"That's exactly what I'm looking for," Frankie said.
"Where'd you like to go?"
"Around the world," Frankie told her, his voice deeply laced with the self–important ego of a mid–level Guido. "And I got the cash for the ticket."
"Ummmm," the whore purred. "That costs a little bit, honey. Would a C–note bother you?"
"Nothin' bothers me," Frankie bragged. "Except wasting time. You comin' along or what?"
I heard the door open, heard it slam shut. Felt the Caddy move off. Heard the snap of the central locking system. Okay.
"I know a good place, honey," Roxanne said. "It's just over on—"
"Yeah, well, fuck a whole bunch of that outdoor shit," Frankie said. "I got a nice place. All fixed up. You're gonna love it." The Caddy made a left turn, heading downtown.
"I dunno, honey," the whore said. "I mean, I'm supposed to call my man if I go off the block. Maybe we could just pull over and—"
"Your 'man,'" Frankie said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "You mean your pimp, right? You got a nigger pimp, bitch?"
"Hey! Be nice," Roxanne purred. "I got rules, just like you. And I really gotta—"
"When you see my hotel room, you won't be—" Frankie started. I tapped Max's left shoulder and the warrior slid out of his hiding place so smooth and quick I almost didn't see it. By the time I pulled myself out of the back, Max had his right hand completely over the whore's nose and mouth, his left resting on her collarbone. Frankie was driving straight ahead with his good hand on the steering wheel, calm as a rhino watching a jackal.
I pulled myself up so my lips were close to her ear. "Roxanne," I whispered, "it's okay. Nobody's gonna hurt you, all right? All we need are some answers. You give us the answers, we let you out, with a hundred bucks for your trouble. My man is gonna take his hand away from your mouth. Slowly, now…okay? Just be nice and calm. The doors're already locked. Nobody can see into the windows. You act stupid, you scream—anything like that—your neck's gonna get broken. Okay?"
She nodded her head vigorously.
I tapped Max's shoulder again. When he turned, I held up one finger. His big hand came off the whore's mouth. Slowly, like I had promised.
"Don't turn around, Roxanne," I said quietly. "This'll only take a minute. You okay?"
"Yes," she said. Her voice was steady, her breathing shaky. Close enough.
"You know my voice, don't you?" I asked.
"No!" she said quickly. "I swear I don't—"
"It's all right," I told her gently. "Nobody's mad at you. A while back, you asked me to do a job of work for you, remember? You got word to me through Mojo Mary?"
"Yes. But I—"
"Shhhh," I soothed her. "Like I said, nobody's mad at you. You used to be an actress, didn't you? That story of yours, about wanting someone to dust your man, that was pretty slick. Very believable. You have a lot of talent, girl."
"Thanks," she said, turning around despite the warning, looking me full in the face. No longer afraid, now that I'd recognized her talent. The left side of her face was bruised, the whole eye socket discolored. "I did act, you know. In school. When I first came here, I—"
"I know," I told her. "But right now, we're working on something. You were hired to do a job, that's all. The same as me. The woman who hired you—"
"She told me—"
"The one with the blond wig?"
"Yes! Rhonda. She said all I had to do was tell you, that's all. There wasn't anything else."
"I know. This man of yours, the one that was supposed to be in jail? What was his name? What was the name the blonde bitch told you to tell me?"
"Hector," the whore said. "She told me to say Hector. On Riker's Island. I wasn't really gonna—"
"That's all right, girl," I said, handing over a hundred–dollar bill. "Here, take this. Your man treats you like that," I said, touching my face where hers was bruised, "maybe you should get on a bus instead."
"My man didn't do this," she said indignantly, touching her own face. "It was that nasty cop—the one asking all those questions about Rhonda."
"What kind of questions?" I asked, gentling my voice so I wouldn't spook her.
"Like…where did I meet her, did she live around here. Stupid questions—like I would know where she cribbed. I told him the truth—I never saw her before she showed up one day. He was scary. I was just standing around, you know, blasé–blasé, just taking a rest, okay? He like charges up, snatches me by the arm. I thought he was a crazy man, like I was being kidnapped or something, but one of the other girls, she knows him, she told him take it easy, okay? God, I thought he was gonna kill her, the way he looked. Anyway, he drags me by the arm into his car, right there on the street, and he starts asking me questions. I answered him straight. Every one. So he asks me again. The same questions. I was getting real scared, so I told him, you know, time is money. Then he just started to break on me. For nothing. He slapped me so hard I thought he knocked a tooth out. He's one of those guys who hates us, I can tell. You know, the kind who drive by just to curse at us. They never buy—they just like look at us. It's disgusting."
"I'm sorry that happened," I told her, signaling for Frankie to pull over. We were just north of Canal, with a big wide spot to pull over. Perfect. "Here's where you get off," I told her.
She stepped out of the Caddy. Once she got her feet on the ground, she remembered her trade. "How am I gonna get back?" she demanded.
"Take a cab," I told her just as Frankie tromped the gas pedal.
Roxanne wasn't the first person who tried to hire me for homicide. Most of the hit man stories are myths anyway. You want someone to knock off your wife so you can marry that nineteen–year–old secretary who spends more time working under your desk than on hers, your chances of finding a pro who'll take your money, take her life, and keep his mouth shut—that's about zero. You ask around in too many bars, the next guy you'll meet will most likely be an undercover cop.
During the boom times of the mid–to–late '80s, some of those yuppies actually bought the bullshit along with the stocks and bonds, convincing themselves that power ties and five–thousand–dollar wristwatches were amulets, protecting them against having to pay up when their notes were called. They used money like steroids, bulking up their egos to where they were easy marks. For people like me.
I remember one especially. Young guy, on the sweet side of thirty, tanned and toned, as smooth and cold and hollow as a ceramic vase.
"It happens," he told me dismissively. "I was margined to the max, and I couldn't make the call. So I got involved in this bust–out scheme. You know what I'm talking about?"
"Sure," I told him. It was the truth. You buy a restaurant—just on paper, you're never going to actually run it. Then you use the joint's line of credit to buy everything: industrial refrigerators, china, cash registers. Even soft goods, like Kobe steaks from Japan and mega–lobsters from Maine. It's all on the come—cash in thirty days. Then you turn around and sell it. Sell it all —ata deep, deep discount, say 70 percent off. You take the cash and you walk. Run, sometimes.
"Yeah," he said, not convinced but wanting something more important from me than just demonstrating his superiority. "Anyway, one of the guys turned weak….He's been making noises about…going to the authorities. You understand my position?"
Better than you do, sucker. I thought, nodding my head in agreement.
"Yeah, well…I need some work done. And I was told you could…"
I nodded again, very somber, very reassuring. They never come right out and say it. They want you to ice a man or burn a man—means the same thing. Top him, drop him. Dust him, cap him, ace him or waste him. Blow him up, blow him away. Clock him or Glock him. Smoke him. Grease him. Chill him, plant him. Cancel his ticket, or punch it. Take him down, take him out, take him off the count. So many words—it's like they had an ad agency on the job full–time.
At ground zero, they say it straight—tell you to go out and do the motherfucker�
��.
I told him I could handle it. Told him what I'd need up front. "That's the way it's done," I said. And the with–it twit went and got the money.
Got himself taken too—I didn't think he'd call a cop. I read about it a few weeks later. When the guy the yuppie was worried about went to the federales, he started a bear market in informing. The sucker I'd been dealing with was too late—by the time he was ready to turn, his information was selling at a deep discount, and all he really bought was some time inside.
Maybe he'll learn something inside besides how to improve his tennis game. I tried to think of a way I could have cared less, but I couldn't come up with one.
But those other people, they had really wanted the work done, This thing with Roxanne was bogus—it had mousetrap written all over it. There was no work to be done: they just wanted me on tape agreeing to do a murder—a handle to twist me with.
For what? To blackmail me into helping Piersall escape? That was crap—no matter what they had on tape, it wouldn't be enough to make a case. Most cops would just laugh at it.
But I couldn't see Morales laughing.
I thought about Mama's haiku. Footsteps of the hawk. There was truth in it, I knew. When the cops search a room, the one place they never look is up. They look under the beds, behind the doors, all that. But they never look up. They could find a roach on the ground, but they'd never find a spider on the ceiling.
Morales was a cop. All cop. Every chromosome a cop. He'd never look up.
But if he was the hawk, he wouldn't need to.
Late afternoon by the time I got over to Mama's place. White dragon in place, quiet. I came in through the back, thinking of how well Frankie stood up—how he dealt himself in on a bad hand—thinking, What kind of man does that?
I knew the answer when I walked into the restaurant, saw Mama and Max at a table. With Clarence and the Prof. And Frankie.
Frankie inside Mama's. With us—that was the Prof's vote. And I had too much respect for him to veto it, even if I wanted to.
I sat down at the one large round table in the place. The sauce–splattered old sign Mama always keeps on it—Reserved for Party of Eight—was gone. The table was never used unless we all needed to face each other at the same time. Didn't happen often.
If I needed any proof that Frankie had been dealt in, watching him work on a bowl of Mama's hot–and–sour soup closed the issue. Her soup was only for family—no exceptions.
"Is my boy an actor or what?" the Prof crowed.
"He was perfect," I acknowledged. "Good as De Niro."
"Joe Pesci," the Prof rasped.
"What?" I asked.
"Joe fucking Pesci," the Prof said in his the–subject–is–closed voice. "The best actor on this planet, bar none. He gets the call, he does it all. Man's so slick he could play a goddamned telephone booth and motherfuckers be putting quarters in his mouth."
"I didn't know you were such a movie freak," I said.
"I am a movie critic," the Prof announced grandly.
"Yeah, okay, I stand corrected," I told him. "But you're right on this one—you weren't there, I was. And Frankie was smooth . He played his role like a champ."
"I…like doing that," Frankie said, looking up.
"Scamming?" I asked.
"No. Acting. I mean, I know that wasn't real acting…but I really liked it. Playing a part. Being something else…I don't know."
"It's a mug's game," I told him. "It's all who you know, who you blow."
"Joe Pesci never kissed ass," the Prof announced, defending his man with vehemence.
"How the hell would you know?" I challenged.
"It's in his face, ace," the Prof said. "Kissing ass, it marks you, bro—easy to read as a true ho's greed."
"Yeah, sure…"
"Hey, schoolboy…you ever see Casino? How about Goodfellas? You ever see My Cousin Vinnie? You ever see Raging Bull?"
"I seen that one," Frankie put in. "De Niro, he was awesome. He…I dunno…he feels it, I guess."
"De Niro?" the Prof snorted. "He ain't no turkey, I'll give you that. The dude is strange, but he ain't got no range."
"De Niro could play anyone," I said. "He's a genius."
"Who could he play?" the Prof challenged. "A priest, a gangster, a crazy man? Sure. But he's always De Niro, see? No matter what, he's always himself. Joe Pesci, that's the real deal. Listen up, bro, my man Pesci, he gets to be whatever you see. He could be playing Malcolm fucking X if he wanted to."
"Yeah. Okay, you win," I surrendered. I looked around the table. "What's going on?"
"Investment," Mama said.
Max balled his fists, rolled his shoulders like a fighter coming in, shook his head No, tapped his left shoulder.
I nodded agreement, said, "Okay, Frankie can't fight for a while, right? What's to talk about?"
"We got an offer," the Prof said. "For Frankie's contract."
"From who?" I asked him.
"Rocco Ristone," the little man said. Saying it all with those two words. Ristone was a major player, just a cut below the big boys in the promotion racket and pushing them hard from behind.
"He came to you?" I asked.
"No, he came to Frankie. Tell him, kid."
"After the last fight, couple of days later, he came to the gym," Frankie said. "Asked me if I was under contract. I told him I was. Told him to who, when he asked. He asked me, what was I getting? I told him I got a hundred–grand signing bonus, all expenses, and the Prof cuts my purses one–third across."
"Damn," I said admiringly. "That's a whole string of lies."
"Ain't it, though?" The Prof smiled, extending his hand, palm up. I slapped it, but I wasn't satisfied.
"How'd you know how to play it?" I asked Frankie.
"From reading the papers. And the fight magazines. I figured, if he knew I was under a contract, he'd have to buy it out."
"You want to be bought out?" I asked quietly.
"No. I just thought I would put some protection on the Prof. On all you guys. Make them think there was real coin around."
"So what's to discuss?"
"Frankie," the Prof said. "We got Frankie to discuss. He stays with us, keeps knocking motherfuckers out, we maybe—maybe —get him a shot at one of them plastic belts in a couple of years. Maybe not. With us, you know he ain't never gonna get a real title bout unless he loses a few times, right? No way one of those punks is gonna have a fight when they can get millions just for showing up."
"With all respect, my father," Clarence said. "There are no guarantees, yes? Even if Frankie were to go with this Ristone man, he might not…"
"Well, we could still train him and all…" The Prof's voice trailed away as he caught the look on Frankie's face. It added up—no way Ristone was going to let us stay in the game if he bought us out.
I looked over at Max to see if he was following this. His face is a mask to most people, but I can read it. Max hears the same way a blind man sees. He was with it—staying inside himself, waiting.
"How much we got in this?" I asked the Prof.
"Well, you, me, Clarence, Max…and Mama now, we each put in five. We got those two dinky purses on the up side, got some expenses on the downs—call it a wash. I figure the whole dive cost about twenty–five."
"Frankie was sharp," I said. "He knew how to play it as good as if we schooled him ourselves. Most of these promoters, they take fifty percent, then stick the fighter with all the expenses off what's left. But Ristone, he thinks Frankie got himself a better deal, right? He gets his purses cut one–third, and got fronted a hundred grand, the way Frankie told it." I looked around the table at my family, hell–bound to do the right thing. About this, anyway.
"I say we cut the pie, and cut Frankie loose," I told them. "Ristone has to buy the contract back. Okay, there is no contract, but he can't know that. He pays us back our hundred grand, lets us keep five points—off the top, not off the bullshit 'net'—and takes it over. We split the loot, okay? Fifty–fi
fty on the hundred grand. That way, we each double our money, and Frankie scores fifty large right away. Then we get Davidson to represent the kid. We give him one point of our five points instead of cash. He'll go for it."
"Davidson's a righteous shyster," the Prof said. Meaning: he's a land shark, but for his clients, not for himself. For a lawyer, that's what you want.
"It plays perfect," I urged. "We score, Frankie scores…and Frankie stays in the hunt. What do you say?" I finished, looking around.
"One hundred percent on money, very fast. Very, very good," Mama responded, voting Yes.
Max nodded his head in assent.
"You will keep your colors, mahn?" Clarence asked. "I designed them myself, to honor our family."
"Forever," Frankie promised.
"When you get the belt, we all get some gelt," the Prof said, looking hard at Frankie. "Don't forget, boy…whatever you get to be, you learned all them moves from me."
Frankie had tears running down his face. He wasn't ashamed of them, played it like a man. "I love you guys," he said.
"Shut the fuck up, fool!" the Prof barked at him.
I was the last one to leave the restaurant. I'd called Davidson from the phone in the back, ran it down to him. He was game to play, said he'd represent Frankie on the contract "and at any and all subsequent proceedings," talking the way he talks, more vocabulary than content. But his word was good—straight–arrow, dead–serious, stand–up, go–to–the–wall good. Frankie was covered.
I smoked in silence, alone in my booth in the back. Frankie had been my shot to go legit. My chance to make a living on the straight side of the law. I know all about stealing. All about stinging, scamming, swivel–hipping my way through a mine field. I have great ideas, but I can never figure out how to sell them. Like Phone Sex on Hold, that was my best. You know how they put you on hold when you call most companies…you have to sit there and listen to some disgusting Muzak crap, getting madder by the second? I bet, if you could listen to some heavy–breathing bimbo tell you how hot you were making her, you'd sit there patiently for days. The only problem I had was how to know what kind of sex the caller wanted. Maybe I could use that voice–mail thing: press 1 for heterosexual, press 2 for homosexual, press 3 for bondage, press 4 for foot fetishes…Ah, fuck it—it was like all my citizen–ideas—good for a laugh and not much else.
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