The only one who prospered from the deal was Mike Pella, who worked the Indian gambling thing and gave it serious legs. It was everything Mike had always wanted, a long-term, integrated scam in which he took from the front, the middle, and the back ends.
He would have been a very wealthy man if he hadn’t screwed up.
But we always do, Frank thinks now. That’s the trademark of the Mickey Mouse Mafia-we always find a way to screw up. Usually over something stupid. That was certainly the case with Mike, who was on easy street until he lost his temper and beat up a guy in a parking lot.
Before Mike slipped on the banana peel, he was raking in money from Indian gambling and never cut Frank in on a penny. Not that Frank expected it or even wanted it. What he expected was what he got-Mike saying, “I mean, after all, you never reallydid anything with Herbie, right?”
No, Mike, Frank thinks now-youdid.
The Martini RICO trial has been delayed again, ostensibly because the feds think they have new evidence to link the Martini brothers to Herbie’s killing.
But there are two guys left who could connect the Martinis with Herbie’s murder, Frank thinks.
Mike Pella.
And me.
Mike’s in the wind, and I haven’t been indicted.
But Mike thinks I’m cooperating with the feds, and that’s why he tried to have me whacked.
Because Mike killed Herbie.
Why didn’t I see it? Frank thinks as he rolls south on the 5. It was always Mike who was pushing for Herbie’s murder. He knew about the jewels, he knew about the money, and he was going to use the Goldstein windfall to bankroll starting his own family. Mike knew damn well when we went over to Herbie’s house that the fat man was already dead.
It was all an act.
Now the feds are back on it, Mike thinks I know the truth and that I’m giving him up. He’s cleaning up his tracks, and I’m one of them.
55
Mike Pella comes home from the bar, turns the living room light on, and finds Frank Machianno sitting in the La-Z-Boy with a silenced . 22 pointed at Mike’s chest.
“Hello, Mike.”
Mike doesn’t even think about running. This is Frankie Machine we’re talking about here. So Mike says, “You want a beer, Frankie?”
“No thanks.”
“You mind if I have one?”
“Anything comes out of that fridge but a Budweiser,” Frank says, “I’ll put two in your head.”
“It’ll be a Coors, if that’s okay,” Mike says, walking over to the refrigerator. “Lite. Man my age has to watch the carbs. You, too, Frankie, you ain’t no kid anymore, either.”
He gets his beer, pops the tab off with his thumb, and sits down on the sofa across from Frank. “You look good, though, Frankie. Must be all that fish you eat.”
“Why, Mike?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you flip?” Frank asks. “You, of all people.”
Mike smiles and takes a drink of his beer.
“I respected you,” Frank says. “I looked up to you. You taught me about this thing, about-”
“Things aren’t what they used to be,” Mike says. “Peoplearen’t what they used to be. Nobody’s loyal to anybody anymore. Things just aren’t that way. And you’re right-I’mnot the man I used to be. I’m sixty-five years old, for Chrissakes. I’m tired.”
Frank looks at him, and heis different. Funny, Frank thinks, how I see him the way he used to be, not like this. His hair is white and getting a little sparse. His neck is thin in his collar, and the skin is wrinkled. So are his hands, wrapped around the beer can. There are lines on his face that never used to be there. Do I look that old? Frank wonders. Am I kidding myself when I look in the mirror?
And look at this place. A used La-Z-Boy, a crappy sofa, a cheap coffee table, a TV set. A Mr. Coffee, a microwave, a refrigerator. And that’s it. Nothing made with love or care, nothing that looks lived in, no pictures of loved ones.
An empty place, an empty life.
God, is this my future?
“I don’t want to die in the joint, okay?” Mike is saying. “I want to sit down with a beer, fall asleep in my own chair watching a ball game with the Miss July foldout on my lap. I’m tired of all this Mafia crap, and that’s what it is, all crap. There’s no honor, no loyalty. Never has been. We were fucking fooling ourselves. We’re in our sixties now and the better part of our lives is over, so it’s about time we grew the fuck up, Frankie. I’m just tired of the whole thing and I don’t want no part of it no more. If you’re going to shoot me now, fine, shoot me. If not, God bless.”
“You killed Herbie,” Frank says.
“You got me,” Mike says.
“And you were afraid I knew and I’d rat you out on it,” Frank says, “and that would queer your immunity deal. So you put a contract out on me. I wasn’t going to do that, Mike. I’m not a rat. I’m not you. So if you’re worried I’m going to tell the feds-”
Mike laughs. There’s no joy in his laughter. No fun. It’s bitter, angry, cynical. “Frankie,” he says. “Who do I work for now?”
56
Dave Hansen sits at his desk, staring out the window at the buildings of downtown San Diego.
Rain pelts the window like little stones. Occasionally, a gust of wind brings the rain in sheets, striking the glass with a sound like a flock of birds flapping their wings, taking off as if something had startled them.
Most days, you can see the ocean from this window.
And the ridges of Tijuana, across the border.
Today, he can barely see across the street.
It’s all just fog and rain.
Tears for Frankie Machine.
57
“Why?” Frank asks.
“Why what?”
“Why do the feds want me dead?”
His head isscreaming. It’s crazy, what Mike’s telling me, that the feds told him to put a contract on me. It doesn’t make any sense the feds going to Mike, then Mike going to Detroit to get the job done. What’s in it for Detroit? What can Mike offer Vince Vena?
“Why ask why?” Mike says. “They didn’t tell mewhy, Frank. They just told mewhat. You’re right-they made me for Herbie, told me if I did them a favor, I could keep my immunity deal. The favor was you.”
“Who?”
“Who what?”
“Who reached out to you?” Franks asks. “Who’s running this thing?”
“They’d kill me if I told you that, Frank,” Mike says.
Frank gestures with the pistol barrel, like, I’ll kill you if youdon’t. But Mike smiles and shakes his head. “That ain’t you, Frankie. You don’t have it in you. Always your fucking problem.”
Mike drains his beer and gets up. “We got us a bitch of a situation here, though, don’t we? I don’t see any way out of it. You sure you don’t want a beer? I could sure as hell use another.”
He walks to the kitchen. “Hey, Frankie, you remember summer of ’72?”
“Yeah.”
“That was a good summer,” Mike says as he opens the refrigerator door. He smiles and starts singing:
“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…”
He reaches into the refrigerator, turns back, and points the. 38 at Frank.
Frank shoots him in the heart twice.
58
It was suicide.
Mike didn’t have the stones to pull the trigger on himself, so he got me to do it, Frank thinks as he leaves the house and gets into the car.
Mike just didn’t want to live anymore.
Frank understands.