Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

Dave steps up to him.

Teddy’s two boys start to move in, until Dave says, “Yeah, why don’t you? I’m in an ugly mood and I haven’t gotten my exercise today.”

The FBI agent is six four andcut.

They back off.

Dave gets right in Teddy’s face.

“If I find out you did him,” Dave says, “I’ll be back. And I’ll make Ruby Ridge and Waco look like SpongeBob SquarePants.”

“Are you threatening me?” Teddy asks.

“Goddamn right.”

“I’ll sue your ass off.”

“Yourestate will sue my ass off,” Dave says. He turns to walk out.

“You’re looking at the wrong people,” Teddy says to his back. “You might want to be looking for Frank Machianno.”

Dave turns around.

“Your surfing buddy,” Teddy adds.

Frankie Machine.

Jimmy the Kid rents a car at the airport and drives out to his uncle’s place in West Palm.

It’s nice to be in Florida. Nice to be cruising in a convertible, getting some sun. Jimmy runs a hand through his dyed-blond hair. He likes his new look-bright blond, almost a buzz cut.

Nice, too, to show off the tatts in short-sleeve weather.

Got him some of those Chinese symbols-“Strength,” “Courage,” “Loyalty.” Got him a big wrecking ball on his right forearm, about to swing down on some geek in an old Caddy.

“The Wrecking Crew.”

Nice.

Tony’s bungalow is sweltering. It’s a hot day anyway, and Jimmy swears the old man has the freaking heat turned on in the house. He glances at the thermostat and it reads 85.

And Uncle Tony has a sweater on.

It’s his circulation, Jimmy thinks. The blood just isn’t moving. And old men get cold.

Jimmy hugs his uncle and kisses him on both cheeks. The skin feels like parchment paper on his lips.

Tony Jacks is glad to see his nephew.

“Come, sit.”

They go into the living room. Jimmy sits down on the sofa and his legs stick to the plastic covering in the heat.

“You want something to drink?” Uncle Tony asks. “I’ll call the girl.”

“I’m good.”

They make the requisite small talk for a few minutes; then Tony Jacks gets to the point. “What brings you here, Jimmy?”

“This mess in San Diego.”

Tony Jacks shakes his head. “They’d asked me, I’d’ve told them Vince couldn’t handle that job.”

“What I said.”

“I’ve known this Frankie since he was a kid,” Tony Jacks says. “He did some work for me, back in the day. A tough nut to crack.”

“I want the shot, Uncle Tony.”

Tony Jacks looks at him for a few seconds, then says, “That’s up to Jack Tominello, nephew. He’s the boss.”

“Youshould be boss,” Jimmy says. “Or my father. It should be the Giacamones, not the Tominellos. I figure I do this thing, I take over whatever Vince had going in San Diego.”

“What do you know about that?”

“Something about strip clubs.”

“It’s a lot more than a few strippers.”

“Why such a hard-on for Frankie Machine?” Jimmy asks. “Why did we even want him gone?”

Tony Jacks leans forward. It looks like it takes some effort. His voice drops into a hoarse whisper. “What I’m about to tell you, Jimmy, your father doesn’t know. Even Jack doesn’t know. And if I tell you, you can never tell another soul as long as you live.”

“I won’t.”

“Swear.”

“I swear to God,” Jimmy says.

Tony Jacks tells him a story. It goes way back and it takes a long time.

When Jimmy the Kid finally leaves his uncle’s house, he is blown freaking away.

Freakingaway.

Tracking down Mouse Junior is a cinch.

Frank simply calls 411, gets the number for Golden Productions, and dials it.

“Hey,” he says to the receptionist, “I’m the caterer for the shoot today, and I can’t locate it. Can you tell me…”

It’s in the Valley, of course.

The San Fernando Valley is the porn capital of the world. You can’t bounce a tennis ball in the Valley without hitting a bare ass waiting to go on the set. An incorporated part of Los Angeles, it tried to secede a few years back, ostensibly, Frank thinks as he turns on the 101 and heads toward the Valley, to re-create itself as the Republic of Porn.

So you have Hollywood, and then, to the north, you have Holly-woody. Gay guys with Viagra-fueled erections banging drug-addicted girls on bare mattresses tossed on lawns in Encino.

About as erotic, Frank thinks, as an intestinal bug.

But the truth is that the “adult-entertainment industry” outgrosses (no pun intended) Hollywood, Major League Baseball, the NFL, and the NBA combined. It’s a major money maker, and where you find money being made, you’ll find the guys.

He finds the shoot with no problem. It’s a big house in Chatsworth, with a walled-in backyard and the inevitable pool. He knows he has the right place because Mouse Junior’s Hummer is parked on the street, which just goes to show you how careless this thing has gotten lately, when you take a whack at a guy, miss, then keep using your own car like you don’t have a worry in the world.

Unless it’s an ambush, Frank thinks.

He drives around, looking for a work car, but he doesn’t see one. Nor does he see any guys on the corner. If Mouse Junior has security with him, they’re all in there watching the action. Which is really dumb, Frank thinks as he drives up the switchback where he can look down at the backyard. He parks, gets his binos out, and checks the scene.

If I wanted to take Mouse Junior out, I could do it right from the car with a single rifle shot, and then all his security could do for him would be pick his dead body up off the wet grass.

Because there is the dumb little punk, with his dumber wingman, Travis, standing around with the director and the crew, trying to figure out where to shoot now that it’s raining. The cast and crew are miserably gathered in a knot inside the covered patio, and the director seems to be trying to figure out how to shoot in there, and, sure enough, a couple of gaffers go out and roll a chaise lounge onto the patio. A production assistant finds a towel and wipes it off.

Which is considerate, Frank thinks-at least the actors get to work on adry lawn chair.

Frank focuses the glasses on Mouse Junior. It would be easy to take him out, but Frank doesn’t want Mouse Junior’s blood; he wants information. So he has to sit there and wait for a chance.

There are five things that make guys give you an opening:

Carelessness.

Fatigue.

Habits.

Money.

Sex.

That’s it. That’s the list.

Mouse Junior’s already committed carelessness, and it would be enough to kill him, except that Frank doesn’t want him dead. So now he has to wait for Mouse Junior to commit one of the other five deadly sins.

Frank’s money is on sex.

Which is not a huge long shot, seeing as how Mouse Junior is standing there watching a young lady having sex with herself right now. She’s a petite blonde with an enormous chest, a rack off the rack, as it were. And she has the requisite tattoo on the small of her back, the “tramp stamp,” as Mike Pella refers to it.

A dolphin, frolicking in a wave.

Frank’s offended on behalf of dolphins.

He’ssurfed with dolphins, for heaven’s sake. Sometimes they do that, ride along with the surfers, just for fun. And some of the best memories of his life come from watching dolphins play in the break at sunset. He doesn’t need to see them depicted on some porn actress’s back.

Frank doesn’t get the whole tattoo thing anyway, doesn’t see the attraction at all. He doesn’t think they look good on young bodies, and what happens when gravity takes its inevitable toll and the drawings start to go south?