Don Winslow: The winter of Frankie Machine

He shakes his head.

“Work the summer,” he said. “But you can’t go to med school and work at the same time, sweetie.”

“Daddy, I-”

He holds his hand up, palm out. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You work so hard, and-”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Are yousure?”

This time, she gets just the hand, no words.

But those are going to be some heavy bills, Frank thinks. That’s a lot of bait, linens, and fish. And rental properties-Frank spends his afternoons looking after his property-management business.

I’m going to have to kick it all up a notch, he thinks. That’s okay. I can kick it up a notch. I handed you a lot of shit in your life; I can find a way to give you this. And to have a daughter named Dr. Machianno. What would my old man have thought of this?

“This is such a happy thing,” he says. He stands up, leans over, and kisses her on the top of her head. “Congratulations.”

She squeezes his hand. “Thank you, Daddy.”

The food arrives and Frank eats his sandwich with fake enthusiasm. But, he thinks, I wish they would let me go back in the kitchen and show them how to fix eggplant.

They make small talk through the rest of lunch. He asks her about boyfriends.

“Nobody special,” she says. “Besides, I’m not going to have time for med school and a love life.”

Classic Jill, he thinks. The kid has always had a good head on her shoulders.

“Dessert?” he asks when they finish the entree.

“I don’t want anything,” she says, looking fixedly at his belly. “And neither should you.”

“It’s my age,” he tells her.

“It’s your diet,” she says. “It’s all the cannoli.”

“I’m in the restaurant business.”

“What businessaren’t you in?”

“The tofu business,” he says, gesturing for the check. And you should be glad I’m in all those businesses. It’s all those businesses that paid for your college and are going to find a way to pay for your med school.

I just have to figure out how.

He walks her out to her little Toyota Camry. He bought it for her when she started college-safe, good mileage, reasonable insurance. It’s still in perfect shape because she maintains it. The future oncologist knows to how to check the oil and change spark plugs, and God help the mechanic who tries to pull a fast one on Jill Machianno.

Now she’s looking at him real seriously. Those sharp brown eyes can be remarkably warm sometimes. Not often, but when they are…

“What?” he asks.

She hesitates, then says, “You’ve been a good father. And I’m sorry if I-”

“Sorries are for yesterday,” Frank says. “All God gives us is today, sweetie. And you’re a wonderful daughter and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

They hug tightly for a minute.

Then she’s in her car and gone.

With her whole life in front of her, Frank thinks. What that kid is going to do…

He’s barely back in the van when the cell phone rings. He glances at the screen. “Hello, Patty.”

“The garbage disposal,” she says.

“What about it?”

“It’s not disposing garbage,” she says. “And the sink is all filled up with…garbage.”

“Did you call a plumber?”

“I calledyou. ”

“I’ll stop by this afternoon.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know, Patty,” he says. “I have things to do. I’ll get there when I get there.”

“You have the key,” she says.

I already know that, he thinks. Why does she have to remind me every time? “I have the key,” he says. “I just had lunch with Jill.”

“It’s Tuesday,” she says.

“Did she tell you?”

“About medical school?” Patty asks. “She showed me the letter. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Absolutely wonderful.”

“But how are we going to pay for it, Frank?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“But I don’t know-”

“I’ll figure it out,” Frank says. “Patty, I’m going to lose you here…”

He clicks off.

Terrific, he thinks, now I have a clogged-up garbage disposal to add to my day. Ten to one, Patty was peeling potatoes in the sink and tried to wash them down the disposal. And even though I’ve got at least four plumbers on the arm that I could send over there, it has to be me, or Patty doesn’t believe it’s fixed. Unless she’s got me under the sink barking my knuckles on a wrench, she’s not happy.

He pulls off at a strip mall in Solana Beach, goes into Starbucks and buys a single cappuccino with skimmed milk and a cherry but no whipped cream, puts a cover on it, hops back into the van, and drives over to Donna’s little boutique.

She’s behind the counter.

“Skimmedmilk?” she asks.

“Yeah, like every other day I bring you a skimmed milk,” Frank says, “but today I bring you awhole milk.”

“You’re a darling.” She smiles at him, takes a sip, and says, “Thank you. I didn’t have time for lunch today.”

Time for what? Frank thinks, because lunch for Donna is a raw carrot slice, a piece of lettuce, and maybe a beet or something. Then again, it’s why she’s pushing fifty and looks more like mid-thirties, and why she still has the Vegas showgirl body. Long, thin legs, no waist, and a balcony that, while big, isn’t in danger of collapsing. Combine all that with her flame red hair, green eyes, a face to die for, and a personality to match, and it’s little wonder he brings her a cappuccino every time he’s passing through.

And flowers once a week.

And something shiny on Christmas and birthdays.

Donna is a high-maintenance broad, as she will readily admit.

Frank understands this-high quality and high maintenance go together. Donna takes good care of Donna and she expects Frank to do the same. Not that Donna is a kept woman. Far from it. She put away most of her money from her showgirl days, moved to San Diego, and opened her pricey boutique. Not a lot of inventory, but what she has is top quality and very stylish, and attracts a loyal customer base, mostly from San Diego Ladies Who Lunch.

“You should move the shop to La Jolla,” he told her.

“You know the rents in La Jolla?” she replied.

“But most of your customers are in La Jolla.”

“They can drive ten minutes,” she said.

She’s right, Frank thinks. And they do drive to her shop. Right now, there are two ladies inspecting the racks and another one in a changing room. And it doesn’t hurt that Donna wears her own merchandise and looks stunning.

If the store was empty, Frank thinks, I’d like to take her into one of those fitting rooms and…

She reads the glint in his eye.

“You’re too busy and so am I,” she says.

“I know.”

“But what are you doing later?”

He feels a little twinge in his groin. Donna never fails to do that to him, and they’ve been together-what, eight years?

“Did you have your lunch with Jill?” she asks.

He tells her about Jill’s news.

“That’s wonderful,” Donna says. “I’m so happy for her.”

And she means it, Frank thinks, even though she and Jill have never as much as met. Frank has tried to bring the subject of Donna up to his daughter, but she’s cut him off every time and changed the subject. She’s loyal to her mother, Frank thinks, and he has to respect loyalty. Donna does, too.

“Hey,” she said when all this came up, “if she were my kid, and my ex wanted her to meet his new squeeze, I’d want her to act the same way.”

Maybe, Frank thought, although Donna is more sophisticated than Patty about matters romantic. But it was nice of her to say it anyway.

“She’s a good kid,” Donna says now. “She’ll do well.”