Hopefully.
The more serious issue is who would send John Heaney to set me up, and why?
Frank makes himself concentrate on more immediate concerns.
Like the fact that Joey Fiella and Rocco Meli are trying to chase him down.
Or not, as the case may be. Joey and Rocco are definitely chasing him, but the last thing they probably want is actually tocatch him. If they catch him, they’ll have to do something about it, which is probably get themselves killed, and they know it.
Still and all, Frank thinks, I can’t just let them follow me forever. A bright yellow Hummer stands out like a bright yellow Hummer, and if these bozos have any brains-and he concedes them a certain feral cunning-they’ll know he’d have left a work car somewhere near Mouse Junior’s girlfriend’s place.
So what he needs is a little space.
He puts his foot down on the pedal and guns it, racing toward the 101. It’s a lot faster than he usually likes to go, especially in an awkward car he’s not used to driving.
But he needs to create a little space.
He stomps on the gas.
19
Joey Fiella cranks the car onto the on-ramp of the 101 South and hopes his Mustang can handle the curve.
It does.
Junior’s Hummer didn’t.
Its left front fender is crumpled against a light pole and smoke is coming up from the engine.
“Junior’s going to be pissed,” Rocco says.
“Fuck him,” Joey says.
He pulls the car off on the shoulder behind the Hummer.
“This is a piece of luck,” Rocco says.
Yeah, but which kind? Joey thinks as he grabs his pistol and opens the door. Rocco does the same, and they approach the Hummer from both sides, guns pointed, like cops on a sketchy traffic stop.
Fuck Junior and his tinted windows, Joey thinks as he gets to the driver’s door, because he can’t see inside and can only hope that Frankie Machine is slumped against the steering wheel with his melon cracked in half.
He decides not to take any chances. Frankie could be playing possum in there, and besides, another car could be coming up the ramp any second. So Joey Fiella just starts shooting. Rocco catches the panic bug and does the same thing, and the two of them empty their guns into the front windows.
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.
20
Idiots, Frank thinks.
These are what pass for soldiers these days.
Mouse Senior was right: Heis the boss of shit, if these clowns are the best he can send out now. Back in the day, it would have been guys like Bap, Jimmy Forliano, Chris Panno, Mike Pella, and, well, me.
Now it’s Rocco and Joey.
Frank could have gunned them down where they stood, easily, but what would have been the point? You’re younger, maybe you kill them because your blood is up and you have this macho thing, but at his age, you know that the less killing, the better.
Besides, he didn’t want to create any more vendettas than he already had.
And apparently, he thinks, I have one I don’t even know about.
John Heaney? Frank thinks as he drives the Mustang back toward Dolphin Girl’s condo to pick up his own car. What did I ever do to John?
21
John Heaney goes out for a cigarette break. Out by the Dumpster in back of Hunnybear’s.
It’s been a bitch of a night; the place is jammed with both the usual pack of locals and a swarm of tourists-some convention in from Omaha. Anyway, the girls are making money and the bar register’s ringing like a twenty-alarm fire.
John takes the pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket and his lighter from his pants pocket, lights up, and leans back against the Dumpster. Suddenly, he’s choking as an arm comes across his throat and he feels himself being lifted off his feet.
Just an inch or so, but it’s enough. He can’t breathe and he can’t get traction to move.
“I thought we were friends, John,” he hears Frank Machianno say.
Frankie Machine is standing in the Dumpster, calf-deep in garbage, his strong left forearm locked across Heaney’s neck.
“Oh shit,” John says.
“Mouse Junior gave you up,” Frank says. “What was it, John? Did I give you a delivery of bad tuna, or what?”
“Oh shit,” John repeats.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Frank says.
The club’s back door opens and a wedge of yellow light spills out into the back. John feels himself being jerked up like a fish into a boat, and then he’s lying in garbage, Frank’s heavy body on top of him.
And a gun barrel pressed against his left temple.
“Go ahead and yell,” Frank whispers.
John shakes his head.
“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.”
“I didn’t want to, Frank,” John whines. “They said they could help me.”
“Who, Johnny? Who came to you?”
“Teddy Migliore.”
Teddy Migliore, Frank thinks. Owner of Callahan’s and scion of the Combination. It’s not good news.
“Help you with what?”
“I’ve been indicted, Frank.”
“Indicted?”
“On this G-Sting shit,” John says. “I was the bagman. I brought cash to a cop. He was undercover.”
John blurts out the rest of the story. He was being squeezed from both sides, the feds offering him a deal to flip, the wise guys threatening to whack him to keep him from talking.
“I was totally fucked, Frank.”
Then Teddy Migliore offered him a way out: If John went to Mouse Junior and made him a deal, he could walk. The mob wouldn’t clip him and they’d get him off the indictment, or at least get him a pardon.
“And youbelieved this crap?” Frank asks him, knowing it’s a useless question. A condemned man will believe anything that will give him even a little hope.
He cocks the hammer of the pistol and feels John flinch underneath him.
“Don’t, Frank, please,” John says. “I’m sorry.”
Frank eases the hammer back down; then John’s body lurches into sobs.
“I’m going to leave now, Johnny,” Frank whispers. “You lie here for five minutes before you get out. If you feel bad about what you did to me, you’ll wait an hour before you call Teddy. If you don’t, well, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Frank climbs out of the Dumpster and brushes the garbage off. It’ll be good to get someplace where he can take a shower and get a change of clothes, but right now he has something else to do.
He walks to his car and opens the trunk.
22
Frank stands across the street from Callahan’s, waiting for it to close.
It’s a long, cold wait at two in the morning.
Finally, the trendy young crowd starts to pour out and, a few minutes later, the bouncer goes to lock the door.
That’s when Frank steps in.
The bouncer takes a swing at him.
Frank ducks underneath the punch, pulls the softball bat from under his coat and Tony Gwynns the bouncer’s shin bones. The resultingcrack, and the bouncer toppling to the sidewalk, gets some attention from the after-hours crowd inside the bar.
One of the boys rushes Frank.
Frank butts him in the solar plexus with the blunt end of the bat, then swings the handle up in an arc and catches the man under the chin. He takes a step back to let the guy fall, then sees the next man reach in his jacket into shoulder-holster territory. Frank swings the bat and breaks the guy’s wrist against the gun butt.