by William Lobb
He sat at a booth in the corner. He did not see Fat Joe yet. Then he looked up and saw the fat man coming toward him. He walked up to the booth and sat down. Fat Joe said, “Nice disguise. Who the fuck are you supposed to be, one of the fucking Village People? They had a cowboy, right?”
Frankie laughed and said, “How have you been, Joe?”
Joe replied, “Shit has been crazy here the past few months. The Colombian cartels are worse than your buddy Vinny and all those guys combined. They’re vicious and they want it all. Those are the guys behind John Quarry and Eddie and now Jones. Frankie, they are going to kill you. I was told by the guy who hit Jones, they’ll find you and kill you. If I were you, I’d head to fucking Canada and stay there. Too cold there for those South American fucks. The guy who hit Jones, he’s a pro, not a hired hand like John. He was just a local mechanic. This guy, he’s a killer, hit man for the cartel. I got to tell you this, if he asks me anything about you, I’m going to tell him. I like you Frankie, but I’m not going to die for you.”
Frankie said, “All I need is a name, Joe.” The waitress came by, took their orders, flirted a little with both men, then turned and walked away, wiggling her ass as she did. Frankie shook his head. “Seriously Joe, these guys, me, we’re killers, but that pussy, that’s deadly. What’s this guy’s name, Joe?”
Joe looked around before he talked. It was apparent he was deeply scared. “His name is Juan Carlos Felipe, crazy bastard. He’s everywhere, like a fucking ghost—tall, big guy, with jet black hair. He’s crazy, mustache, black eyes. Don’t fuck with him, Frankie.”
The waitress brought the food. They sat, quietly salting their food, adding ketchup, and stirring coffee in silence.
Frankie said, “This is simple, Joe. I want you to put the word out I’m looking for this asshole and I intend to kill him. I may die in the process, but I will kill him. That’s all I want from you, Joe. Just put the word on the street, and this crazy Irish fuck will kill him. I want to draw him out. I’ll pay him back for Mr. Jones.”
Frankie finished his eggs in silence, then he said, “Joe, have a happy Thanksgiving, you and your family. Don’t eat too much.” They both laughed. He continued, “I’m heading up to Orange County, going to see my Grandma and some old friends. Hey, I’m still not drunk, either. That’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?”
Joe said, “You know, I was going to ask you about that. How did that happen?”
Frankie said, “I’ll tell you next time I see you. It’s a process, a long process.” Frankie got up, threw some cash on the table, and walked out into the Bronx early morning.
Fat Joe sat and finished his breakfast. Two men approached him from the back of the diner. One was Juan Carlos Felipe. He sat down across from Fat Joe and asked, “Where is he going?” Joe said, “Home, Orange County. Why don’t you just go after him now and be done with it?”
Juan Carlos and the other man got up, and Juan said, “We need his death to be spectacular, newsworthy, to send a message to others.” He handed Joe some cash and patted him on the shoulder. They got up and left, too. Fat Joe motioned to the waitress and ordered more coffee.
Chapter Thirty-eight:
The Homecoming
Frankie was a lot of things. Stupid was not one of them. He saw the two men sitting in the corner of the diner and he saw them looking at him and Fat Joe. He was pretty sure they were the guys Joe was talking about, the Colombians. Frankie wasn’t really mad. Everyone has a price, and he knew that. He was a little disappointed, though. He thought the fat man was a friend.
He climbed into the tractor and left the market. It was about 1:30 a.m. He headed out of the Bronx and onto the Major Deegan, “Da Deeg,” as some of his friends from down there would say.
He rolled up the NY State Thruway and headed home to Orange County. He hadn’t called Zara all day; he was kind of surprised. He didn’t quite understand why. There was a part of him that didn’t believe it was over and a bigger part of him that had to face this reality. Somehow all of this was easier to deal with having a clear head.
He had another moment where he felt a sincere gratitude for sobriety, for sanity, even if he thought it fading and fleeting and although the jury was still out on what part of this adventure was sane. A sane man would have mourned his friends and, taking Joe’s advice, would have headed into Canada or Jamaica or Mexico. There was no death wish here, only a very real need for revenge. He wanted to kill these fuckers. He was going to enjoy it. He thought back to conversations with Jones and the escalation of this war. It was now pretty apparent that this war was escalating all on its own.
Here he was, alone and sober and rolling home, something he didn’t think he’d ever see. He pondered his sobriety a lot alone. It made sense, but it made no sense. Parts of him were totally new and changed and parts of him were still the same madman, unchanged, uncaring. Someone said to him very early on, maybe at his first or second meeting, “The ironic beauty of sobriety is realizing now you get to deal with that broken, twisted asshole you’ve been avoiding your entire life, and he isn’t going away anytime soon.” That was the hardest part for Frankie. The side-by-side feelings of feeling good and confident and strong and healthy, while realizing there were deeply broken parts of his psyche that would never heal. Dealing with his stones was a lot harder sober.
He tried hard to not think about the stones as much as he used to, but in those moments where such thoughts crept through, the grim reality was that he was still the same madman he’d always been, still the same killer. He tried to be better, stronger, kinder, but like his failed attempt to find God in a church, his attempt to find the God of man, he failed to be those things too.
The past few months had been a blur, then came crystal clarity, moments so clear they shined and glistened. Teetering on the ever present danger of perfection, but pulling back enough to know there can be no perfection, just the gift of clarity, with all its flotsam and jetsam and lagan and derelict, the remnants of the shipwreck, but still clarity.
He’d come to love and be the most satisfied by clarity, above all the other gifts of sobriety. In clarity, he could see everything as it was supposed to be seen. This included his flaws and his past. It was ironic to him that when drunk and drugged, he never allowed himself the perfect lie of denial. The same held true now. He saw and recalled every moment as reality and truth in total clarity. Frankie knew exactly who he was.
He told himself he’d call Zara in the morning, after he got some sleep on Alex’s couch. He’d ride through the night, a cold night like this, and be aware of the demon by his side, but not feel threatened by him. Now, he quietly sat there and watched, as each day sober the demon had less and less of a grip on Frankie, but he was still always there, waiting.
He thought back to that beer in the bar in New Orleans and could not figure it out. It was like it just didn’t matter, inexplicable. As if as soon as he left Zara and New Orleans, the desire was gone again.
As he drove on and got closer to home, he realized there were things about Zara he had to face. The distance made them clearer. This was work for another night, a night of clarity. He missed the beautiful face that always made him think of Marilyn Monroe. He found himself thinking he knew how the great DiMaggio felt, along with every man who had a pulse in the city and surrounding areas who vied for a piece of Zara. A sense of satisfaction that she was only with him, but a nagging doubt that he could sustain it forever. He wanted her more than the air in his lungs. He realized this from the three days he’d been gone. Three days felt like a lifetime. He craved her scent and her twangy nasal voice, her presence.
As he fell deep into missing her, he started to think of Juan Carlos. Where would he meet this guy again? He got a good look at him as he left the diner. He just wanted to get to Alexandrine’s house, get some sleep, take a shower, get a big dinner somewhere at a diner or restaurant, and take Alex and her kids to see the old lady. The
n, after today was over and everyone was stuffed and well-fed, he’d go and find this guy and kill him. For today, it was about parades and turkeys and pie and Grandma.
It was about 4:00 a.m. when he pulled off Route 17 and into his hometown. He rolled the tractor through the city, past the factories. Down past Turf’s, he could see the lights were out, about an hour past closing time. A couple of guys and women stood in the back parking lot and passed around a joint. Frankie laid on the air horn and laughed his ass off as he waved. One of the guys flipped him off.
He rode down Main St. to Alex’s home. He pulled the tractor in next to the Rambler sitting in the driveway where he had left it. He chuckled to himself. He was sure Alex was too scared to drive that thing.
He killed the lights, shut down the engine, and climbed down out of the cab. The door to her apartment was unlocked. She was expecting him. Everyone was sound asleep upstairs. He sat down on the couch and then lay down. It felt good to be back in Middletown.
A couple of hours later the sun was up, Alexandrine stood over him with a cup of coffee. She sat down next to him. The conversation was very light and quiet, whispers among friends.
Her empty living room: an old worn out sofa and a table, an old black-and-white TV. That was the extent of her furnishings. He asked her if Landry was really dead or was he about to reappear once again. She smiled and said, “Landry lives in many places. I’ve not heard from him since the night before he met you in New Orleans. I never know with Landry. He just appears. I never understand his place. He wanted to show you the way home, Frankie; apparently that didn’t work out.”
Frankie said, “I’ve got to take a shower, scrape off some of this road grime. Then I need to go see Cora. We could go to the diner, get them to box up Thanksgiving dinner, and take it to the nursing home: you, me, your kids.”
Alex looked at him and said, “Frankie, the people from the church came by with a big box of food for all of us. I have plenty to cook, even a nice turkey. You need to go see the old lady all by yourself, then come back here for dinner. It’s time, Frankie. Go take a shower. I’ll make you some eggs.”
Frankie got some clothes out of his bag, realizing he was only packed for the warm weather, not November in the north. He climbed the stairs and got into the shower. He thought about Pam for the first time in forever. Then he thought about Zara, then back to Pam. Maybe he could never come home again if it meant having to think of her every time he came to this grimy little town.
He dressed and went downstairs. Her kids were still asleep. They had more coffee and Alex made him breakfast. The Macy’s Parade was on the black-and-white, fuzzy TV. Frankie could never stand watching that stupid parade, but every year it seemed to be the background noise of each year’s feast preparations, even though in recent years he’d spent most of his holidays in The Lovely.
Alex hadn’t commented until now, “I can’t recall ever seeing you not drunk. It’s nice. You seem calmer, more at ease.
Frankie laughed a little, then he laughed hard. “Alexandrine, I’m a fucking wreck; I’m just not drunk. I miss that girl from New Orleans so much it physically hurts. We crashed into each other, flamed like a forest on fire, and then just as quickly the flame burned out. The last few times we were together, it was dull and flat and sad, like we were actors standing around with our hands in our pockets at the end of a very sad play. I don’t know how to get it back, or if I even want to. It’s like she’s all I can think about and all I want to avoid. I don’t even know if she wants me to come back. I’ve been thinking about Pam since I got back. She seems to haunt me, like a reminder of something from a long time ago, equally broken, equally painful.
“I’m going to see Grandma, then stop back here, and I think I’m going to get a load south. I can’t be here. I can’t be in New Orleans. I have to go, go somewhere, anywhere but here and there. I know I can’t be either here or there. I’m losing my mind. I’m distant from everyone, Alex, I hide in plain sight. I even hide from you and from the old lady. I know she’s going to ask me about God. I can’t find God. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve gone to that river and tried to pray?
“I need to stop trying. I’m stalling. I’m afraid to go see her. I’ve become fearful, Alex. I feel this gift of sanity is fading now. It came fast and left just as fast. I think I can survive without booze or chemicals. The slow and creeping reality of insanity will be my drug and it’s winning, just like booze did. I’m so isolated that I don’t feel. I’m cold and disconnected. I’m always the outsider, always the guy looking in the window. Now I have to go look into the old lady’s window and watch her as a disconnected observer. She was the only one like you. She was and is my only connection to the universe and now I have to go and say goodbye to her. I know her. She’s the God-Mother, the sacred feminine. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and needed, now rejected. She holds her goodness and soul out in front of me, taunting me, showing me what I will never possess. I know she will die and I’m afraid. I know after I go see her, she will die.”
He finished his eggs and got up from the table. He asked if any of Alex’s ex-husband’s coats were still there. She got up and gave him one from the closet. Her ex was a big man and the jacket hung off of Frankie like a little boy wearing his father’s clothes.
Frankie laughed and said, “It’s warm.”
He got up and walked out to the Rambler. The keys were still in it from when he’d parked it there this summer. He tried to start it but the battery was dead.
He swore under his breath, got out, got a pair of jumper cables from the trunk, hooked up one end of the cable to the Rambler battery, walked over to the tractor and hooked the cable ends to the tractor batteries. He climbed into the cab, started the tractor, let it warm up, climbed back down, went into the Rambler, and decided to scream, “This is not a fucking pain in the ass!” He turned the key in the ignition and hung on for dear life as the beast known as the Rambler shook and coughed and came to life. Got out of Rambler and undid the entire process. He stood there swearing to himself. Why didn’t he just get a car?
He drove slowly as the car warmed up, turning onto Main St. and then on to the nursing home. He pulled into the parking lot. He sat outside and lit a cigarette, smoked it, and then smoked another one. He really couldn’t put this off any longer. He got out and walked into the front foyer of the nursing home, signed in, smiled at the pretty young receptionist, and thought, “Why bother, seriously? I’m done with relationships. I break stuff. That’s what I do.”
Chapter Thirty-nine:
Goodbye, Grandma
Carrying the gas station flowers he’d purchased on the way, Frankie walked down the sad, beige, sanitary hallway to the old lady’s room, past all the impersonal pictures of Jesus and presidents. He tapped on the door and looked through the long and very narrow window inside. He saw her lying there on her bed.
Frankie walked in, holding the flowers out in front of him as if they were a shield. He said, “Hi, Grandma.” He never really knew how she would react to him, ever, in his entire life. She could be sweet and kind and loving or haul off and hit him. It depended on her mood and what in her recent memory Frankie had done wrong.
Today, she just laid there, her hands crossed on her belly, her hair down, long and amazingly still brown. At 100 years old, it was very thin, but not a gray hair to be found.
Frankie said, “I’m sorry I missed your birthday, Grandma. I was in New Orleans working.”
She silently smiled. She looked at him, still in complete silence. He walked closer to the bed and as he began to stroke her forehead and her hair, her smile deepened. He stood there looking into the vast and lonely seas that were those magnificent, brown, Irish eyes, so old and still so alive. He thought about what they had seen in the past hundred years, the changes in the world, the people, the happy days, and the sadness. His money was on more sadness than joy.
He stood there as
they soul-talked again, that inexplicable bond, where they looked at each other and spoke in silence, lovingly staring into each other’s eyes. She had started doing this with Frankie when he was a little boy. To him, it was as normal as breathing. It felt like she was giving him knowledge, truths to take with him after she was gone. She had always tried to teach him something. He felt sad that all her good efforts were mostly wasted. Her church, her God, she tried too hard to impart in him a sense of soul and goodness.
This was the first time in years and years that he had seen her while he was sober. It felt more real, more connected, but Frankie realized that even in these fading moments, what could be her final hours, even here and now and sober as a stone, he was still disconnected; even from her, still that disconnect that he couldn’t ever explain. It was like a dry well in the middle of a hissing field of long, dry grass on a hot and dusty summer’s day, then going to that well for water and walking away with only a handful of dust. It was that kind of hollow, empty and thirsting.
He looked into her eyes and held her hand more tightly than a moment ago and he said, “That hollow feeling, that emptiness, I suppose that’s where my soul would go if I had one.”
She smiled, but her eyes were now sad. She knew some things she could never teach him, never show him. He looked at the old white witch and he held her hand and he rubbed her hair some more. They sat there like this, connected but not fully engaged, for a very long time.
Frankie realized this was the one and only connection he had to the world, to the universe, and it was fading away, right before his eyes.
A nurse came in to check on the old lady. She smiled at Frankie and said, “You must be the one she’s been waiting for. She stopped eating the other day. We’ve been keeping her hydrated and comfortable. She last spoke about two days ago. She said she was waiting for her boy to come.”
Frankie looked at her and said, “Come on Grandma, I’m here now. Let’s eat a little now” She just kept smiling. The nurse held up a glass of water and gave her some pills. Frankie said, “I can’t stand to see her like this. She’s so strong.”