More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
La Bohème.
“You’re sixty-two years old, Frank,” she tells him. “You have to watch your cholesterol.” “No, they found that wasn’t true about the eggs,” he says. “They got a bum rap.”
Those were the endless summers. Each day seemed to last forever, Frank thinks as he watches a wave roll in and smack the pier. You’d get up before dawn, just like now, and work hard all day on the old man’s tuna boat. But you’d get back by the middle of the afternoon; then it was off to meet your buddies at the beach. You’d surf until dark, laughing and talking shit out there in the lineup, goofing on one another, showing off for the bunnies watching you from the beach. Those were the longboard days, plenty of time and plenty of space. Days of “hanging ten” and “ho-dadding” and those fat Dick
...more
You and your buddies and the girls had that ritual, a common acknowledgment of—what, wonder? A few quiet, respectful moments watching the sun sink over the horizon, the water glowing orange, pink, and red, and you’d think to yourself how lucky you were. Even as a kid, you knew you were just damn lucky to be in that place at that time, and you were just wise enough to know that you’d better enjoy it.
the last sliver of red sun would slide over the edge, and you’d all gather firewood and build a bonfire and cook fish or hot dogs or hamburgers or whatever you could scare up, and you’d eat and sit around the fire and someone would pull out a guitar and sing “Sloop John B” or “Barbara Ann” or some old folk song, and later, if you were lucky, you’d slip away from the firelight with a blanket and one of the girls and you’d make out, and the girl smelled of salt water and suntan lotion, and maybe she’d let you slide your hand under her bikini top, and there was nothing like that feeling. And you
...more
Once a politician is on the hook, he’s hooked for good. The mob guys know it. They know that you bribe a politician only once. After that, you blackmail him.
He has tried—without conspicuous success—to explain this simple management technique to the kid Abe. “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?”
“Momo, no!” Frank yelled. Momo said, “She came for him.” He shot her. “Christ!” Frank screamed as Marie’s body twirled and then corkscrewed to the floor. He wanted to lunge and take the gun away, but he was too scared, and then Momo took a step away from him, put the gun to his own head, and said, “I loved her, Frankie.” Frank looked at those sad hound eyes for a second; then Momo pulled the trigger. His blood spattered all over Kennedy’s smiling face. Funny thing, Frank thinks now, that’s what I remember more than anything—that blood on John Kennedy. Later, when Kennedy was killed, it didn’t
...more
Bap, in the hallway, pulling his pants on. He married Marie six months later. After that, no one ever whispered a word about what happened that night at Momo’s with DeSanto. Frank sure as hell didn’t.
Not a message from me, from me personally. Will you do that?” There’s a silence as she takes all this in; then she simply says, “Yes.” “Good. Thank you. I love you.” “I love you, too,” she says. “Will I see you again?” “Absolutely.” Now they’ve got me saying it, he thinks.
The window glass shatters. Joey blinks. Frankie ain’t in there. And his own Mustang is pulling onto the highway, with Frankie behind the wheel. This isn’t good, Joey thinks. It isn’t going to be any fun explaining to Pete how he shot Junior’s Hummer to shit and got his own car stolen. And let Frankie Machine get away.
“Good decision,” Frank says. “Now make it two in a row—tell me who sent you to Mouse Junior.” “Nobody,” John whispers. “John, you’re a mediocre cook and a night manager at a titty joint,” Frank says. “You don’t have the swag to order a hit. And the next lie you tell me, I swear, I’ll pop you and leave your body here in the garbage, where it belongs.”
Frank never would have found out about it except that he saw one of the checks on the office desk one night. “I’m giving money to Nixon?” he asked Mike. “We all are.” “I’m a Democrat,” Frank said. “Not this year, you ain’t,” Mike said. “What, you want Bobby fucking Kennedy in the White House? Guy’s got a hard-on for us you could cut glass with. Besides, it ain’t really your money, is it? So relax.”
Then he’d walk back to his condo and stay there until he went jogging again in the morning. “This is one dull motherfucker,” Mike said. “He don’t go out to no clubs, no bars, don’t pick up no broads. What, the guy just sits in there jacking himself off every night? Biggest excitement in this guy’s life is ‘Pizza Night.’”
Mike grinned. “You’re a machine,” he said. “‘Frankie Machine.’” “Wasn’t that the name of a guy that Sinatra played in the movies?” Frank asked. “The Man with the Golden Arm,” Mike said. “He was a junkie.” “Great.” “But you,” Mike said, “you’re the man with the golden hand. Frankie Machine.” The name stuck.
Another Secret Service agent directed him where to park. He did, then got out to open the doors for Fitzsimmons and his boys and saw the president of the United States walking down to meet them. Frank, even with the twenty-something cynicism that was part and parcel of the seventies, had to admit he felt a little awed, maybe even intimidated. This was the president of the United States, the commander in chief, and the former Marine in Frank made him straighten his posture a little bit, and he had to fight the impulse
salute.
“It’s not boss,” Bap said. “It’s not all I wanted, but it’s a significant honor. It’s an acknowledgment, you know what I mean?” Frank wanted to cry. Maybe that was all the man had ever wanted: an attaboy, a pat on the back. Not a lot to ask. But Frank knew what it really was. It was poison wrapped in candy, a sleeping pill to lull Bap into a feeling of security. It was a death sentence. Frank almost told him. But he choked the words back.
“Look, I’ll do it, that makes you feel better,” Mike said. “You drive this time.” “No,” Frank said. “I’ll do it.” He went home that afternoon, turned on the television, and watched Nixon walk to a helicopter, then stand there and wave.
“Run.” That’s what The Nickel has to say when he gets Frank’s call. Just the single word, Run, before he sets the receiver down. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Do not come by the office or anywhere near it. Just run. “Run?” Dave Hansen asks. He’s sitting across the desk from Sherm Simon. “Japanese movie,” Simon answers. “Kurosawa. If you haven’t seen it, you should.” “That was Ran.” “Ran, Run, what’s the difference?” “A big difference,” Dave says, “if that was Frank Machianno on the phone.” “Frank who?” “Don’t play games with me.”
Maybe yes, maybe no. Frankie M. had come right into their driveway, for Chrissakes, and they let him skate. Way he heard it, Frankie had shot up the kid’s Hummer and stolen Joey Fiella’s car in the process. Too fucking funny. But the Mouseketeers had come through with the arsenal he’d requested, so his crew was strapped and ready to rock and roll, Motor City–style. Eight Mile–style. Jimmy starts to sing: “You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow This opportunity comes once in a lifetime, yo…”
It’s been years since there’s been a big desert bloom, the valley floor carpeted with a panoply (puzzle word) of wildflowers. Frank’s always found it moving, a miracle, when the sere desert becomes a sea of color and blooms with life. It’s an affirmation of life, Frank thinks. It’s proof that redemption is possible, when flowers blossom from the desert. I hope I get to see it.
Carmine was Chicago’s man in Las Vegas, supervising the very profitable skim that Garth wanted to mess with. So Carmine politely accepted the iced tea that Garth offered, waited while the butler went and got it, drank a few social sips, then pointed to Frank and said, “Take a good luck at this man. Do you know why they call him ‘The Machine’?” “No.” “Because he’s automatic,” Carmine said. “He never misses. And if you continue to be an obstacle to the smooth running of my hotel, I’m going to send The Machine to see you. You’ll never see him, because you’ll be dead. Do we have an understanding?”
Frank listened while they negotiated a settlement of $250,000. Bap was right, Frank thought. Biancofiore believed it because he wanted to believe it. It fed his ego and solved his financial problems. What was it Bap had said? “When you want to catch a fish, you gotta give it the bait it’s hungry for.”
“Why can’t you be with your wife the way you are with your girlfriends?” “Different breed, my friend,” Sherm said. “Different species entirely.” “Maybe we should marry the girlfriends.” “I tried it,” Sherm says. “Twice.” “And?” “And they turn into wives,” Sherm said. “It starts to happen when they’re planning the wedding, this metamorphosis from sex kitten to house cat. It doesn’t work. You don’t believe me, ask my lawyer.” “You are a lawyer.” “Ask my divorce lawyer,” Sherm said. “Tell him I sent you—he has a boat named after me.”
Jay Voorhees was the security chief at the Paladin, in charge of making sure that the casino wasn’t being skimmed, so in the interest of efficiency, he was also in charge of the skim. He was good at it, the Harry Houdini of the counting room, the way he could make coins and bills escape from lockboxes.
And there were a lot of footsteps. Frank followed Voorhees from Mexico City to Guadalajara, then across to Mazatlán and Cozumel, then to Puerto Vallarta and all the way down the tip of Baja to Cabo.
“I still have most of them,” Voorhees said. “I mean, I think I have enough.” Frank thought it over for a few seconds. “I’ll have to stay with you,” he said. “That would be okay.” Voorhees got out of the chair and Frank followed him into the little shack. Frank went into a canvas bag that had once been Voorhees’s carry-on and now contained all his earthly goods. He took out a vial of pills—Valium, ten-milligram dosage—and a bottle of vodka, about two-thirds full. They went back outside. Frank sat down on the sand. Voorhees sat back down in the chair, shook a handful of pills into his hand, and
...more
Frank went home from that job to find that Patty had changed the locks on the doors. Tired, angry, and sad, he kicked the front door in. Called a locksmith buddy at two in the morning to put new locks in, then went upstairs, got into the shower, sat down under the steaming water, and cried.
How many people, Frank asked himself, have to die so the beautiful people can stay beautiful? Question for the ages.
“He didn’t get to be Frankie Machine by being stupid.” “He got away,” Carlo says. “Now he’s got money, he’s got an open road. We don’t know where the fuck he is; he could be anywhere.” “Chill,” Jimmy says. “One fucking phone call, I’ll know right where he is.” Carlo looks at him, impressed and skeptical at the same time. “Who you gonna call?” “Ghostbusters.”
“‘Ladies and gentlemen,’” Jimmy intones in his best Michael Buffer imitation, “‘for the thousands in attendance and the millions watching around the world…let’s get ready to rumble!’ The Brawl in Brawley!”
Jimmy walks up the stairs to the second floor of the motel. He isn’t doing any comedy bits now; he’s mainlining adrenaline, his asshole gripped tighter than a white-collar con at his first day in the showers.
And sees a note—duct-taped on the shower wall with the little GPS monitor. Jimmy grabs the note and reads: “Did you think you were playing with children?” Jimmy hits the deck. He belly-crawls out of the bathroom and back toward the front door. Carlo is already down, sitting propped against the wall with his hand pressed against a wound in his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers, his other hand limply holding his gun.
Frank can see it in the kid’s eyes. He’s thinking. Thinking men are dangerous. So take him out, Frank thinks. You can’t afford to have this guy on your tail. He resettles his aim and squeezes the trigger. 45 The bullet smacks the wood a half inch above Jimmy the Kid’s head. His whole body quivers and then he fights for control of himself and wins. A dumber guy would have thought that Frankie Machine had missed, but Jimmy is smarter than that. Frankie Machine doesn’t miss. Frankie was sending a peace message: I could have killed you if I wanted, but I didn’t.
They met the madam in the parking lot. What was her name? Frank wonders now. Karen, that was it. She drove up in a Mercedes 500 convertible, and the bank officer leaned out the window of the limo to give her the cash. When they were driving away, the guy said, “I have an M.B.A. in finance from Wharton, and this is what I’ve become—a pimp.” What was that guy’s name? Frank asks himself now. Sanders—no, Saunders—John Saunders, another WASP who was shocked and appalled that his hands got dirty. Frank didn’t bother to tell him that pimps didn’t pay money; they took it. And that Saunders wasn’t a
...more
But inhibitions went south when the coke came out. Piles of it, served up by John Saunders, like he was a waiter. Pimp and waiter, Frank thinks now, that’s the career an M.B.A. got you in the coked-up, easy-money eighties. The straight businessmen and the pols and the hookers were snorting it up with one-hundred-dollar bills, more than one of which Frank saw fly off unnoticed into the night breeze. The coke turned the party into a floating orgy, a maritime bacchanalia. Caligula meets Captains Courageous.
a bunch of congressmen were treating junior with some deference, even letting him cut in on the line to blow some coke. Frank and Mike were watching this action when Mike started to sing: “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…” And Frank joined in with him on the chorus: “It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no senator’s son, son.”
Garth and the other S&L guys would get themselves savings and loan operations, make unsecured loans to themselves and their partners through shell corporations, then default on the loans and drain their S&Ls of all their assets. Garth took his own Hammond Savings and Loan down for a billion and a half bones. Identical in shape to your classic Mafia bust-out, Frank thinks now, except we only managed to do it with restaurants and bars, maybe the occasional hotel. These guys busted out the whole country to the tune of $37 billion and Congress hit up the working guy to pay for it.
Frank will never forget the first time he saw Big Mac McManus. Hell, nobody ever forgets the first time they saw Mac. A six-foot-six, 250-pound black man with a shaved head and a cut body comes walking into the place, wearing a tailored leopard-skin dashiki and carrying a diamond-studded walking stick, you tend to remember the moment.
He cleaned up the blood and broken glass, and was more than normally alert when he went out in the parking lot to start making his pickups. When he got back with his first customer, Mike was waiting for him, laughing. “Don’t you ever fucking lecture me about my temper again.” “The blood came out of the carpet okay.” Mike looked at Frank, then grabbed him by the cheeks and said, “I love you. I just fucking love you, all right?” He turned to the whole bar. “I just love this fucking guy!”
“He kicked Georgie one last time in the head,” Myrna said, “and Georgie’s neck kind of snapped back and then the guy with the bandages came over and said—” She broke down again. “What did he say, Myrna?” Frank asked. “He said…tell you…” She took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes. “It was supposed to be you, Frank.”
When they got to Tara, there was no guard at the gate and it was open. “What do you think?” Mike asked. “I think they’re waiting for us inside,” Frank said. “I think we drive in and they ventilate the car.” “Sonny.” “What?” “Sonny Corleone,” Mike said. “You guys ever watch anything else?” “You guys?”
“Nice,” Patty said. “Now you want to bring your wife and daughter to an orgy.” She had a point there, Frank had to admit. Although he never took part in the sexual escapades. Mostly, he and Mac would repair to the dojo and work out. Mac taught him martial arts, taught him, in fact, the move that would save his life on the boat almost twenty years later. They’d work out hard—hitting and kicking the bag, then doing some sparring, then hitting the weight bench, where they’d spot for each other. Then they’d go and sip fruit juice and talk about life, business, music, philosophy. Mac taught Frank
...more
Frank finished the Gianni Schicchi aria and switched to “Nessun dorma.” Ran the blade down one bar, then the other. One bar, then the other. He tested the blade again, nodded his satisfaction, and carefully stored the bars back in their case. He got up from his stool, laid the blade against the skin on Henkel’s chest, and said, “Harold, you have a decision to make—prison for life, maybe a lethal injection, or I skin you.” Henkel moaned. “I’m going to ask you once,” Frank said. “Harold, where’s the girl?” Henkel gave it up.
Frank and Dave never spoke about it, except for one time, during the first Gentlemen’s Hour after Carly Mack had been found alive. “I owe you one” was all Dave had said. Nothing about Frankie Machine, or what he knew about Frank’s other life, nothing about how Frank had gotten Henkel to give it up.
“Very sketchy, surfing in a rainstorm,” Frank says. “God only knows what toxic crap is pouring out of the storm drains. You’re just begging for hepatitis.” “You have the right to remain—” “You’re not arresting me, Dave.” “Why not?” “Because you owe me one.” It’s the truth, and Dave knows it. “Let’s prove everyone wrong,” he says, “and get in out of the rain.”
“All I can figure is that this has something to do with something Mike Pella and I might have done back in the day,” Frank says. “I’ve been out of the loop for a long time now. I don’t know what’s what. I have to know if Mike’s dead. Or, if he’s alive, where the hell he is. I thought you might know something about that.” “I can’t do that, Frank.” Frank looks at him for a second, then opens the door to get out. “Shut the door, Frank.” Frank shuts it.
Her body stiffens and she’s looking over his shoulder. It’s her father, Danny thinks. Six-foot-six Mormon who shoes horses for a living. Danny’s body stiffens. He looks back over his shoulder. Bigfoot is in the window.
“Are you the triple A guys?” Danny asks. “What kind of car?” “A ’96 Celica,” Danny says. “Silver.” Jimmy the Kid roars off. “We’re going to have to call my dad,” Shelly says.
