PARALLAX: Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Don Patrisi welcomed him a bear hug. “Nice piece of work, Frankie.”
He smiled and gave the old man a kiss on each cheek. “You know you’re the only person I let call me that, don’t you?”
The Don pulled back and spread his arms. “Sure I do. Why ya think I call you that?” The old man laughed and sipped his red wine from the imported crystal glass in front of him. Years of drinking the imported Sicilian wine he adored had left his liver in rough shape. Frank could count the skin blotches creeping up from the collar of the old man’s hand-tailored silk shirts. Patrisi’s face always seemed a dull shade of yellow. Dark deep circles underscored his bright blue eyes. But the cirrhosis hadn’t robbed Patrisi of his ability to mete out harsh punishment to those he saw fit to receive it.
“That piece of shit Vespucio. Thought he could steal from me? And get away with it?” He coughed and a sputter of phlegm dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. “About time we did that worthless fuck.”
Frank said nothing. He didn’t much care for the justification speech that happened anytime he whacked someone for the old man. Frank did his job and that was that. But he let the old man talk. He could tell Patrisi missed being out with the action. The most excitement he got these days was wondering if the Feds would ever gather enough evidence on him to force the racketeering charges to stick.
“Bobby says you gave him a hard time about him smoking his butts.”
“He wants to smoke ‘em, that’s fine with me.” Frank shrugged. “But not when we’re doing a job. Kid needed a little lesson in not sticking out. Vespucio would have seen a cigarette in the dark. He would have run. I would have had to chase him.” He smiled. “I don’t chase people.”
Don Patrisi nodded. “Moe.” He said the name with a lot of respect. Frank appreciated that. “That guy, he taught you right, didn’t he?”
“Yes sir.”
Patrisi took another sip of wine. “How many people you killed for me, Frank?”
“I don’t keep count, Mr. Patrisi. I just do my job.”
“And you do it damned well.” He reached into his suit coat and removed a letter-sized envelope. “This is for you. It’s your usual…plus a small bonus.”
Frank took the envelope without looking into it. He knew Don Patrisi wouldn’t stiff him. Over the years, other families had tried to lure Frank away through intermediaries. Frank stayed loyal to Patrisi. In Frank’s mind, not enough people stayed loyal to anything or anyone nowadays.
He slid the envelope into his jacket. “Thank you.”
The Don regarded him. “Everything go all right, tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
Patrisi shrugged. “You know, it’s just the kid there, he says you did Vespucio and then sorta stood there not looking like yourself for a second.”
“Kid really talked your ear off, huh?”
“I talked to him while you were in the can. No big.”
“I had a headache is all,” said Frank. “Damned migraine, you know? Been kicking my ass all night. Nothing a couple of Excedrins can’t whip.”
“Probably right.” He stifled a yawn with one hand. “Bobby says you also let Vespucio’s bitch walk.”
“She wasn’t part of the equation. You know my standards.”
“Yeah, I know ‘em. No innocents. No extra hit. Just the assigned target. That’s it.”
“I’m not a rolling slaughterhouse, Don. I do the job you ask and I go home. It ain’t much, but it’s me.”
Patrisi snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared out of nowhere and refilled the Don’s glass. “I never known a hitter like you, Frankie, you know that?”
“You knew Moe.”
“Yeah. Good ol’ Moe.” He smiled and sipped some more wine. “We had some times that guy and me. Couldn’t have asked for a better teacher, huh kid?”
“Moe was the best.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the best now. Moe made sure of that.”
Frank inclined his head. “You mind if I get going now? Kinda anxious to pop some meds for this skull thunder.”
The smile disappeared. Frank watched the stress of leading an organized crime syndicate creep back into the old man’s face. “Not just yet. I got something for you, Frankie.”
“Yeah?”
“Another one.”
Frank paused. “Busy week.”
“These fucking things come outa the woodwork, I ain’t lying to you. First one, then another. Then the whole blessed place is overrun with ‘em.”
“Who’s the target?”
Don Patrisi finished his wine in two gulps and set the glass back down on the table. “Before I tell you, I gotta have your word that you won’t flip out.”
“Why should I flip out? A job’s a job.”
“Yeah.” Don Patrisi slid a photograph over to Frank. “I figured you’d say that.”
Frank looked down and felt his stomach lurch. He looked up. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.” He glanced around for the waiter. “I want her gone, Frank.”
“What for?”
“What for - what the hell do you mean?”
“I mean what’s she done that she needs to be whacked?”
“That really any of your concern? Do you really need to know why? It’s a job, Frank. Like you just said. Am I right?”
He could have argued it. He had the clout. But why bother? “You know we got a history, her and me.”
“Yeah, I heard that. I heard she used to yell at you like you were some kind of little puppy dog she could shit all over, too.”
“Wasn’t like that.”
“Whatever it was,” said the Don, “it’s in the past. The past, Frank. What we need to talk about is her future. Or rather, the lack thereof.”
“She’s your niece, for crying out loud.”
“She’s my long-lost niece, Frank. Cripes, I never even knew she existed until she showed up two years ago.” He took a long drag on the glass. “How soon can you do the job?”
Frank looked at him and saw no indecision in the old man’s face. Inside, he grimaced. Moe had warned him this day would come. The day when you got a hit that you knew. But Moe hadn’t said anything about getting a hit that you used to love.
Used to love.
He almost smiled. Frank wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. He still loved her as much as he ever had. Even with all the shit she’d heaped on him. Even with all the grief.
Gia.
He looked right into the Don’s eyes. Moe had always insisted on eye contact.
“Gimme a week.”
* * *
Frank climbed five flights to his apartment overlooking Prince Street. He checked the top of his doorjamb for the single hair he always slid in as his cheap burglar alarm. The hair was still in place. Right where it should have been.
Good. The last thing Frank wanted was to have to shoot someone else tonight. He slid his key in and heard the door behind him open. He sighed. Not now. For the love of God, not now.
“Hi, Frank.”
He turned around and forced a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Morello.”
The squat older woman with gray hair tied back in a bun smiled. She held a covered pink casserole dish in her hands. “I baked you a nice lasagna, dear. You take it. It’s late, you must be starved.”
“Thanks.” Frank held the casserole dish and waited. He’d been through this enough times to know what was coming next.
“My niece is still available, you know that? You should really give her a call. You two would be good together.”
Frank shook his head. “Mrs. Morello, you know I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
His neighbor scowled. “What? No time? What man doesn’t have time for a nice girl who knows how to cook and clean and treat her man with some respect? I should fall down dead if you don’t have time for a nice young woman in your life.”
Frank grinned. “That kind of talk will get you into all sorts of trouble with the feminists, Mrs. Morello.”
“Bah, feminism. What is that? An excuse to not shave your legs and your pits and walk around like you got a set of big ones between your legs? I’d rather have it the way we did back when.” She stood back. “Now take my niece, for example. She knows how to treat a man.”
Unfortunately she looks like a baboon, thought Frank. “Mrs. Morello, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not looking for any company just now.”
“Well, how about a one-night stand then?”
“Mrs. Morello.” Frank almost fell over laughing.
“What? Not for her. For me.” She winked at Frank. “I could make your eyes spin around like a slot machine, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I’m afraid the answer’s still no.”
Mrs. Morello sighed. “Can’t blame an old gal for trying.”
Frank hefted the plate. “Thanks for the lasagna. I’ll give you the dish back tomorrow, okay?”
“Whenever you finish, dear.” She disappeared back into her apartment. Frank walked into his.
Gumshoe came running. Frank stooped and patted her coat of brown and white fur. His hand came away with a large tuft of hair entwined in his fingers. He rubbed them together and the hair fluttered to the ground. Gumshoe pounced on it and started eating it.
Frank shook his head. “No wonder you get hairballs.”
He walked to the kitchen and placed Mrs. Morello’s lasagna down on the counter. Frank whistled. Gumshoe came running into the kitchen, the tuft of cat hair still sticking out of her mouth.
“Gimme that.” Frank grabbed it. Then he opened a can of cat food and set it in the bowl. Gumshoe tore into it.
Frank peeled back the foil and sniffed the lasagna. Mrs. Morello had made sure to pile on the cheese. He shrugged. May as well not waste such a fine meal. He got a serving spoon and heaped a slice onto a plate, then took it into the living room.
He switched on the television. It was too early yet for the eleven o’clock news. Frank could eat, maybe catch the last part of the Bruins game and then make sure he hadn’t left any loose threads on the hit.
He fished a bottle of Sam Adams Winter Lager out of his fridge. He loved the beer. Every year he swore he’d stock up enough cases of the seasonal brew to see him through the months when it wasn’t available.
Every year he forgot.
He poured the bottle into a tall glass and sat down just as the Bruins scored their first goal. He bit into the lasagna and felt the stress of the hit melt into the floor. Something else filled the hole left behind.
Gia.
He chewed, swallowed, and sipped his beer. Christ, he wished he could just forget about her once and for all. She was too much emotional baggage. She was too much of a pain in the ass. She was too much of a bitch.
But damn he loved her.
And now the Don wanted her dead.
Figures.
He finished his first bottle of Sam Adams and went back for a second.
How many times, he thought, how many times has it happened this way? Go out, take care of some business and then come back to the apartment, have dinner, a few brews and spend the night decompressing.
A good life.
Wasn’t it?
He pushed his plate away but kept the Sam Adams in his left hand. Gumshoe materialized at his feet and reached up, stretching her paws to his lap. She jumped without a sound and snuggled into him. Frank stroked her fur while he nursed the beer and watched the Mapleleafs attempt a comeback.
“You know, Gumshoe, when I was ten, I would have killed for this life.”
Growing up in the North End meant one of two things: you either hooked up with a gang or you moved out. Rumbles with the kids across the bridge, the Townies of Charlestown, meant Frank learned early on how to hold his own in a fight.
“I ever tell you about that day? Me and Tony?”
That was back for the Patrisi family had taken over. Nobody messed with Tony, Don Giani’s son, but Tony didn’t abuse the power. He earned the respect of the neighborhood kids - family notwithstanding. Frank liked him from the start and they became close friends.
That fateful night just after the St. Anthony’s festival they were walking down by the ice rink, close to the bridge that separated the neighborhoods. Just before they turned back onto Commercial Street, a gang of Townies jumped them.
“Six of them guys. Just two of us. Me and Tony standing there back-to-back taking them all on. Son of a bitch.”
Frank took a shot in his jaw. He felt his back molar break and he spat blood and white tooth. But two sacked Tony at the same time. The Townies knew him. Nothing would have made them happier than busting the Don’s son into a million pieces.
Frank put his attackers down by stomping a shinbone into dust and breaking another boy’s arm. He turned to see Tony elbow another kid in the face, drawing a fountain of blood that gushed down the kid’s shirt.
“That’s when that little puke pulled a knife.”
Frank would later try to figure out why exactly he’d jumped in front of Tony at that instant. Maybe it was because Tony was the Don’s son. Maybe it was because Frank didn’t value his own life all that much - not with a mother addicted to heroin and a father who’d left when Frank was still wearing diapers.
Or maybe it was because Tony was his friend.
Whatever the reason, Frank took a slash across the back of his forearm.
“I’ll never forget how it felt the way that blade cut me. Deep, too. You know why more people are more afraid of getting knifed than shot? It’s because everyone can remember cutting themselves. Weird, huh?”
But something happened then.
The pain shut off.
And Frank felt a tidal surge of anger well up inside of him pushing at the dam he’d built to contain all the pain his young life had forced him to endure.
It burst.
Without thinking, he ripped the knife away from the Townie, reversed the blade and jammed it into the boy’s larynx, sawing from side to side. When the blood pouring over them both made the knife too slippery to hold, Frank jerked it out, wiped the handle on his jeans and tossed it into the nearby harbor.
The Townie slumped to the ground. Dead.
The other thugs ran.
“I was bleeding like hell. Tony grabbed me and we hightailed it to his dad’s bar.”
In those days, Big Sal always manned the back door. When he opened it and saw the two boys, the cigar he always chomped froze in mid-greeting.
“Jesus fucking Christ. You two get your asses in here.’ I can still hear him saying it.”
Big Sal got Tony’s father. Mr. Giani took one look at the boys and ordered three shots of whiskey. He gave one to Tony, one to Frank, and one for himself. They downed them.
“Tony did the talking. Tony always did the talking.”
Throughout, Frank could smell the drying blood on his shirt. His wound hurt when Big Sal wrapped it with a big towel from the kitchen.
But Frank wasn’t thinking about his wound. He thought about what it felt like to plunge the knife into the Townie’s throat. He saw it all in slow motion. He remembered when the Townie’s eyes rolled white as Death came for him.
While Tony talked, the Don kept shooting glances at Frank. Finally Tony finished. Mr. Giani laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder.
“He thanked me for saving Tony’s life. There wasn’t much I could say. It really hadn’t even hit me yet.”
Tony’s father took care of everything from there. First they got some new clothes. And Frank knew Mr. Giani sent men down to dispose of the kid’s body. There might have been hell to pay, but Mr. Giani called in a marker and the Winter Hill Gang that ran Charlestown never collected on the revenge card.
“Then Tony bought it a few years later in a car crash. If I’d been there, I would have gladly taken his place. I woulda done anything for that guy.”
Frank stood, displacing Gumshoe. He walked to the window.
“Now look at me. I talk to cats.”
Down on Hanover Street, the evening crowd lingered. Tourists mostly. They came to the North End for a taste of Italian Boston. And they got it. Frank could circulate in their midst and they’d never guess what he really did. Frank stayed low.
And he stayed alive.
The night’s events ran through his mind again. He’d fired his gun and the whole scene had changed. He was someplace else, looking at someone else. And he had no clue what had happened. Or even why it had happened.
And that pain - so much pain in his head - had absolutely frozen him.
Was the stress getting to him? Frank frowned. Bullshit. He did what he did and he was good at it. Stress was something created by degree-packing academics to justify their existence and over-the-top hourly fees.
Frank rubbed his head. Damn that headache.
But was it really even a headache at all? He’d said it back at Patrisi’s club because he knew the Don would accept the answer. Moe had told him a long time ago that if you ever showed a weakness, you stopped being an asset and you became a liability.
Deception at all costs.
The only way to survive.
But something else had happened tonight. Something other than taking Vespucio out. Something more than learning that he had to kill his ex-girlfriend.
Something else entirely.
And Frank didn’t have a clue what it was.
Don Patrisi welcomed him a bear hug. “Nice piece of work, Frankie.”
He smiled and gave the old man a kiss on each cheek. “You know you’re the only person I let call me that, don’t you?”
The Don pulled back and spread his arms. “Sure I do. Why ya think I call you that?” The old man laughed and sipped his red wine from the imported crystal glass in front of him. Years of drinking the imported Sicilian wine he adored had left his liver in rough shape. Frank could count the skin blotches creeping up from the collar of the old man’s hand-tailored silk shirts. Patrisi’s face always seemed a dull shade of yellow. Dark deep circles underscored his bright blue eyes. But the cirrhosis hadn’t robbed Patrisi of his ability to mete out harsh punishment to those he saw fit to receive it.
“That piece of shit Vespucio. Thought he could steal from me? And get away with it?” He coughed and a sputter of phlegm dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. “About time we did that worthless fuck.”
Frank said nothing. He didn’t much care for the justification speech that happened anytime he whacked someone for the old man. Frank did his job and that was that. But he let the old man talk. He could tell Patrisi missed being out with the action. The most excitement he got these days was wondering if the Feds would ever gather enough evidence on him to force the racketeering charges to stick.
“Bobby says you gave him a hard time about him smoking his butts.”
“He wants to smoke ‘em, that’s fine with me.” Frank shrugged. “But not when we’re doing a job. Kid needed a little lesson in not sticking out. Vespucio would have seen a cigarette in the dark. He would have run. I would have had to chase him.” He smiled. “I don’t chase people.”
Don Patrisi nodded. “Moe.” He said the name with a lot of respect. Frank appreciated that. “That guy, he taught you right, didn’t he?”
“Yes sir.”
Patrisi took another sip of wine. “How many people you killed for me, Frank?”
“I don’t keep count, Mr. Patrisi. I just do my job.”
“And you do it damned well.” He reached into his suit coat and removed a letter-sized envelope. “This is for you. It’s your usual…plus a small bonus.”
Frank took the envelope without looking into it. He knew Don Patrisi wouldn’t stiff him. Over the years, other families had tried to lure Frank away through intermediaries. Frank stayed loyal to Patrisi. In Frank’s mind, not enough people stayed loyal to anything or anyone nowadays.
He slid the envelope into his jacket. “Thank you.”
The Don regarded him. “Everything go all right, tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
Patrisi shrugged. “You know, it’s just the kid there, he says you did Vespucio and then sorta stood there not looking like yourself for a second.”
“Kid really talked your ear off, huh?”
“I talked to him while you were in the can. No big.”
“I had a headache is all,” said Frank. “Damned migraine, you know? Been kicking my ass all night. Nothing a couple of Excedrins can’t whip.”
“Probably right.” He stifled a yawn with one hand. “Bobby says you also let Vespucio’s bitch walk.”
“She wasn’t part of the equation. You know my standards.”
“Yeah, I know ‘em. No innocents. No extra hit. Just the assigned target. That’s it.”
“I’m not a rolling slaughterhouse, Don. I do the job you ask and I go home. It ain’t much, but it’s me.”
Patrisi snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared out of nowhere and refilled the Don’s glass. “I never known a hitter like you, Frankie, you know that?”
“You knew Moe.”
“Yeah. Good ol’ Moe.” He smiled and sipped some more wine. “We had some times that guy and me. Couldn’t have asked for a better teacher, huh kid?”
“Moe was the best.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the best now. Moe made sure of that.”
Frank inclined his head. “You mind if I get going now? Kinda anxious to pop some meds for this skull thunder.”
The smile disappeared. Frank watched the stress of leading an organized crime syndicate creep back into the old man’s face. “Not just yet. I got something for you, Frankie.”
“Yeah?”
“Another one.”
Frank paused. “Busy week.”
“These fucking things come outa the woodwork, I ain’t lying to you. First one, then another. Then the whole blessed place is overrun with ‘em.”
“Who’s the target?”
Don Patrisi finished his wine in two gulps and set the glass back down on the table. “Before I tell you, I gotta have your word that you won’t flip out.”
“Why should I flip out? A job’s a job.”
“Yeah.” Don Patrisi slid a photograph over to Frank. “I figured you’d say that.”
Frank looked down and felt his stomach lurch. He looked up. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.” He glanced around for the waiter. “I want her gone, Frank.”
“What for?”
“What for - what the hell do you mean?”
“I mean what’s she done that she needs to be whacked?”
“That really any of your concern? Do you really need to know why? It’s a job, Frank. Like you just said. Am I right?”
He could have argued it. He had the clout. But why bother? “You know we got a history, her and me.”
“Yeah, I heard that. I heard she used to yell at you like you were some kind of little puppy dog she could shit all over, too.”
“Wasn’t like that.”
“Whatever it was,” said the Don, “it’s in the past. The past, Frank. What we need to talk about is her future. Or rather, the lack thereof.”
“She’s your niece, for crying out loud.”
“She’s my long-lost niece, Frank. Cripes, I never even knew she existed until she showed up two years ago.” He took a long drag on the glass. “How soon can you do the job?”
Frank looked at him and saw no indecision in the old man’s face. Inside, he grimaced. Moe had warned him this day would come. The day when you got a hit that you knew. But Moe hadn’t said anything about getting a hit that you used to love.
Used to love.
He almost smiled. Frank wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all himself. He still loved her as much as he ever had. Even with all the shit she’d heaped on him. Even with all the grief.
Gia.
He looked right into the Don’s eyes. Moe had always insisted on eye contact.
“Gimme a week.”
* * *
Frank climbed five flights to his apartment overlooking Prince Street. He checked the top of his doorjamb for the single hair he always slid in as his cheap burglar alarm. The hair was still in place. Right where it should have been.
Good. The last thing Frank wanted was to have to shoot someone else tonight. He slid his key in and heard the door behind him open. He sighed. Not now. For the love of God, not now.
“Hi, Frank.”
He turned around and forced a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Morello.”
The squat older woman with gray hair tied back in a bun smiled. She held a covered pink casserole dish in her hands. “I baked you a nice lasagna, dear. You take it. It’s late, you must be starved.”
“Thanks.” Frank held the casserole dish and waited. He’d been through this enough times to know what was coming next.
“My niece is still available, you know that? You should really give her a call. You two would be good together.”
Frank shook his head. “Mrs. Morello, you know I don’t have time for a girlfriend.”
His neighbor scowled. “What? No time? What man doesn’t have time for a nice girl who knows how to cook and clean and treat her man with some respect? I should fall down dead if you don’t have time for a nice young woman in your life.”
Frank grinned. “That kind of talk will get you into all sorts of trouble with the feminists, Mrs. Morello.”
“Bah, feminism. What is that? An excuse to not shave your legs and your pits and walk around like you got a set of big ones between your legs? I’d rather have it the way we did back when.” She stood back. “Now take my niece, for example. She knows how to treat a man.”
Unfortunately she looks like a baboon, thought Frank. “Mrs. Morello, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not looking for any company just now.”
“Well, how about a one-night stand then?”
“Mrs. Morello.” Frank almost fell over laughing.
“What? Not for her. For me.” She winked at Frank. “I could make your eyes spin around like a slot machine, you know.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I’m afraid the answer’s still no.”
Mrs. Morello sighed. “Can’t blame an old gal for trying.”
Frank hefted the plate. “Thanks for the lasagna. I’ll give you the dish back tomorrow, okay?”
“Whenever you finish, dear.” She disappeared back into her apartment. Frank walked into his.
Gumshoe came running. Frank stooped and patted her coat of brown and white fur. His hand came away with a large tuft of hair entwined in his fingers. He rubbed them together and the hair fluttered to the ground. Gumshoe pounced on it and started eating it.
Frank shook his head. “No wonder you get hairballs.”
He walked to the kitchen and placed Mrs. Morello’s lasagna down on the counter. Frank whistled. Gumshoe came running into the kitchen, the tuft of cat hair still sticking out of her mouth.
“Gimme that.” Frank grabbed it. Then he opened a can of cat food and set it in the bowl. Gumshoe tore into it.
Frank peeled back the foil and sniffed the lasagna. Mrs. Morello had made sure to pile on the cheese. He shrugged. May as well not waste such a fine meal. He got a serving spoon and heaped a slice onto a plate, then took it into the living room.
He switched on the television. It was too early yet for the eleven o’clock news. Frank could eat, maybe catch the last part of the Bruins game and then make sure he hadn’t left any loose threads on the hit.
He fished a bottle of Sam Adams Winter Lager out of his fridge. He loved the beer. Every year he swore he’d stock up enough cases of the seasonal brew to see him through the months when it wasn’t available.
Every year he forgot.
He poured the bottle into a tall glass and sat down just as the Bruins scored their first goal. He bit into the lasagna and felt the stress of the hit melt into the floor. Something else filled the hole left behind.
Gia.
He chewed, swallowed, and sipped his beer. Christ, he wished he could just forget about her once and for all. She was too much emotional baggage. She was too much of a pain in the ass. She was too much of a bitch.
But damn he loved her.
And now the Don wanted her dead.
Figures.
He finished his first bottle of Sam Adams and went back for a second.
How many times, he thought, how many times has it happened this way? Go out, take care of some business and then come back to the apartment, have dinner, a few brews and spend the night decompressing.
A good life.
Wasn’t it?
He pushed his plate away but kept the Sam Adams in his left hand. Gumshoe materialized at his feet and reached up, stretching her paws to his lap. She jumped without a sound and snuggled into him. Frank stroked her fur while he nursed the beer and watched the Mapleleafs attempt a comeback.
“You know, Gumshoe, when I was ten, I would have killed for this life.”
Growing up in the North End meant one of two things: you either hooked up with a gang or you moved out. Rumbles with the kids across the bridge, the Townies of Charlestown, meant Frank learned early on how to hold his own in a fight.
“I ever tell you about that day? Me and Tony?”
That was back for the Patrisi family had taken over. Nobody messed with Tony, Don Giani’s son, but Tony didn’t abuse the power. He earned the respect of the neighborhood kids - family notwithstanding. Frank liked him from the start and they became close friends.
That fateful night just after the St. Anthony’s festival they were walking down by the ice rink, close to the bridge that separated the neighborhoods. Just before they turned back onto Commercial Street, a gang of Townies jumped them.
“Six of them guys. Just two of us. Me and Tony standing there back-to-back taking them all on. Son of a bitch.”
Frank took a shot in his jaw. He felt his back molar break and he spat blood and white tooth. But two sacked Tony at the same time. The Townies knew him. Nothing would have made them happier than busting the Don’s son into a million pieces.
Frank put his attackers down by stomping a shinbone into dust and breaking another boy’s arm. He turned to see Tony elbow another kid in the face, drawing a fountain of blood that gushed down the kid’s shirt.
“That’s when that little puke pulled a knife.”
Frank would later try to figure out why exactly he’d jumped in front of Tony at that instant. Maybe it was because Tony was the Don’s son. Maybe it was because Frank didn’t value his own life all that much - not with a mother addicted to heroin and a father who’d left when Frank was still wearing diapers.
Or maybe it was because Tony was his friend.
Whatever the reason, Frank took a slash across the back of his forearm.
“I’ll never forget how it felt the way that blade cut me. Deep, too. You know why more people are more afraid of getting knifed than shot? It’s because everyone can remember cutting themselves. Weird, huh?”
But something happened then.
The pain shut off.
And Frank felt a tidal surge of anger well up inside of him pushing at the dam he’d built to contain all the pain his young life had forced him to endure.
It burst.
Without thinking, he ripped the knife away from the Townie, reversed the blade and jammed it into the boy’s larynx, sawing from side to side. When the blood pouring over them both made the knife too slippery to hold, Frank jerked it out, wiped the handle on his jeans and tossed it into the nearby harbor.
The Townie slumped to the ground. Dead.
The other thugs ran.
“I was bleeding like hell. Tony grabbed me and we hightailed it to his dad’s bar.”
In those days, Big Sal always manned the back door. When he opened it and saw the two boys, the cigar he always chomped froze in mid-greeting.
“Jesus fucking Christ. You two get your asses in here.’ I can still hear him saying it.”
Big Sal got Tony’s father. Mr. Giani took one look at the boys and ordered three shots of whiskey. He gave one to Tony, one to Frank, and one for himself. They downed them.
“Tony did the talking. Tony always did the talking.”
Throughout, Frank could smell the drying blood on his shirt. His wound hurt when Big Sal wrapped it with a big towel from the kitchen.
But Frank wasn’t thinking about his wound. He thought about what it felt like to plunge the knife into the Townie’s throat. He saw it all in slow motion. He remembered when the Townie’s eyes rolled white as Death came for him.
While Tony talked, the Don kept shooting glances at Frank. Finally Tony finished. Mr. Giani laid a hand on Frank’s shoulder.
“He thanked me for saving Tony’s life. There wasn’t much I could say. It really hadn’t even hit me yet.”
Tony’s father took care of everything from there. First they got some new clothes. And Frank knew Mr. Giani sent men down to dispose of the kid’s body. There might have been hell to pay, but Mr. Giani called in a marker and the Winter Hill Gang that ran Charlestown never collected on the revenge card.
“Then Tony bought it a few years later in a car crash. If I’d been there, I would have gladly taken his place. I woulda done anything for that guy.”
Frank stood, displacing Gumshoe. He walked to the window.
“Now look at me. I talk to cats.”
Down on Hanover Street, the evening crowd lingered. Tourists mostly. They came to the North End for a taste of Italian Boston. And they got it. Frank could circulate in their midst and they’d never guess what he really did. Frank stayed low.
And he stayed alive.
The night’s events ran through his mind again. He’d fired his gun and the whole scene had changed. He was someplace else, looking at someone else. And he had no clue what had happened. Or even why it had happened.
And that pain - so much pain in his head - had absolutely frozen him.
Was the stress getting to him? Frank frowned. Bullshit. He did what he did and he was good at it. Stress was something created by degree-packing academics to justify their existence and over-the-top hourly fees.
Frank rubbed his head. Damn that headache.
But was it really even a headache at all? He’d said it back at Patrisi’s club because he knew the Don would accept the answer. Moe had told him a long time ago that if you ever showed a weakness, you stopped being an asset and you became a liability.
Deception at all costs.
The only way to survive.
But something else had happened tonight. Something other than taking Vespucio out. Something more than learning that he had to kill his ex-girlfriend.
Something else entirely.
And Frank didn’t have a clue what it was.