by Tracy Lane
“Yikes.” Tank shivered, clutching her shoulders as the cold air passed through them both. “I wish he’d warn us when he does that.”
Chapter 13
Mr. Vitelli’s house was old, like him, and in about as good of shape. The lawn was overgrown, the bushes a mile high, and mail was overflowing from the crooked box at the end of the driveway.
The house was beige with dark wood trim. It was outdated, but didn’t look out of place as Jake peered down the rest of the shabby little street. Tank followed his gaze, analyzing the small, one-story houses, leaning mailboxes, and dried shrubs in their withered lawns.
“Is the whole street in a coma?” she asked, fiddling with the knob on the front door. It was locked.
“Come on,” he said, ignoring her attempt at dark humor. “Let’s try the back.”
Dry grass crunched under their feet. The air conditioning unit kicked on as they walked past, making them jump. They chuckled uneasily, winding around the back of the house to find a pool that looked more like an overgrown lagoon with a lawn chair bobbing in the deep end.
“Care for a dip?” Tank asked, but her voice was nervous and hinted melancholy.
“Hello?” Jake called out when he spotted the open back door. It didn’t look like there was anyone around, but he couldn’t be too sure.
“In here,” said Frank from inside the doorway. Jake swallowed hard and walked inside.
The house smelled like dead plants and moldy bread, probably because of all the dead plants and moldy bread strewn about.
“Uggh!” said Tank, waving a hand in front of her nose. Her black hair was a little greasy, and Jake couldn’t remember if she’d taken a shower since she’d moved in with him.
“Tell her she’ll get used to it,” Frank said from the living room table, where he was reading a dusty, leather-bound book.
“Freaky,” Tank admired, pointing to it. Jake tried to picture it the way she must have seen it: a leather book standing up by itself, a page turning all by its lonesome, yellow paper crackling in the silent house.
“His diary,” Frank explained, closing it formally and sliding it across the table.
“Whoa,” Tank blurted when she caught it.
She sat down across from Frank in a creaky chair and opened up the book. “It’s his diary,” she said, and Jake realized: she hadn’t heard Frank. She couldn’t have.
“Frank?” Jake asked as Tank turned the pages. “Are you…mentioned in there?”
Jake sat on the edge of a nearby coffee table and Frank turned to him. He nodded. “Tell her to start reading on page 80.”
“Tank—” Jake started.
“Here!” Tank interrupted. “I found Frank’s name on page 80!”
Frank smiled wearily. “This doesn’t end well,” he murmured.
“Ooohh,” Tank spoke almost at the same time as her finger scrolled down the page. “I don’t like the sound of this…”
“Tell her to read the part about—”
“Bruno Martelli!” Tank interrupted. “That’s the dude who had Frank murdered. Listen to this,” she said, holding the book up closer to her face before she read it out loud:
I was driving Mr. Martelli around when he said to one of his bodyguards. We need to solve this Frank Barrone problem. I perked up on account of Frank Barrone was the singer of my girl's favorite song at the time, "Barroom Eyes".
In the rearview mirror, the bodyguard nodded. I'm trying to think, to remember, if it was One Eye Lopez or Two Thumbs Thompson. Maybe it was even Fat Nose Falzone. Either way, One Eye, or Two Thumbs, or Fat Nose nodded and told the boss they'd take care of it. But that wasn't enough.
Boss said, No man steps out with my woman and gets away with it. I almost laughed out loud. Everyone who'd ever been to the Lido Lounge knew who Bruno Martelli was talking about that day, and if the Boss thought Betty Cooper was only seeing Frank Barrone behind his back, holy smokes, did he have another thing coming.
Tank looked up, eyes wide, thin lips frowning. “Is…is Frank here?”
“Tell her it’s okay, Jakey,” Frank said, nodding. “I’ve already read it. I already knew. Or, at least, I thought I knew…”
“He’s here, isn’t he?” Tank asked, about to shut the book.
“No!” Jake blurted, desperate to hear how this would end up. “He said it’s okay. He said he’s read it…”
Tank narrowed her eyes, then found her place and began reading again:
No one had the heart to tell Mr. Martelli – not me, not One Eye, or Two Chins, or Fat Fingers, or whoever – that his Betty Cooper was seeing just about every other available guy in town on the side. If the Boss put a hit out on every bum who'd crooned a tune in Betty Cooper's honor, well, there weren't enough bullets in North Carolina to take them all out.
I always felt bad about that one, about Frank taking the heat for Betty's tramping around. I wasn't there when it finally happened, but I heard about it right quick. Not just in the local paper, but on the grapevine.
Boss seemed happier next time he had me drive somewhere. I remember him sitting in back the next day, reading that story over and over in the paper. He smiled and said, Ain't life grand, Gino? I think it was the only time he ever called me by my first name.
No one ever got charged. All the witnesses were too afraid to talk. I couldn't blame them. I was, too. Then again, the cops never asked me nothing. I tried going back to the club a few times after that, but it wasn't the same. The band broke up, eventually, and folks stopped coming. I guess they never realized how big a draw Frank was.
Time marched on. We all got old. The Boss got old. I got old, that's why I'm writing these here words. I thought, I'm almost eighty now; I should get to the bottom of this whole Frank Barrone business. So I went to ask the Boss about it. Out in his mansion. It had been years since I'd worked for him. I went legit back in the 80s and went to work in my brother's hardware store. Never married, but I had a good life. A nice, steady life. I hadn't thought of the Boss in years, until Frank Barrone got under my skin. I went out to his mansion, see if he'd remember me. He was old, not long for this world. This was, what, five or six years ago?
He embraced me, asked me in, took me out to his patio and we had Irish coffees in the middle of the day. That's stuff only old men do, or rich ones. Boss? He was both. We talked about the old days, about the Lido Lounge, about Betty Cooper. I asked him, straight up, who did the killing on Frank Barrone. He just laughed, said wouldn't I like to know. I pressed him, and he said, Gino, the less you know the better. There's no statute of limitations on murder. This much I do know: even if the cops were to search for his final resting place, it'd take em years.
I asked him why, and Boss told me it was because the wise guys who'd done the hit had buried Frank's body out in Franklin Forest, but with 10,000 acres of virgin timberland they'll never find the poor guy. Never, ever...
Tank shut the book quietly, leaning back from it as if to touch it again might burn her fingers.
“Jake?” she asked. Her voice was gentle.
“Frank?” he asked.
Frank was pacing now, and looked back at them both. “I checked a few years ago, Jake. Checked on all the local mob bosses who’d been working back then…”
His voice trailed off.
“And?” Jake urged.
“Bruno Martelli died three years ago of a stroke. He died on his patio, probably in the same chair he told Gino Vitelli that story…”
A few empty moments passed. “Jake?” Tank inquired again.
Jake could only sit in silence for a moment before he shook his head. “That’s it. Game over. Frank says Bruno Martelli’s dead, so we’ll never get to ask him who the three men he sent to kill Frank were. The trail ends here.”
“But…but…we know who wanted Frank dead, right?”
Jake couldn’t share her hope. He could only remember what Frank had told him days before. “It’s not just finding out who killed him, Tank. And even if it was, we don’t know
which of Martelli’s bodyguards pulled the trigger. It’s about where Frank was laid to rest. And now, well…we could be eighty by the time we search ten thousand acres in Franklin Forest.”
Tank exhaled roughly in disappointment and slid the book back toward where Frank had been sitting. “I’m,” she stuttered. “I…well…”
Jake thought she was talking to him, but she was gazing at Frank’s chair. Frank’s empty chair. Frank was still pacing between the living room and the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” she continued. “If you’re still here, I mean. Is he still here?”
Tank looked at Jake, but she didn’t wait for an answer. She looked back at Frank’s chair: “I’m sorry you went through all this trouble, and now we’ll never know where you’re buried…”
Jake didn’t have the heart to tell her he was already gone.
Or…was he?
“Look,” Jake whispered, pointing to the kitchen. There Frank stood, facing the refrigerator, moving his hands. His shoulders were so wide, and his suit so big, Jake couldn’t see what he was doing.
Then Frank turned, tipped his hat, and disappeared. Through the mist his ghostly friend left behind, Jake could see what he’d been doing all along: there were alphabet magnets on Gino Vitelli’s outmoded fridge, the kind kids used to learn their ABCs.
Jake slugged Tank in the arm and offered the day’s first smile. “Look, Tank. Look at what Frank did. He heard you. He left you a message…”
There, on the fridge, Frank had used six blocks to spell the word “THANKS.”
Chapter 14
“So, what now?” Jake asked.
He and Frank were in the park across the street from the Weirs’ apartment complex. Through the open window on the third floor, Jake could see Tank helping his mother set the table.
It would be time for dinner soon, but Jake wasn’t sure he had the appetite for food, or anything else, at the moment.
The air was starkly chill, and he noticed the flickering jack-o’-lanterns on the steps of his building. Halloween was in a couple of days. He groaned inwardly. His parents always went overboard for their annual Halloween episode of Paranormal Properties. He wouldn’t be sleeping much over the next few nights.
Frank leaned against the jungle gyms and absently traced the brim of his giant hat with two fingers. “That’s it, Jakey Boy. I’ve gone as far as I can, and all thanks to you.”
Jake shook his head, twisting silently on the swing set. “I’m not sure what kind of help I really was. I mean, you found the diary.”
Frank looked up at him, cocking a rare smile. “How could I have talked to all the people who led us to that diary, Jake? I would’ve never been able to find all those clues if it hadn’t been for you.”
Jake turned toward Frank. “I meant what will you do now that…we didn’t finish our assignment.”
“We finished it,” Frank was adamant. “Look how far we’ve come.” The ghost’s voice was unusually jovial. To Jake, it almost sounded forced.
“But your killers,” he insisted. “We never found them.”
Frank shrugged. “I know who wanted me dead now, Jake. That’s half the battle.”
“And your resting place? How long will you keep looking for that?”
Now Frank’s eyes grew sad. “I’m through looking, Jake. It’s time to start…living.”
Jake gave him a look. “But…”
Frank smirked, dimples forming in his cold, gray cheeks. “I’ve spent the last sixty years reliving my death, kid. I’ve roamed this town for all that time, searching. I’m done. I’m finished.”
Jake was silent for a time. His gaze fell to the ground. “Can you…can you find peace now?” he asked.
“This was never about peace, Jake. It was about closure. It was about tying up loose ends. My chance at peace died out years ago.”
“But you can go now, right?” Jake looked up from where his feet were busy making tracks in the soft dirt beneath the swing set. “You can be free of this place. Of…me?”
Then Frank chuckled. It was a dry, honest sound. “Kid, why would I want to get rid of you?”
Jake had no answer for that.
“I mean, look at me. I’ve been alone this whole time. No one could hear me, no one could see me, and now I’ve found you. You’re the one person I’ve ever met in all these years who could really understand me. You think I’m going to leave now?”
Jake couldn’t help the foolish smile that covered his face. This whole time, he’d just been waiting for Frank to find out where he’d been buried and then vanish, permanently. He’d never imagined the old ghost would stick around.
“Besides,” Frank said, shoving Jake on the swing. “We’ve got a show to put on, don’t we?”
Chapter 15
“Tank?” Mr. Weir asked, struggling to prop a glowing pumpkin above the window sill. “A little help?”
“Yes sir,” Tank said dutifully, winking at Jake.
It was the afternoon of Halloween, and all hands were on deck to make The Hill Mansion as spooky as possible. Despite miles of fake cobwebs and enough jack-o’-lanterns to keep the high school cafeteria in stock of pumpkin pies for two years, the house still didn’t look scary.
“Don’t worry, Champ,” said Jake’s Mom, patting him on the chin. “I have a good feeling about this place.”
With a stubborn air of disbelief, Jake went back to the van and paused when he saw Frank smiling.
“You sure about this, Frank?” Jake asked. “I mean, it took a lot of convincing to get out of filming in the cemetery like they wanted to.”
Frank nodded, his fedora casting shadows in the afternoon sun. “I promised you I’d introduce your parents to a real ghost, Jake. On camera. On Halloween. I’m not one to welsh on my bets. This is gonna work out better than you ever expected.”
Tank came running back to the van for a spool of cable. “He’s here, isn’t he?” she asked.
Jake frowned. “How can you tell?”
“You always have that look on your face, like I’ve just caught you with your fly down.” Tank grinned. She looked positively spiffy in her Paranormal Properties t-shirt and baseball cap. She wore gray sweatpants that pooled at her knees and shiny black sneakers she’d bought just for the occasion.
Jake blushed. Tank snorted. “Just tell me, Jake, are your parents finally gonna catch a ghost on camera? Because they’ve got a lot riding on this one.”
“What do you mean?”
Tank shrugged, hoisting the large spool over her shoulder. “I overheard them last night. The pumpkins, the mood lighting, the extra airtime they’re renting for tonight. This is it, Jake. They’re about at the end of their rope.”
Jake felt a surge of panic, and he glanced up at Frank. The ghost was still smiling.
Tank said, “So I don’t know what your friend has planned, but it’d better be big.”
Frank held his head high as Tank trudged off, wiping sweat off her brow with one free hand.
“It’ll be big,” he reassured. “I hope your parents can handle it.”
* * * * *
Darkness had fallen, but you couldn’t tell inside the Hill Mansion. Extra lights had been set up to fill the grand entrance, and their beams bathed the marble floors and high ceilings.
Mrs. Weir stood at the bottom of the long, winding staircase that branched off from the end of the foyer, checking her clip-on mic.
Standing across from her, holding the camera on his shoulder, Mr. Weir nodded. “Ready?” he asked.
Jake watched nervously as Frank crept into the house through the door — the closed door.
When the cold mist had reformed itself as Frank, he smiled and nodded to Jake, then promptly vaporized again. Mrs. Weir cleared her throat and began counting down to give her husband enough time to start the film and mark their place.
“...And welcome to our Halloween Edition of Paranormal Properties,” she said with a devilish grin. “Tonight, we have a special treat for those of yo
u watching us on Public Access Channel 438. We’re at the Hill Mansion, one of Dusk, North Carolina’s most famous paranormal properties.
“For those of you who don’t know, Jonas Hill was murdered by his wife, Margaret, in his sleep. Margaret, who ran her home with an iron fist, forced her two children, Rebus and Rebecca, to bury their father after the grisly deed was done. Only trouble was, Jonas Hill wasn’t dead yet. Margaret even roped her children into finishing him off…”
Jake grimaced. He was never sure how much of his mother’s introductions were true and how much was made up, but as far as lead-ins go, this one was pretty good.
Mr. Weir was smiling and, behind him, Tank looked impressed. She was in the zone, poised with extra battery packs just in case his camera went out during a crucial moment.
In a dark and brooding voice, Mrs. Weir added, “I’m standing on his final resting place.”
Jake took an involuntary step backward as his mother continued speaking into the camera’s bright light:
“Rather than burying him in the backyard, where the neighbors’ prying eyes might see, Margaret Hill had the children remove two slabs of marble, dig a long, thin pit, and then she buried her husband upright, before Rebus and Rebecca replaced the massive tiles. For years, she entertained guests here on Halloween Night, on this spot above her husband’s grave. Tonight, we hope we’ll be able to reconnect with the spirits who local residents say have haunted this—”
Just then, a candle fell from a sconce on the wall next to Mrs. Weir. It flickered out and landed in a pool of its own dripping wax.
“Jake!” He heard Frank’s voice calling out to him, only to spot him grappling with a strapping young man in old-fashioned white pants and a crisp blue jacket. Not to mention the youth was just as pale and ethereal as Frank.