“This is a quid pro quo,” the guy says. “Tell your people they cannot expect the quid unless they deliver the quo.”
Whatever the fuckthat means, Jimmy thinks. Not only does he not know what the guy is talking about; he doesn’t even know who he’s talkingto. He just has a phone number, and he’s supposed to talk to whoever’s on the other end.
This very unhappy guy with his quids and quos.
“We’ll deliver,” Jimmy says, settling for that. He doesn’t want to get into it, and besides, Paulie is starting to bleed all over the place.
Jimmy has such a headache when he hangs up, he almost wishes Frankie M. had blown his brains out.
Well, you should have, Jimmy thinks.
You fucked up, Frankie M.
Let’s hope it’s the first of many.
Because I ain’t stoppin’ and I don’t think I “owe you one” either. Nobody fucking asked you for quarter, and nobody’s going to give it, either.
Not with whatyou know, old man.
46
Dave Hansen walks into the room at the EZ Rest Motel.
The local cops are all over the place, going nuts, because this is athrill. The run-of-the-mill shootings in this part of the country usually involve drunkmojados on a Saturday night or white-trash tweekers any old time of the week, so a shoot-out in a motel is a big deal.
Dave examines the bullet mark on the door frame.
Unlike Frank to miss a shot.
He turns around and looks at the Agricorp sign. That’s pure Frank. Good shooting angle down, no shooting angle back up. Dave walks into the bathroom and sees the “Did you think you were playing with children?” note.
No, Frank, I didn’t. I should have known you’d suss out the GPS. I should have known you were smarter than that. Tired, worn down, on the run, you’d still keep your head.
Young Troy asks, “What happened?”
“What happened,” Dave says irritably, “is that he’s Frankie Machine.”
But, to be honest, it’s a good goddamn question.
What the hell did happen here?
Who came to hit Frank before we got here?
And how did they know where he was?
47
Frank drives across the desert.
He’s always liked the desert at night. Even in winter, it has a soft feel to it.
Speaking of soft, Frank thinks, that’s whatyou’re getting. You should have killed themall, left a bloodbath back there that would make any guy in the business reluctant to take the contract on you.
Especially the crew chief, the one who was the spitting image of old Tony Jacks.
No, notTony Jacks, his younger brother.
What’s his name?
Billy.
Was thatBilly’s kid?
Frank vaguely remembers something about Billy’s kid doing a stint for something. What was it? Extortion, maybe? The kid was precocious, had his own crew…with some stupid tag…
“The Wrecking Crew,” that was it. Worked out of an auto-salvage place and were chopping cars. The kid had a rep, even in the joint.
And now it’s making more sense.
The Combination sent Vince out to clip me. Vince was cautious and used cutouts, getting Teddy Migliore to send John Heaney to Mouse Junior to set me up.
Makes sense, makes sense.
The Migliores answer to the Combination.
They kick up from their sex businesses.
Porn, prostitution, strip clubs.
Okay, fine, but I’ve never had anything to do with any of those.
Be honest, he tells himself.
What about that night at Solana Beach?
And the Strip Club Wars.
48
The damn thing was, the strip club business had started as a limo business.
It was back in ’85.
Vegas had collapsed, and Mike and Frank were pretty much alone down in San Diego, unless you counted the Detroit guys, which Frank didn’t. The Migliores always did their own business, and they always seemed to do it without getting busted.
Frank didn’t care anyway. He was out of it by then.
Three-plus years of relative peace and quiet, and life was good. He had his home, his wife, his little fish business, and the limo service was booming in the easy-money eighties.
And then Patty got pregnant.
It was the most amazing thing. Back in the seventies, they had tried and tried, with no luck. Then, as their relationship deteriorated, they had stopped trying, then stopped making love altogether.
Then one night they went out to dinner. They had a little wine, had a little time together, and then they went home, fell into bed, andboom.
When Patty told him the news, he was over the moon.
So, coming into the summer of ’85, they were about to have a baby.
“You want to pick up a little easy money?” Mike asked him one day.
Frank did-the baby was due in a couple of weeks and a little extra cash sounded good.
“What’s the job?” he asked.
The job was that this banker was having a weekend-long party for a bunch of business associates. All they had to do, Mike told him, was drive a couple of cars, provide security at the party.
“Sounds good,” Frank said.
“There’s one little thing,” Mike said.
Of course, Frank thought. There’s always one little thing. “What?”
“The guy putting this party together?”
“Yeah?”
“Donnie Garth.”
“I’m out,” Frank said.
“Come on,” Mike said.
“Is thisyou talking?” Frank asked. “Mr. ‘There’s Nothing I Hate More Than a Rat’ Pella? Garth’s the biggest rat there ever was. I’m amazed he’s still on top of the dirt.”
“He’s connected, Frankie,” Mike said. “Bigger than you and I can conceive of.”
“I’ve done enough work for Donnie Garth,” Frank said. “Pass.”
“They asked for you personally, Frank.”
“Who did?”
“Old man Migliore,” Mike said. “And the guy from New Orleans.”
“Marcello?” Frank asked. “I don’t have anything to do with Marcello.”
“Yeah, but Garth does,” Mike told him. “He’s president of an S and L, and the guy from New Orleans has an interest. So do the Migliores.”
So that’s how Donnie Garth has kept breathing, Frank thought. He bought his way out. He paid for his pass.
“What do I have to do?” Frank sighed.
“Just drive,” Mike said. “Hang around the party, make sure everything stays copacetic. I’m telling you, it’s a straight job.”
Yeah, Frank thought, a straight job.
The “straight job” started with him driving one of the S amp;L officers to a bank in Rancho Santa Fe, where the guy took out fifty thousand in cash and then told Frank to drive him to Price Club.
Price Club? Frank wondered. What are you going to buy with fifty K at Price Club?
Women.
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; theytook it. And that Saunders wasn’t a pimp, but a procurer. Anyway, he took the guy down to the harbor, where Garth owned a 120-foot yacht, and dropped him off.
“Pick up the girls at eight,” Saunders said as he got out of the car. He gave Frank an address in Del Mar.
Patty would have had a fit, Frank thinks now, if she had seen the next part of the “straight job” you were working, swinging by a brothel to pick up a carful of the most gorgeous working girls you’ve ever seen.