Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

Not a pretty picture.

Mouse Junior has his eye on Dolphin Girl.

She has her eye on him.

It’s porno puppy love.

Kind of sweet, if it weren’t so disgusting.

She’s playing with herself and moaning and making eyes off-camera at Mouse Junior, who’s standing there shifting his weight from one leg to the other and grinning like the congenital idiot he is.

In the meantime, Male Porn Star is getting a smoker from another young man, and now he breaks off and walks onto the set, and Dolphin Girl takes over the oral chore. Then Male Porn Star returns the favor, and then they go through a tedious rotation of positions-like sexual gymnasts performing their mandatory techniques-which culminates in the requisite money shot on her face, which she receives with apparent enthusiasm, if not downright gratitude.

Then it’s lunchtime.

Frank doesn’t know if “adult entertainers” have a union, but they seem pretty prompt on the lunch break, and everybody lines up on the patio to work their way down the long table.

Mouse Junior waits as a production assistant hands Dolphin Girl a moist towelette to wipe her face off with, then steps forward and drapes a terry-cloth robe around her shoulders, proving, Frank supposes, that chivalry is not, indeed, dead. He watches as they separate themselves from the group and eat their lunch by the covered barbecue grill.

And talk about what? Frank wonders.

The scene she just did? Or the one she’s about to? About her performance, her technique? Some pointers from the “producer”? Career notes? What?

Doesn’t matter.

Frank waits until the lunch break is over, then drives closer to the house and finds a parking spot down the street.

Dolphin Girl comes out about two hours later and gets into a Ford Taurus. Frank follows her as she drives down the street to the on-ramp of the 101. He stays a few cars behind her as she drives south, then exits at Encino. She lives in one of those two-story blocks of apartment buildings like thousands of others in the L.A. area. Frank follows her into the parking lot, where she pulls into her assigned slot. He finds an empty space and parks, then watches as she walks up to the second floor and lets herself into her apartment.

Then he drives out, finds a Subway, gets himself a turkey sub and a bottled iced tea, goes to the convenience store in the same strip mall and buysSurfer, then drives back across the street from her apartment building and waits.

The sandwich is good-not great, not like he’d build for himself at home, but good. He chose the turkey with whole-grain bread because both Donna and Jill have been after him about his carb intake, what with all the pasta.

Diet fads, Frank thinks-a while back everyone was “carb packing” and you couldn’t sell enough pasta at the restaurants, and now carbs are the devil and protein is the thing.

Mouse Junior doesn’t get there until almost eight.

Must have been problems on the set, Frank thinks. Script troubles, camera breakdowns, erectile dysfunctions, Astroglide shortage…

Anyway, Mouse Junior comes in his Hummer and he comes alone. Carelessnessand sex, Frank thinks, a deadly daily double. The only question is whether to take him now or wait untilafter he’s gotten his rocks off.

It would be better to do it in the apartment than on the street, Frank thinks, but Dolphin Girl has nothing to do with this. So he decides to leave her out of it, hoping that Mouse Junior doesn’t spend the night.

In short, Frank thinks, you hope he’syou.

He sets the alarm on his watch and takes a half-hour nap, knowing that Mouse Junior isn’t going to be that fast. He leans back in the seat and sleeps soundly until the little ringer wakes him up; then he gets out, opens the trunk, takes out a slim jim, and walks over to the Hummer.

In the old days, if a boss’s son was paying court, as it were, there would’ve been guys out on the street waiting, taking his back.

Not now.

Frank walks up to the Hummer and opens the door. The alarm goes off, but no one pays attention to these things anymore, and it only takes him a couple of seconds to reach under and disarm the stupid thing.

He climbs into the backseat and lies down on the floor to wait, hoping that Mouse Junior is a bad lover.

Mediocre, as it turns out.

It’s nearly 10:30 when Mouse Junior emerges from the apartment building.

Whistling.

Unreal, Frank thinks as he hears Mouse Junior warbling. The kid is a walking cliche. He waits as the door opens and Mouse Junior gets behind the wheel. Then he presses the pistol barrel into the back of the driver’s seat so Mouse Junior can feel it poking into his back.

“Press your hands onto the ceiling,” Frank says. “Hard.”

Mouse Junior does it.

Frank reaches over and finds the pistol in Mouse Junior’s shoulder holster, empties the chamber, and tucks the gun into his own waistband.

“Now put your hands on the wheel,” Frank says.

Mouse Junior does that, too. “Please don’t kill me, Mr. Machianno.”

“If I wanted you dead,” Frank says, “you’d already be dead. Just understand that if you make me shoot you through this seat, it will be the bulletand the hand-tooled leather and God knows what else that will be blowing through your vital parts. Capisce? ”

“I understand,” Mouse Junior says, his voice quivering.

“Good,” Frank says. “Now let’s go see Daddy.”

It’s a long drive to Westlake Village, mostly because Mouse Junior develops a case of verbal diarrhea and can’t stop the foolishness flowing out of his mouth. About how happy he is that Frank’s alive, how shocked he was about what happened on the boat, how he and Travis ran and called his dad right away to see if he could help, how the whole L.A. family has been-

“Junior? Shut up,” Frank says. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Sorry.”

“Just drive,” Franks says. He tells him to go to the one place in the world that no one would expect Frank Machianno to go: Mouse Senior’s place of business. The coffeehouse will be closed to the public by now, but Frank knows that Mouse Senior and half the L.A. family will be there.

Which is just what he wants.

Get this thing settled so he can get his life back.

When they get there, Frank tells Mouse Junior to pull into the back parking lot, keep the engine running, and use his cell phone to call his dad. Mouse Junior’s hand is shaking like an old drunk’s as he punches the number on speed dial.

When Frank hears Mouse Senior answer, he grabs the phone.

“Come outside,” he says.

Mouse Senior recognizes the voice. “Frank? What the fuck?”

“I have a gun pressed to your kid’s back and I’ll pull the trigger unless you’re out here in ten seconds.”

“What are you, drunk?” Mouse Senior asks. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“One…”

“Frank, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Two…”

“Frank, I’m looking out the window, I see Junior sitting in his car by himself.”

“Tell him,” Frank says to Mouse Junior.

“Dad?” Mouse Junior says. “He’s here. He’s in the backseat. He has a gun.”

“That was three, four, and five,” Frank says.

“Is this a kidnap thing?” Mouse Senior asks. “Are you crazy, Machianno? Are you out of your fucking mind? ”

Is it possible, Frank thinks, that Mouse Senior didn’t know about the setup?

“Six,” Frank says.

“I’m coming out! I’m coming out!” Frank keeps the gun on Mouse Junior’s back but rises up just enough to see out the window. Mouse Senior steps out the back door. His brother Carmen is with him, and so are Rocco Meli and Joey Fiella. The Martini brothers won’t be carrying guns, Frank knows, but Rocco and Joey will definitely be strapped.