Frankie sends a postcard to Ryan
Frankie is travelling. Luxuria burnt down, and there was no more free vodka to be having, or leather couches to fall asleep on , and...a job called for another, and another, and another. Too long in the same place, he's told himself. And restlessness comes with Frankie, just like his shadow.
So he goes, gets his money, does the jobs people like him need be done by an out-of-town guy, here today, there tomorrow. None the wiser. Some jobs come from Krycek, some from other contacts of Frankie. He keeps only three things stable, the money he sends to his brother. for Dody and the child, Ryan's address, and Hobbes' phone number. Just in case. If he gets too drunk, he may actually make the number...
Via a number of more or less casual acquaintances - whom, however, have in their interest to do as he asked - Frankie gets the occasional post to his old address. It takes time, because it gets forwarded all over the place. But he sits down to read it, when he gets Ryan's letter, a cup of coffee that gets cold in front of him, some deserted diner in the Middle of Nowhere BumFuck US, a flask of whiskey that sees more action than that cup of coffee in the inside front pocket of his army-style coat.
He reads it through, a few times. He chuckles, a few times. He reads it again, then folds it carefully, puts it in the plastic bag where he keeps the few important papers he carries with him, those that would survive his jumping into a river, or blood stains. Not fire, but nothing survives fire.
Then he picks up a pen from the counter, grabs a postcard, jots down a few lines. Posts it before he changes his mind.
So he goes, gets his money, does the jobs people like him need be done by an out-of-town guy, here today, there tomorrow. None the wiser. Some jobs come from Krycek, some from other contacts of Frankie. He keeps only three things stable, the money he sends to his brother. for Dody and the child, Ryan's address, and Hobbes' phone number. Just in case. If he gets too drunk, he may actually make the number...
Via a number of more or less casual acquaintances - whom, however, have in their interest to do as he asked - Frankie gets the occasional post to his old address. It takes time, because it gets forwarded all over the place. But he sits down to read it, when he gets Ryan's letter, a cup of coffee that gets cold in front of him, some deserted diner in the Middle of Nowhere BumFuck US, a flask of whiskey that sees more action than that cup of coffee in the inside front pocket of his army-style coat.
He reads it through, a few times. He chuckles, a few times. He reads it again, then folds it carefully, puts it in the plastic bag where he keeps the few important papers he carries with him, those that would survive his jumping into a river, or blood stains. Not fire, but nothing survives fire.
Then he picks up a pen from the counter, grabs a postcard, jots down a few lines. Posts it before he changes his mind.