Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

“No problem, Peter.”

Carmen nodded his thanks and Frank nodded back.

It took about a year and a half to order, all on separate checks.

Frank asked for an iced tea.

“That’s it?” Mouse Senior asked. “That’s what you’re having for lunch? An iced tea?”

“That’s all I want,” Frank said.

“That’s, like, antisocial,” Mike said.

“No offense intended,” Frank replied.

The truth was that Frank liked food too much to eat any of this stuff, and, more important, he had a lunch date following this summit meeting. He had met this stunning dancer named Donna the night before at the Tropicana. She had said she’d go to lunch with him but not dinner, and he was going to take her out to someplace really nice.

“Let’s get down to business,” Carmen said when the food arrived. “Herbie Goldstein.”

“He’s a greedy, selfish miser,” Mouse Senior said, a little dab of tuna salad on the corner of his lip. “That fat Jew boy is making money hand over fist and not paying anybody.”

“‘Fat Jew boy’?” Frank said. “What’s that?”

“What, you’re Herbie’s big friend all of a sudden?” Mouse Senior asked.

“No, I’ve been his friend foryears, ” Frank said. “So have all of you.”

“Do you know the money he’s fucking making?” Mike asked. “Just the fenced shit he has in his fucking house is probably worth a fortune, and he hoards money in there, too.”

“Frank,” Carmen said. “He has to share.”

“I know,” Frank said.

“So?” Mouse asked.

“I’ll talk to him,” Frank said. “Give me a chance to talk to him.”

“Not you alone,” Carmen said.

“Me and Mike.”

“Mike, you good with that?” Mouse asked.

Mike nodded.

“Today,” Carmen insisted.

“Tonight,” Frank said.

Everybody looked at him.

“I have a date today,” Frank said.

It was agreed-Frank and Mike would have a talk with Herbie that night, and get him on board.

“But Frank,” Mouse said, “if Herbie doesn’t do the right thing, then…”

“Then I’ll take care of it,” Frank said.

Then it will go the other way, he thought.

And that was it. The guys finished their meals, happy with the knowledge that they were about to use Fat Herbie Goldstein to bankroll their takeover of Las Vegas, then went up to the counter to pay their separate checks. Frank said his good-byes, visited the men’s room, and waited there until they had all left. Then he walked past the table and saw just what he’d expected.

Three bucks and change in tips.

The cheap bastards had sat there for two hours, and left three bucks and change. Frank took two twenties out of his wallet and laid them on the table.

Lunch with Donna was great.

He took her to a little French place off the Strip, and the lady knew her away around a menu. They were at the table for two and a half hours, talking, drinking wine, eating good food, enjoying each other’s company.

She was from Detroit originally, her father had spent his life on the Ford line, and she knew she didn’t want that life. She was good at dancing-she had the body and the legs-so she studied dance: ballet, until she got too tall, then tap and jazz. She went to Vegas with a boy she thought she was in love with, got married, but it didn’t work out.

“He liked hitting on cocktail waitresses even more than he liked wailing on me,” Donna said.

The boy went home; she stayed.

She met an entertainment director in the buffet at the Mirage and he got her an audition for the line at the Tropicana. She went to bed with him out of gratitude and because he was a nice guy, but nothing came of it except that she got the job.

“I saw other girls,” she said, “sleeping around, getting into the coke thing, trying to party their way into something better. I realized that therewas nothing better and the party scene was a dead-end street, so I pretty much just did my job and went home and washed my hair.”

She did get married again, to the chief of security at Circus Circus. The marriage lasted three years-“No kids, thank God”-and then she discovered he was sleeping around with chip girls and was blowing their money hitting on eighteen.

“Why am I telling you all this?” she asked Frank. “I’m usually a very reserved person.”

“It’s my eyes,” Frank said. “I have kind eyes-people tell me things.”

“You do have kind eyes.”

“You have fantastic eyes.”

She told him all about her “business plan.”

“I’m going to stay ‘on the line’ for two more years,” she said. “Then I’m going to open a little shop.”

“What kind of shop?”

“Women’s clothing,” she said. “A boutique, upscale but not out of reach.”

“Where?” he asked. “Here in Vegas?”

“I think so.”

He leaned across the table a little. “Have you ever thought about San Diego?”

She didn’t go back to his room with him that afternoon, but she did agree to go out to San Diego when she got a couple of free days. He offered to buy her airline ticket and get her a hotel room, but she said she preferred to pay her own way.

“I decided a long time ago,” she said, “that a woman in this world needs to take care of herself. I prefer it that way. I like it.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Frank said.

“You didn’t,” she said. “I can see your heart.”

He and Mike met up that night and went over to Herbie’s house. They rang the bell and there was no answer, but they could hear the television and there were lights on. The door was unlocked, so they let themselves in.

“Herbie?” Frank called.

They found him in front of the TV, slumped in his big easy chair.

Three bullet holes in the back of his head.

His mouth gaping open.

“Jesus,” Mike said.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Frank said, surprised that he felt an angry heat coming up on his face.

The place was a mess. It had been tossed-burglarized.

“We better get out of here,” Mike said.

“One second,” Frank said. He pulled his shirtsleeve down over his fingers, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. Gave them Herbie’s address and said that the resident there had suffered a heart attack.

“What the fuck, Frank?” Mike asked.

“I didn’t want him decomposing,” Frank said as they walked out. “He doesn’t deserve that. He didn’t deservethis. ”

“Look,” Mike said as they were driving away, “half the hustlers in town knew what a pack rat Herbie was.”

“What are you saying?” Frank asked. “This was a coincidence?”

“Could have been anybody.”

“You know better than that.”

Frank checked out of the Mirage, got into his car, and drove all the way to L.A. It was morning when he got to Westlake Village and found Mouse Senior at his coffeehouse, drinking an espresso, munching on apain au chocolat, and reading theLos Angeles Times. He looked surprised to see Frank, who ordered a cappuccino and an apricot Danish and sat down next to him.

“It’s probably better you don’t come to see mehere, ” Mouse said, “at my place of business.”

“You want to go someplace else…”

“No, it’s okay this once,” Mouse said. “So, did you get Herbie straightened out?”

“No,” Frank said, looking into his face. “Youdid.”

It was there. Just a flicker, but it was there, before Mouse composed his face, looked irritated, and asked, “What are you talking about?”

“You gave the nod,” Frank said. “Half wasn’t good enough for you. You wanted a bigger pie to cut up, so you gave the nod.”

Mouse put thatboss tone in his voice. “The nod for fuckingwhat, exactly?”