The Winter of Frankie Machine

by Don Winslow

  “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 to talk 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 fucking boss. 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 did plenty, 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 really did anything with Herbie, right?”

  No, Mike, Frank thinks now—you did.

  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.

  55

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

  Frank looks at him, and he is 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—”

  Mike laughs. There’s no joy in his laughter. No fun. It’s bitter, angry, cynical. “Frankie,” he says. “Who do I work for now?”

  56

  Dave Hansen sits at his desk, staring out the window at the buildings of downtown San Diego.

  Rain pelts the window like little stones. Occasionally, a gust of wind brings the rain in sheets, striking the glass with a sound like a flock of birds flapping their wings, taking off as if something had startled them.

  Most days, you can see the ocean from this window.

  And the ridges of Tijuana, across the border.

  Today, he can barely see across the street.

  It’s all just fog and rain.

  Tears for Frankie Machine.

  57

  “Why?” Frank asks.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do the feds want me dead?”

  His head is screaming. It’s crazy, what Mike’s telling me, that the feds told him to put a contract on me. It doesn’t make any sense the feds going to Mike, then Mike going to Detroit to get the job done. What’s in it for Detroit? What can Mike offer Vince Vena?

  “Why ask why?” Mike says. “They didn’t tell me why, Frank. They just told me what. You’re right—they made me for Herbie, told me if I did them a favor, I could keep my immunity deal. The favor was you.”

  “Who?”
/>   “Who what?”

  “Who reached out to you?” Franks asks. “Who’s running this thing?”

  “They’d kill me if I told you that, Frank,” Mike says.

  Frank gestures with the pistol barrel, like, I’ll kill you if you don’t. But Mike smiles and shakes his head. “That ain’t you, Frankie. You don’t have it in you. Always your fucking problem.”

  Mike drains his beer and gets up. “We got us a bitch of a situation here, though, don’t we? I don’t see any way out of it. You sure you don’t want a beer? I could sure as hell use another.”

  He walks to the kitchen. “Hey, Frankie, you remember summer of ’72?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was a good summer,” Mike says as he opens the refrigerator door. He smiles and starts singing:

  “Some folks are born to wave the flag,

  Ooh, they’re red, white and blue.

  And when the band plays ‘Hail to the Chief,’

  Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord…”

  He reaches into the refrigerator, turns back, and points the .38 at Frank.

  Frank shoots him in the heart twice.

  58

  It was suicide.

  Mike didn’t have the stones to pull the trigger on himself, so he got me to do it, Frank thinks as he leaves the house and gets into the car.

  Mike just didn’t want to live anymore.

  Frank understands.

  It’s what happens, this life of ours.

  Piece by piece, it takes everything away from you.

  Your home.

  Your work.

  Your family.

  Your friends.

  Your faith.

  Your trust.

  Your love.

  Your life.

  But by that time, you don’t even want it anymore.

  They take him on a downhill curve on Highway 78.

  59

  Jimmy the Kid waits with what’s left of the Wrecking Crew.

  Paulie’s on injured reserve with his leg wound, but Carlo, Carlo is a gamer, dude. Carlo knows the diff between hurt and injured, and he’s going to be there when the whistle blows. Besides, he’s got a little payback to deliver.

  And payback, as they say, is a bitch.

  It was Jimmy who figured it out: Sooner or later, Frankie M. would go to Mike Pella to try to get this straightened out. Pella was his wingman, his boy, his goombah. So it was a simple matter of finding out where the feds had Pella stored, then putting a net around it and waiting.

  For Frankie M. to fuck up.

  Which he did.

  Rode right into the old box canyon.

  There are only four roads out of Ramona, and three of them break off the same intersection. So when Frankie M. turns north on the 78, they know they got him. It’s the worst-possible route for the man to take, because it winds down the edge of a steep canyon.

  A stone cliff on one side of the road, the big drop on the other.

  So as Frankie M. goes into the canyon, they put a car behind him. Jimmy’s car waits at a turnoff on the other side of the road, about two miles down.

  It’s like one of them old Westerns, Jimmy thinks.

  The dumb-ass cavalry goes riding into the canyon.

  Where the Apaches are waiting for them.

  Frankie M. is Custer.

  And I’m Geronimo.

  60

  He doesn’t see it coming.

  That’s the thing. Fatigue, heartache, the sheer grind of being on the run combine to make him careless.

  Of course they wouldn’t hit him at a protected witness’s house. That would be giving the game away. They wouldn’t hit him close, but wait until he was miles away, then do it.

  And make it look like an accident.

  So he doesn’t see it until it’s too late.

  The silver Lexus coming up behind him fast, then—

  A black Envoy—a big, heavy SUV—roars up, passes the Lexus, and pulls alongside Frank.

  Jimmy the Kid’s in the Envoy, bopping his head up and down like he’s listening to some of that hip-hop crap, then smiles at Frank and jerks his wheel to the right.

  The Envoy bumps into Frank’s car, sending it toward the edge of the cliff.

  Frank manages to correct it, but Jimmy rams him again.

  The physics are against him. Something the businessman in Frank knows is that numbers never lie; arithmetic is absolute. A heavier vehicle at greater speed is always going to win the contest. He tries to pull out, letting off the gas so he can cut behind the Envoy, but the Lexus has him boxed in and bangs him forward. Frank’s only hope is that a car comes up the other way and forces the Envoy to swerve, but even that wouldn’t be any good, because there’d be no place for the Envoy to go and some citizen would get killed.

  Which is the only thing I can say for myself, Frank thinks. I never took out anyone who wasn’t in the game.

  Only players.

  He manages to stay on the road for the top part of the sweeping curve, but physics are physics—numbers don’t lie—and the bottom half is too much for the little rental car, especially when Jimmy the Kid bashes into it again to make sure.

  Frank looks over and sees Jimmy waving bye-bye.

  Then he goes over the edge.

  61

  They say your life flashes in front of you?

  Sort of—Frank hears a song.

  The Surfaris doing “Wipeout.”

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-a…wipeout!”

  That insane, sarcastic laugh, then the famous drum solo, then the guitar riff, followed by the drum again.

  He hears it all the way down.

  Wipeout.

  Actually, surfers have about a gazillion expressions for going over the edge of a big wave:

  Wipeout, certainly.

  Off the lip.

  Over the falls.

  In the washing machine.

  Frank’s been there before.

  Tumbling over and over and over, wondering if it’s ever going to stop, if you’re ever going to come to the surface, if you can hold your breath long enough to see the sweet sky again.

  Only that was water—this is earth. And trees, and rocks, and brush, and the horrible sounds of metal being crushed against all of the above—then the sound of a gunshot, which at first Frank thinks is the coup de grâce, but is the gunpowder of the air bag going off. The bag smacks him in the face, then along the sides, and the world is this tumbling pillow, this unfun ride as the car plunges down the side of the canyon, scraping against everything in its way.

  It’s the scraping that saves his life.

  The car scrapes against a tree limb, which slows it down, then against the side of a boulder, then tilts over the edge of a narrow ravine, slides over, and finally comes to a stop against an old post oak.

  The guitar riff fades out.

  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-a…

  Wipeout.

  62

  “We should go down there and check,” Carlo says.

  They have the Envoy and the Lexus pulled off to the side of the road. They can’t see the car where it’s plunged into the little ravine, but they can see the flames shooting out of it.

  “Check on what?” Jimmy the Kid asks. “You can grill hot dogs on him yet?”

  The police and fire sirens have already started.

  “What we should do,” Jimmy says, “is get the fuck out of here.”

  And they do.

  63

  Frank crawled out during the last guitar riff.

  It hurt like crazy just to unsnap the seat belt, never mind open the door and tumble out, and it’s even crazier when he hit the ground. The ribs are at least cracked, if not out-and-out broken, and his left shoulder is a bulge down closer to his elbow than it should be. And he doesn’t even want to know what’s going on with his right knee.

  Doesn’t matter.

  He has to get away from the car.

  He knows he’s taking a chance mov
ing at all, that a broken rib might puncture a lung or the internal bleeding might turn into an internal hemorrhage, and then game over, but it beats getting flash-fried when the car goes Fourth of July.

  Belly-crawling a good fifty feet away before the explosion, he gets flat to the ground and digs his face into the dirt before it goes off. The concussion is like a blow against his whole body, and he feels his ribs burn like he is on fire.

  But I’m alive, he thinks.

  And I shouldn’t be.

  He stays flat to the ground for a couple of minutes. For one thing, he needs to catch his breath. For another thing, Jimmy might be coming down for a kill shot. And he knows the firemen and cops will be all over this place, if they’re not up there already.

  When he catches his breath, he grabs his left shoulder and pops it back into place, biting his arm to suppress his scream. He lies back down and gasps for air.

  And it’s a good thing it’s raining, or the fire might spread faster than Frank can crawl away from it. As it is, the flames are just burning gas and air and not catching on the wet grass or the sodden trees.

  Frank starts to crawl away, along the canyon bottom. He figures he needs to get a good quarter of a mile from the accident, and he knows what he’s looking for—a place to hole up until dark.

  It takes him a half hour to find it—a crevice under a rock on the facing canyon wall. A thick mesquite bush hides the entrance, and the overhanging rock will give him some shelter against the wind and rain. He crawls in. There’s just room enough in there for him to pull himself, painfully, into a fetal position.

  Looking farther down in the canyon, he can see the firemen spraying the car with a heavy blast. They’ll be looking for a body, Frank thinks, and they won’t find one. But the cops will track the rented car back to Jerry Sabellico, so that cover is blown.

  And his whole survival kit is in the car—his clothes, his weapons, his money.

  Everything.

  So this is what it comes to, Frank thinks as he tries to work his way into a more comfortable position: shivering in a cave, in pain, everything gone, waiting for night.