Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

“To have Herbie done.”

Mouse set his newspaper down. “Herbie’s gone?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you-”

“I saw the body.”

“There’s a million junkies in Vegas,” Mouse said. “They all knew what a pack rat Herbie was. Any one of them-”

Interesting, Frank thought, he used the exact same phrase as Mike-“what a pack rat Herbie was.” He shook his head, “Three twenty-twos, to the back of the head. Professionals.”

“Herbie made a lot of enemies in his-”

“Cut the crap.”

“What are you, drunk?” Mouse asked. “Talking to your boss like that?”

Frank leaned across the table. “What are you going to do about it, Mouse? What are you going to do about it?”

Mouse didn’t say anything.

“That’s right,” Frank said.

He was walking away when the young waiter came over with the coffee and Danish. “You don’t want your-”

“Nothing personal,” Frank said to him, “but your coffee is garbage and your pastry is crap. You serve cheap shit to suckers who don’t know any better. I know better.”

He walked out and waited for the blowback.

It didn’t take long.

Two days later, Mike showed up at the bait shop.

“That was stupid, what you did up in Westlake,” Mike told him.

“You here to straighten me out?”

Mike looked hurt. “The fuck could you ask me that? I’d do them before I took a run at you. We should have our own fucking thing, anyway, not be tied to those limp dicks. Watch, they’ll find a way to fuck this Binion thing up.”

“What happened, Mike?” Frank asked. “When we left the table, we were supposed totalk to Herbie.”

“I don’t know. I was gone.”

“Mouse has something to answer for,” Frank said.

“Don’t get crazy on me,” Mike said. “It’s one thing to go insult a boss in his place of business-you get a pass for that because you’re Frankie fucking Machine. It’s another thing you go looking to square Herbie on a fuckingboss. Let it go.”

“So we just let them get away with it?”

“Hey, Frank,” Mike said. “Herbie wasn’t exactly Saint Francis of fucking Assisi himself. He didplenty, believe me. What we’re going to do now is swallow the shit, smile like it was chocolate cake, and get back to business.”

Which they did.

As usual, Mike was right.

You have an ex-wife to support, Frank told himself, and a kid who needs orthodonture. You have a man’s responsibilities, and you can’t go getting yourself killed to get revenge for Herbie Goldstein.

As it turned out, L.A. never took over Vegas, not even a piece of it. Teddy Binion’s jewelry collection got cut up and made an appearance on the street for a while, but the Martinis never succeeded in taking over his casino and busting it out. Binion held on until he died of an other-inflicted drug overdose, and his young wife and her young lover took the fall for that.

The only one who prospered from the deal was Mike Pella, who worked the Indian gambling thing and gave it serious legs. It was everything Mike had always wanted, a long-term, integrated scam in which he took from the front, the middle, and the back ends.

He would have been a very wealthy man if he hadn’t screwed up.

But we always do, Frank thinks now. That’s the trademark of the Mickey Mouse Mafia-we always find a way to screw up. Usually over something stupid. That was certainly the case with Mike, who was on easy street until he lost his temper and beat up a guy in a parking lot.

Before Mike slipped on the banana peel, he was raking in money from Indian gambling and never cut Frank in on a penny. Not that Frank expected it or even wanted it. What he expected was what he got-Mike saying, “I mean, after all, you never reallydid anything with Herbie, right?”

No, Mike, Frank thinks now-youdid.

The Martini RICO trial has been delayed again, ostensibly because the feds think they have new evidence to link the Martini brothers to Herbie’s killing.

But there are two guys left who could connect the Martinis with Herbie’s murder, Frank thinks.

Mike Pella.

And me.

Mike’s in the wind, and I haven’t been indicted.

But Mike thinks I’m cooperating with the feds, and that’s why he tried to have me whacked.

Because Mike killed Herbie.

Why didn’t I see it? Frank thinks as he rolls south on the 5. It was always Mike who was pushing for Herbie’s murder. He knew about the jewels, he knew about the money, and he was going to use the Goldstein windfall to bankroll starting his own family. Mike knew damn well when we went over to Herbie’s house that the fat man was already dead.

It was all an act.

Now the feds are back on it, Mike thinks I know the truth and that I’m giving him up. He’s cleaning up his tracks, and I’m one of them.

Mike Pella comes home from the bar, turns the living room light on, and finds Frank Machianno sitting in the La-Z-Boy with a silenced . 22 pointed at Mike’s chest.

“Hello, Mike.”

Mike doesn’t even think about running. This is Frankie Machine we’re talking about here. So Mike says, “You want a beer, Frankie?”

“No thanks.”

“You mind if I have one?”

“Anything comes out of that fridge but a Budweiser,” Frank says, “I’ll put two in your head.”

“It’ll be a Coors, if that’s okay,” Mike says, walking over to the refrigerator. “Lite. Man my age has to watch the carbs. You, too, Frankie, you ain’t no kid anymore, either.”

He gets his beer, pops the tab off with his thumb, and sits down on the sofa across from Frank. “You look good, though, Frankie. Must be all that fish you eat.”

“Why, Mike?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you flip?” Frank asks. “You, of all people.”

Mike smiles and takes a drink of his beer.

“I respected you,” Frank says. “I looked up to you. You taught me about this thing, about-”

“Things aren’t what they used to be,” Mike says. “Peoplearen’t what they used to be. Nobody’s loyal to anybody anymore. Things just aren’t that way. And you’re right-I’mnot the man I used to be. I’m sixty-five years old, for Chrissakes. I’m tired.”

Frank looks at him, and heis different. Funny, Frank thinks, how I see him the way he used to be, not like this. His hair is white and getting a little sparse. His neck is thin in his collar, and the skin is wrinkled. So are his hands, wrapped around the beer can. There are lines on his face that never used to be there. Do I look that old? Frank wonders. Am I kidding myself when I look in the mirror?

And look at this place. A used La-Z-Boy, a crappy sofa, a cheap coffee table, a TV set. A Mr. Coffee, a microwave, a refrigerator. And that’s it. Nothing made with love or care, nothing that looks lived in, no pictures of loved ones.

An empty place, an empty life.

God, is this my future?

“I don’t want to die in the joint, okay?” Mike is saying. “I want to sit down with a beer, fall asleep in my own chair watching a ball game with the Miss July foldout on my lap. I’m tired of all this Mafia crap, and that’s what it is, all crap. There’s no honor, no loyalty. Never has been. We were fucking fooling ourselves. We’re in our sixties now and the better part of our lives is over, so it’s about time we grew the fuck up, Frankie. I’m just tired of the whole thing and I don’t want no part of it no more. If you’re going to shoot me now, fine, shoot me. If not, God bless.”

“You killed Herbie,” Frank says.

“You got me,” Mike says.

“And you were afraid I knew and I’d rat you out on it,” Frank says, “and that would queer your immunity deal. So you put a contract out on me. I wasn’t going to do that, Mike. I’m not a rat. I’m not you. So if you’re worried I’m going to tell the feds-”