Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

Frank saw Richard Nixon one more time.

It was the autumn of ’75, and the president wasn’t the president anymore, but theex -president, in exile and disgrace in San Clemente.

He came down to the Sur in October to play in Fitzsimmons’s golf tournament, his first public appearance since being hounded out of office. Frank was in the parking lot when Nixon’s limo pulled in and he saw him get out of the car. Nixon didn’t look jaunty anymore; he looked beaten and old, but he played a full eighteen holes, and this time he didn’t seem to mind being seen with the likes of Allen Dorner and Joey the Clown and Tony Jacks, who were playing, too.

They didn’t mind being seen with Richard Nixon.

Is it possible? Frank wonders.

Could Marie Baptista, Bap’s widow, have learned something in her suit against the FBI? Bided her time, saved her money, maybe? Put out a contract on me that Vince picked up?

It’s unlikely, but I have to find out.

He gets in the rental car and heads for Pacific Beach.

Marie Baptista still lives in the same house.

Frank hasn’t seen her since Bap’s funeral, thirty years ago. He remembers the way to the house, though. Now he walks up the narrow little path between the well-tended flower gardens and rings the bell, like he used to do in the old days when he was coming to pay his respects.

Marie still looks great.

Tiny, diminished in the way of old people, but still great. She still has that pretty face, and the bright eyes, and one look at those eyes tells Frank that this old lady could commission a hit to revenge her husband.

“Mrs. Baptista,” Frank says, “do you remember me? Frankie Machianno?”

She looks puzzled. She’s trying hard, but it’s not coming to her. Or she’s a terrific actress.

“I used to work with your husband,” Frank prompts.

As a matter of fact, I worked forboth of them, he thinks.

“I used to drive you to get your groceries?” Frank says.

Her face brightens. “Frankie…Won’t you come in?”

He steps inside. The place has that musty, flowery-perfume smell that comes with old ladies. But it’s as neat as a pin and clean. She must have help come in. Bap must have left her comfortable.

Good for Bap.

“Would you care for some tea?” Marie asks. “I don’t drink coffee anymore. My bowels.”

“Tea would be nice,” Frank says. “Can I help you?”

“I just put water on,” Marie says. “Sit. I’ll only be a minute.”

Frank sits on the sofa.

Bap’s crappy paintings hang all over the walls. Watercolor after watercolor of ocean scenes-and a bad portrait of her, Bap at his worst, but she must love it. To her, she looks beautiful.

Photos of Bap sit on every flat surface. The bad comb-over, the big bug eyes, the thick glasses, the awkward smile. Frank has a different picture of Bap burned in his head. Bap in the phone booth, blood running…

Marie comes in with two cups on saucers. Frank stands and takes one of the cups from her, then steadies her as she sits in her chair.

“It’s so nice to see you, Frankie,” she says.

“Nice to see you,” Frank says. “I’m sorry I haven’t come more often.”

She smiles and nods. If it was her, Frank thinks, you’d know it by now. She’d look scared, or guilty; you would see it in her eyes.

“Did you bring my groceries?” she asks.

“No, ma’am,” Frank says. “I don’t do that now.”

“Oh.” She looks confused. “I thought…”

“Do youneed groceries, Mrs. Baptista?” Frank asks.

“Well, yes.” She looks around the room. “My list…I thought I…Where is it?”

“Is it in the kitchen?” Frank asks. “May I go look?”

She’s frowning, looking around the room. Frank gets up, sets his teacup on a doily on the side table, and walks into the kitchen. He finds the list taped near the telephone. She either forgot to call the delivery service, or forgot that she called. Either way…

“Mrs. Baptista,” he says as he steps back into the living room, “may I go get these for you?”

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” she snaps.

“Yes, ma’am, it is.”

He finds an Albertsons in a strip mall three blocks away. It doesn’t take him long, as the list is short-a few cans of tuna fish, some bread, some milk, some orange juice. He goes to the frozen section, carefully chooses a few of the better-quality meals for one, and tosses them into the basket.

He rings the bell again when he gets back. She lets him in and he sets the bags down on the kitchen counter and starts putting things away. He shows her the microwave dinners before he puts them in the freezer. “You can make these in five or six minutes,” he tells her.

“I know that,” she says impatiently.

Looking into the eyes of this old woman, he has so many memories. Her in her black dress, “the hot little number,” Al DeSanto, and Momo. She was a tough lady, surviving all that, then marrying Bap to boot.

She reaches out, touches his arm, and gives him her best charming smile. Oddly enough, itis charming. She’s still beautiful.

“I’ll tell Momo,” she says, “you did a good job.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You can call me Marie.”

“I can’t do that, Mrs. Baptista.”

He puts the dinners in the freezer, says good-bye, and leaves.

Yeah, you’re a great guy, he thinks. You kill the woman’s husband, so you buy her a couple of frozen dinners.

That should make it okay.

But it wasn’t Marie who ordered the hit.

So I’m still stuck with the question, Why did Vince Vena want me dead? And if he wasn’t acting on his own, then why did Detroit want me dead?

Doesn’t matter, he decides. If Detroit didn’t have a beef against me before I killed Vince, they sure do now. They can’t just let someone kill a member of the ruling council of the Combination and walk away, even if it was in self-defense.

So this isn’t going to be any short mix-up that can be quickly fixed. They’ll be coming, in force and for the long haul, and they won’t quit until they’ve put me in the dirt.

This is going to be a war, and I’ll need the resources for a war.

He heads up to La Jolla to see The Nickel.

“We have an ID on your floater,” the rookie agent tells Dave.

He’s back in the FBI office downtown. The young agent came in like an acolyte bringing the chalice to a bishop. “How did you know, Mr. Hansen?”

“Dave,” Dave says. “I feel old enough already today.”

And I can’t remember this kid’s name, he thinks. The new crop all look alike, just like this one. Slim but muscular, clean-cut, short hair. Tailored black or blue suits, white shirts, understated monotone ties.

This one is particularly meticulous about his clothes. He’s wearing the standard white shirt, Dave notices, but it has French cuffs with expensive cuff links.

Cuff links, Dave thinks. What’s it coming to? And Troy-that’s the kid’s name. Troy…Vaughan.

“But how did you know, Dave?” asks Troy.

To check the fingerprints against the OC files, he means. Still, that was a lot of files, and Dave’s a little surprised they already have a hit. Supercomputers, I guess, he thinks. In the old days, it was a matter of-who cares, these aren’t the old days.

“Ididn’t know,” Dave says. “It was a hunch.”

“Awesome.”

“You going to give me the ID?” Dave asks.

Troy blushes and shows him the file.

Vincent Paul Vena looks a lot better in his mug shot than he did on the rocks at Point Loma. He’s giving the camera that classic wise-guy “I don’t give a shit” smile, the one they must teach in Goombah 101.