guy was a civilian. He didn’t get it. “What do you mean?”

“It’s broken.”

“All of it?”

“Yeah, all of it. I’ll let you know, okay?”

The guy looked for a second like he might want to argue the point, but Frank was a big kid, with muscles showing beneath his jacket, so the guy turned around. Frank heard Locicero say, “Look, Momo, all respect, but your Mrs. has had a little too much to drink. Have your kid drive her home; then there’s no problem.”

“There’s aproblem, Nick,” said Momo, “when this guy who wants respect treats our wives like whores!”

“What do you want me to say, Momo? He’s the boss.”

“There are rules,” Momo said.

He came out of the men’s room, grabbed Frank by the elbow, and said, “Mrs. A. is going home. You drive her.”

Holy hell, Frank thought.

“Go tell the valet to get the car,” Momo said.

Frank had to go through the main room to get outside. He looked up at the table and saw DeSanto whispering into Mrs. A.’s ear again, except now she wasn’t laughing. And the boss’s hands weren’t on the table. Frank couldn’t see them under the long white tablecloth, but he could guess where they were.

They were downstairs.

Five minutes later, Momo was pulling Mrs. A. out of the club. Frank got out and held the door open for her.

“You’re such an asshole,” she said to Momo.

“Stupid twat, get in the car.”

He pushed her in. Frank closed the door.

“Take her home and stay with her till I get back,” Momo told him.

Frank just hoped he’d get homesoon. Marie didn’t say a word on the drive home, not a word. She lit a cigarette and sat there puffing on it so the car filled with smoke. When he got to Momo’s place, he jumped out and opened the car door for her and she walked pretty fast up to her own door and stood there impatiently while he fumbled with the key to the front door.