The Winter of Frankie Machine

by Don Winslow

he loves it for its flaws, its old chips and scars—“badges of honor,” he calls them, from years and years of faithful service.

Quality of life is about the little things—doing them well, doing them right.

Life’s like a fat orange, Frank thinks. When you’re young, you squeeze it hard and fast, trying to get all the juice in a hurry. When you’re older, you squeeze it slowly, savoring every drop. Because, one, you don’t know how many drops you have left, and, two, the last drops are the sweetest.

“Waves are like bellies,” Frank says. “They grow with time.”

“If you have a routine,” he has lectured, “you can always deviate from it if something comes up. But if you don’t have a routine, then everything is stuff that comes up. Get it?” “Got it.”

“Sorries are for yesterday,” Frank says. “All God gives us is today, sweetie. And you’re a wonderful daughter and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

It’s a matter of will, turning off the paranoia, thinking rationally, and knowing that you’re safe here. An amateur would lie awake all night, starting at every noise, making up sounds when there aren’t any. He’s hunted enough guys to know that their own heads can be their worst enemies. They start seeing things that aren’t there, then, worse, not seeing things that are. They worry and worry, and chew on their own insides, until, when you do track them down, they’re almost grateful. By this time, they’ve been killed so many times in their minds that the real thing is a relief.