Garth nods.
His eyes are wide with fear, he’s quivering and sweating, and Frank’s disgusted that he sees the front of the man’s towel stained yellow.
Frank pulls the hammer back.
Hears Garth whimper.
Frank eases the hammer down and lowers the gun.
“Look,” Frank says, “they’ve already tried to kill me and theydid kill Alison Demers. They’re going to clip anyone who knows anything about what happened that night, including you. Or do you still think you’re going to get a pass?”
Why shouldn’t you? Frank thinks. You always do.
“If I were you,” Frank says, “I’d run.”
But he knows he won’t. The Donnie Garths of the world don’t believe that people kill them; they believe that people killfor them.
81
Frank calls information and gets the number of the senator’s office.
“I’d like to speak to the senator, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Tell him it’s a buddy from his Solana Beach days.”
“I don’t think he’s going to be available, sir.”
“See, and I think he is,” Frank says. “Why don’t you tell him it’s about Summer, and we’ll see who’s right.”
A minute later, Fortunate Son gets on the phone.
“If you record your calls,” Frank says, “I suggest you shut the machine off.”
“Who is this?”
“You know who it is,” Frank says. “I’ll wait.”
Fortunate Son comes back on the line a few seconds later. “Okay. Speak.”
“You know who this is.”
“I have a pretty good guess.”
“You have the wrong guy,” Frank says. “The wrong chauffeur. I know it’s hard to tell the little people apart, but it was Mike Pella in the limo that night, not me. If it had been me, none of this would have happened, because I wouldn’t have let you beat a girl to death and get away with it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Frank holds the little dictaphone up to the receiver and plays Donnie Garth’s narration.
“He’s lying,” Fortunate Son says.
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Look, I don’t care. Ishould care that you killed that girl and now you killed that other one, but the point is, I have a life I want to live and a family to take care of. So here’s the deal, Senator. I want a million dollars in cash, or I go public with this. I know I can’t go to the cops or the feds, because you own them, but I’ll go to the media, and then, at the very least, your career is over. Maybe we can’t make you for the girl’s murder, but we can put you at the scene, and that’s all it will take.”
“Perhaps we could take the position that-”
“A million dollars, Senator, in cash,” Frank repeats, “and I want you to deliver it personally.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Fortunate Son says.
“Which?” Frank asks. “The cash, or you?”
“Me,” Fortunate Son says.
“Then send your pimp, Garth,” Frank says, and tells him where and when.
A long silence, then: “How do I know I can trust you?”
“I’m a man of my word,” Frank says. “Are you?”
“I am.”
“Then we have a deal?”
“We do.”
Fortunate Son hangs up the phone.
Frank turns off the tape recorder.
He’s not a child-he knows they’re not coming with any million dollars.
They’re coming to kill him.
I could run, Frank thinks. And I could make a good run of it. I could stretch it out for years, maybe. But what kind of life is that? Watching myself slowly become poor Jay Voorhees, until I’m relieved when they finally catch up with me?
No kind of life at all.
So let them come.
Let’s get this thing done.
82
“It isn’t right!” Jimmy the Kid yells. “I’llgo. I can take him out.”
“He says, despite ample evidence to the contrary,” Garth says. “Look, this has been decided.”
“By who?”
Garth doesn’t say anything.
Which pisses Jimmy off. “Look, I know who we’re working for. I know the whole fucking thing, how your senator couldn’t get his macaroni al dente, how he killed the girl, how Frankie M. dumped her body…”
“It wasn’t Machianno,” Garth says. “It was the other one…”
“Pella?”
“Pella.”
“Then why the fuck were we trying to clip Frank?” Jimmy asks. “He doesn’t know anything.”
“He does now,” Garth says.
Yeah, Jimmy thinks, because you’re a limper dick than your politician buddy and you spilled it all to him. “I can take him.”
“It’s been decided.”
“Nothing has been decided until we talk to my uncle Tony,” Jimmy says.
“We’ve talked to your uncle Tony,” Garth says. “He gave the okay. He’s already put it into motion.”
Jimmy feels like his head is going to blow off. He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Uncle Tony, Tony freaking Jacks, signing on to a sleazy deal like this?
Uncle Tony is a man. Uncle Tony is old-school.
He digs his cell phone out of his pants pocket and punches in the number. It takes a few rings before the old man comes to the phone. “Uncle Tony, this guy is trying to tell me-”
“Easy, kid,” Tony says.
“I can take him, Uncle Tony!”
“You can’t, Jimmy!” The voice is harsh, clear, and decisive. “This deal has to be completed successfully. Frankie M. goes; then G-Sting gets shut down.”
“Fuck G-Sting!” Jimmy says. “Fuck the Migliores and their clubs. We can live without it.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Tony says. “You think this is just about a bunch of strippers grinding their naked twats on laps? Smarten up. This is just the down payment, nephew. Let the senator cunt make this deal and then he’s ours, all the way to the White House. Better than Kennedy, better than Nixon, because we got this son of a bitch by the balls. By theballs. Now hang up the phone and do what you got to do.”
Jimmy hangs up.
As always, Uncle Tony is right.
But it still sucks, what they’re going to do.
Don Winslow
The Winter of Frankie Machine
83
Jill Machianno balances her ski bag between her hip and the wall as she unlocks the front door of her apartment. She has the door open and is reaching for the ski bag when the tall redheaded woman comes up to her.
“Jill Machianno?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Donna, a friend of your father’s.”
Jill gives her a stare as cold as the snow she was skiing on. “I know who you are.”
“I don’t want to frighten you,” Donna says, “but your father’s had an accident.”
“Oh my God. Is he-”
“He’s going to be fine,” Donna says, “but he’s in the hospital.”
“Is my mother with him?”
“She’s out of town somewhere,” Donna says. “Your dad asked me to find you and take you to the hospital. I’m parked across the street.”
Jill sets her skis and luggage inside the door, shuts it, and follows Donna to her car.
84
Dave Hansen is at Shores.
Well, at least there’s plenty of parking, he thinks as he pulls into the public lot across the street from the little playground.
Donnie Garth is already out there, standing by the vacant lifeguard tower, looking out at the gray sea. He looks vaguely ghostlike in his hooded white slicker. Or, Dave thinks, like a hopelessly out of place Klansman.
Dave gets out of the car and steps over the low wall onto the beach.
“Are you wearing a wire?” Garth asks.
“No, are you?”
“I’m going to have to pat you down.”
Dave lifts his arms and lets Garth feel him for a wire. Satisfied, Garth says, “Let’s go for a walk.”
They head north, toward Scripps Pier.
“This Summer Lorensen nonsense,” Garth says, “I don’t know what you think you know, but youdon’t know what you’re fooling with.”
“See, I think I do,” Dave says. “That’s the problem.”