by Andrew Post
“Francis,” a young male voice said, “can we talk a minute?”
Frank faced his boss, floppy hair in his eyes and a lip ring that’d click against his soda-stained teeth whenever he issued an F- or M-sound from his dopey face.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“You punched in late this morning. You were on for ten, not ten-oh-three.”
“You’re going to write me up for three minutes, Jeremy?”
“It’s Mister Ward, Francis.”
“Frank. It’s right here on my nametag.” Every time the automatic doors whooshed open and someone entered out of the blazing heat and into the store, backlit by the sun, Frank held his breath – this time, just a young hippie couple padding in on Birkenstocks and matching dreadlocks.
“Want another one for insubordination?” Jeremy said.
Frank sighed. “No, Jeremy, I don’t.”
“Look, bro. I know this is uncomfortable for you. It’s weird for me too. You’re as old as my grandfather but I’m still your manager, bro, so treat me with some respect, cool?”
“Grandfather? How old do you think I am?”
“It doesn’t matter. Just buckle down and fly straight, dude. This isn’t coming entirely from me. It’s my boss who’s pushing me to keep an eye on you dudes we get through the release program. I gotta do it. I’ll let the insubordination thing go, but you can’t be late anymore, man. Work with me here.”
The automatic doors whooshed apart and all three hundred pounds of Robbie Pescatelli strode in wearing penny loafers, crisp-pressed black slacks, and a floral-print Hawaiian shirt. He paused in the entryway of the store, ignored the peon trying to shove a coupon book at him, and lifted his aviator sunglasses to scan his surroundings. His heavy face and dark-ringed eyes latched on to Frank and a smile grew, spreading his heavy bulldog jowls wide.
Jeremy was saying, “Because, dude, even if you are like a hundred years old, I still think you can do this job. They probably had you working your ass off in the pen pressing license plates or whatever so I know you can work hard, so, for my sake—”
Robbie stepped up between Frank and Jeremy, a cloud of Brut and menthols catching up after his heavy steps. “Hey, kid. I gotta talk to my pal here so why don’t you go get a haircut or something? Looks like you could use one.”
Jeremy sneered. “Frank, is this guy a friend of yours? Because you can talk to your buddies on your break, not while you’re doing restock.”
Robbie swung his prominent gut, swelling his shirt out – much like his niece’s had yesterday morning – and aimed it toward Jeremy. “Piss off, kid. Run along and count your pubes or something. Tell you what, if you come back and tell me you got more than two, there’s a shiny nickel in it for you.”
Jeremy backed away, turned, and ran the length of the store, back to the safety of his tiny manager’s office.
Frank felt sweat run out of his armpits and down his sides, two lines racing each other for his belt. “Hey, Robbie, uh, what brings you in?”
“I like that all-natural coconut milk.”
“I can’t tell if you’re kidding, Robbie.”
“I am. When’s the last time you saw tits on a coconut? I’m here to talk to you,” Robbie said. “See, my niece stopped by the house last night and told me she came and paid you a visit and you done a real good thing.” He clapped Frank on the shoulder, his hand heavy and hot. “I wanted to come down in person and thank you.”
“How’d you know I work here?” Frank said. A quick peek over his shoulder and Frank saw every employee had stopped to stare. “And could we maybe talk about this some other time?”
“My niece said she saw this embarrassing thing they make you wear, hanging in your house,” Robbie said, giving Frank’s apron string a flick. “I tried calling you but you didn’t answer.”
“They make us keep our phones in our lockers.”
“Ah, well, anyways, about that thing Simone said you did…I want you to keep doing it, every chance you get, understand?”
“I didn’t want to do it. But Simone made it sound like it’d be a one-time thing. She said she has a wedding to go to and.…” Frank trailed off, unsure what to say. Especially with all of his coworkers listening just a few yards away. Muzak played from speakers above and Frank hoped it drowned out most of what was being said. Subjecting himself to a lungful of Brut, Frank leaned in close to Robbie and said, “She paid me five thousand for it.”
“She should’ve paid you more than that,” Robbie said, “and that’s why I’m here. Keep up, Frank. You offed that little shit and when she told me, I was over the moon about it. Here I was, thinking you only had the balls for patching up us fellas, not doing in Slavs too.”
Frank’s mind ground gears. “Hold on, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing here.”
Robbie looked around them. “Can you take a coffee break or something? All these kids you work with staring at us is giving me the heebies. Fucking Village of the Damned over here.”
Frank untied his apron and followed Big Robbie out into the wall of heat that rushed in to assault them as the automatic doors parted.
“I’m over here,” Robbie said.
His Jaguar sat glimmering like a wet stone off on its own, parked diagonally across four spots.
Frank, as he followed Robbie’s labored breaths, glanced around to make sure the two undertakers in their rust-eaten hearse were gone. They were.
“Get in.”
Frank let the Jaguar’s leather seat hug him. Robbie, on his side, had some difficulty wedging himself back in behind the wheel. After pulling the door shut, he sat staring out the windshield a moment as hippies came and got their Fourth of July tofu and bundles of organic leeks. Realizing they were being observed, the couple with the matching multicolored dreadlocks, in unison, presented two fingers toward Robbie and Frank in the Jaguar. Frank, in return, lifted only one finger.
“Is there gonna be another Woodstock or something? What planet is this?”
“It’s an organic grocery store,” Frank said. “So, what exactly did Simone say I did for her?”
“She said one of the Petrosky boys came in all shot up, at your place. That was Louie who done that to him, FYI. He’s a shit shot, I keep telling him, but he says he wants the work so I send him – anyway, evidently Vasily Petrosky ended up at your place, huh?”
Frank swallowed dryly. “He did.”
“And Simone says she was at your place too, hiding in your bedroom.”
“I told her to hide,” Frank said, adding, “nothing happened before that, I swear.”
“Except something did happen, Frank. You wanna tell me about that, huh? That little favor you did her? We’ll put the Vasily Petrosky discussion on pause a minute.”
“What did she say I did for her?”
“She says you gave her something for her back. This being with her knowing we got a pharmacist in the family. But she goes to an outside associate to get her pills? And I mean this ain’t none of your fault, you don’t know who’s a friend of ours and who ain’t. But I just wanna tell you something right now if I may: don’t give her no more pills, Frank. Get it? She needs something, she can come to me and I can send her to our guy. And if you gotta give her something, give her diet pills. She’s too young to be going to fat – she ain’t even married off yet.”
“Okay,” was all Frank could say, as his brain was too preoccupied trying to turn itself inside-out.
Robbie nodded. “Good, good. Glad to hear it. Real glad. Now, on to Vasily Petrosky. She says she was hiding in your bedroom when those two Slavs came busting up into your house demanding you help them. And you did, just to get Bryce outta the house and then you – and I still can’t believe you did this, it tickles me like nothing else – you go and ice Vasily before Bryce is even outta your driveway! I mean, Jesus Christ,” Robbie squealed with
delight, “I didn’t even know you owned a piece, Frank. And you blast him right in the head? You’re all right, Frankie, you are all fucking right.”
Frank put one hand on his knee to keep it from shaking. “I just did what I thought was right.”
“Well, you did more than what was right, Frankie, you did what was fricking awesome. I wanna put you on a retainer. You only see my boys from now on, okay? We can discuss terms since I know you gotta get back to work at this…place you work, but, hey, how’s tonight grab you? I can send a car for you, we can go get something nice to eat, sit down, somewhere private, throw some numbers back and forth?” Robbie elbowed Frank in the side. “Eh? I already told the other off-the-book sawboneses I got to go take a fucking hike because I got the only one I need right fucking here!”
“Tonight’s no good,” Frank said. “I’m busy tonight.” The Petroskys were coming over, again, to see if Vasily had turned up. He had to be there. If he was gone, then it would be obvious he had bolted.
Robbie wasn’t pleased. “I’m talking about giving you a hundred grand a month whether I need to send somebody your way or not, Frank. And you’re just gonna brush me off like that? What do you have going on that’s so goddamn important you can’t come have dinner with me and the boys, huh? A free meal at that.”
“I’m making dinner for my daughter,” Frank said. And he had to admit, given the half-second he had to come up with that, it wasn’t bad. “I only get to see her a couple times a month.”
“All right,” Robbie said, “I can respect that. Family comes first. We’ll arrange something.”
“Sounds good,” Frank said, a mote of relief drifting into the whirlpool of shit that was his life currently. “But, one small thing. About what you said earlier about you wanting me to ‘keep doing it’.…”
“Right,” Robbie said and snapped his thick fingers. “I said I want you to see my boys and only my boys but – but – I also want you to let the Petroskys in too. But just each time you do see one of them, do like you did before and ice them. They’ll never see it coming. I got a guy who can come and pick up the stiffs after you’re through. It’s like a fucking trap, you know. They walk right in, jabbering that Slav shit they talk, thinking they’s gonna get their boo-boo looked at and bam! Here comes Doctor Frankie the Badass, Doctor Bullets, Doctor motherfucking Murder, bringing that bad medicine down on them Ukrainian shitbags!”
Frank tried to make himself laugh, too, but it came out sounding like a hiccup. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“So what do you say, huh? You got it in you to blow away some more vodka-swilling commies for us? Gonna be a whole bunch of them coming your way soon if I got anything to say about it – if I don’t kill them outright. Well, the ones you do get will be ones Louie was told to take care of, let’s say that. I know how to shoot.”
“I think I’d prefer to make that…thing I did a one-time thing.”
“See, you say that, but it’s only because you work for yourself. I get it. You wanna be sovereign. You work at this hippie-dippie bullshit place as a cover, for the taxman, and it’s smart – nobody wants to go down like Capone because it’s fucking embarassing. But, I ain’t gonna make you turn away them poor folks you take care of. Keep seeing the blacks and hookers if it gives you the warm and fuzzies, but just set aside the Slavs into the ‘okay to bump off’ pile, get me?” Robbie filled the car with booming laughter. It wound down to a hee-hee-hee and he took a deep breath and sighed powerfully. “Shame it’s all gonna be over before long. Wars never last. Hits summer, when the conditions are right for both sides to give it their all and, foof, one nutty week and it’s over until the next generation’s old enough to start their own hubbub. Gonna miss it. This’ll probably be my last one.”
“How’d this one get started?” Frank said. From where he stood it all seemed pretty pointless. Shooting each other in parking garages and sneaking up on one another when they were at the mall with their families. Retaliation after retaliation with the inciting offense long forgotten by all.
“You gonna think we’re low as dogs, Frankie,” Robbie said, “that we’re kicking them while they’re down – and maybe we are – but the Petrosky patriarch kicked the bucket last week, leaving all those sons and cousins and nephews scrambling to see who’s gonna be the new top dog, top Siberian husky so to speak. Bryce is the oldest son, but he’s got no spine. Vasily was up for it, but he’s dead now, as you know. And Tasha, old Roman’s wife, well, she’s getting up there in years and word around the campfire is she’s got a head full of the Old Timers.”
Frank nodded, understanding. But the idea of gossip spreading, with news of one family’s activities and personal drama spreading to the other, scared him. “Nobody can talk about Vasily being dead, Robbie. I mean that. They think he’s missing.”
Robbie turned his large head to look over at Frank. “They don’t know he’s dead? I mean, I just figured you dumped him and they put two and two together.”
“I did dump him – and before you ask, I have people for that – but the Petroskys think Vasily walked out of my house on his own, wandered off in the night while I was sleeping. They’re looking for him and I think they suspect I did it.”
“That’d make sense since you did do it,” Robbie said. “Didn’t you? Don’t tell me Simone got her facts screwy. I swear if she’s killed somebody else and tried lying to say somebody else done it, I’ll wring that girl’s fucking neck.”
“She told you the truth. I did do it, I, uh, killed the shit out of him, absolutely, but…I don’t want them to know I did.” Why lie for her? She didn’t deserve protecting; she got you into this whole mess. But Frank thought he had a plan – and the sound of being put on a retainer, even if it meant with Pescatellis – did appeal to him. “Right now,” Frank continued, “nobody thinks anybody killed Vasily because they think he’s missing, wandering around the Twin Cities with his balls blown off. And to keep them thinking that, I can’t have you or any of your guys talking about how I did anything to anybody. Don’t brag me up. That’s all I’m asking.”
Plus, if he could convince the Petroskys Vasily did, in fact, wander off, maybe split town to start over or something, trying to use getting ball-shot to fake his own death or something, then maybe Tasha might make Bryce give back the money she originally offered Frank for his services. There was a way to win this. It just took staying a few steps ahead and being prepared for every unexpected turn. Frank Goode was confident he could turn this shitshow into a fortune, if he made every move perfectly. He could get paid twice for one job. And then maybe, finally, he could get ahead. He could maybe even stand a chance in court next month. Maybe Jessica could move in with him, stay at his place on weekends when she went to school. Maybe every birthday he missed being on call at the clinic could soon be erased.
“So what’re you saying to me here exactly, Frankie?” Robbie said, indignant. “You don’t think we can protect you, is that it? Because I got guys, guys for days, any of them will watch your back – even when you’re here, stacking pomegranates at this waste of a storefront, if you want.”
“I know you got guys. And I appreciate the offer. But for now, keep clear of my place. Don’t even be in my neighborhood. Don’t send anybody to watch out for me. Let me handle this.”
“You know, if your place is the last place they seen they boy, Frankie, you can bet your ass they ain’t gonna stop looking for him there. It’s like losing your keys: look the last place you saw them first. But, when you can’t find them, you might need to cut open the dog – since he was the only one home – to look for them in there, if you catch my meaning.”
“I know. But trust me when I say I have it all under control. I’ll be fine and no harm will come your way either, I swear.”
“So you’s got a plan.”
“I do. Let me handle it. I just need a few days.”
“All right. I’ll trust you – especially
since you’re clearly overflowing with surprises already. Anyways, Doctor Killer, I’m gonna let you get back. Say, me and the boys are still going out tonight if you wanna swing by after seeing your girl. We’ll be at Tony Russo’s Taste of Sicily in St. Paul. Know that joint?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Call me, Frankie. This could be real good for you.”
Frank got out and watched Robbie’s Jaguar scream from the lot and out of his life, for the time being. Returning inside the cool air of the organic grocer, Jeremy was standing where Frank had been arranging pears, scribbling something on his clipboard. Tearing it free, he pressed the slip of paper with a pathetic dollar amount printed on it to Frank’s chest.
“You’re done here, bro.”
* * *
Frank got in his car and sat there for a while, looking at the place where he worked up until three minutes ago, thinking about how he desperately needed a legitimate, on-the-books nine-to-five for tax time. So now, on top of everything else, he’d have to go job hunting. But updating his resume and suffering the question of: “So between this date and this date you were doing what exactly…?” would have to wait. He left the strip mall parking lot, taking note of the time – just past one in the afternoon – unsure of what time the Petroskys would be coming by. He had to come up with something to say to them, too. He got on the highway, westbound, but called Ted to make sure it’d be okay if he came by.
Frank parked on the curb and noticed Ted’s Buick was sharing the driveway with a second car, a 1984 Coupe de Ville, bronze, lifted on massive, ornate rims.