The Winter of Frankie Machine

by Don Winslow

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.

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.

Frank ducks underneath the punch, pulls the softball bat from under his coat and Tony Gwynns the bouncer’s shin bones.

Now, a lot of mobbed-up guys had the sobriquet “Fat.” Frank knew five of them personally. But none of them could play seesaw with Herbie Goldstein—

These girls were so coked up, it was a wonder they could ever stop dancing. Unless they hooked up with some sugar daddy, they were just caught in the spin cycle, until they were used-up coke freaks with more lines on their face than up their nose, and then they were out the door.