I saw a Frankie rarely seen by his peers, and learned a lot about the man himself through his stories. With every story he told, I fell more in love. I came to the conclusion that he was a good man in a bad world. Deep in his core he was a gentle, decent man with an enormous love and appreciation for life, but he was caught in a darkness from which he had no escape. Having little choice, he accepted this life and learned to survive there.
While I gazed at the stars, Frankie nibbled at my neck. Turning my face, I kissed him. My sense of touch was heightened. I wasn’t afraid. Rather than sickening me, his hands on my breast felt unusually natural.
I was in a daydream state as he carried me to the bed. Tracing his face lightly with my fingers, I traveled with wonder in the limitless depth of his intense brown eyes. I felt as though he were familiar, as if I’d known the taste and feel of him from a dimension I’d never before explored. Closing my eyes, I blindly let his gentle hands explore the soft curves of my body. The world went still with his touch as we got lost in the ecstasy of making love. With none of the usual fears, I gave of myself in a way I never thought possible. Love in the purest form.
Afterward I had to sort out the half-realized desires and denials that churned within me. Did this mean I was a whore now? Had I just validated what the gossips had been saying all along? What must Frankie think? Guys didn’t respect girls who weren’t virgins before they got married.
Sexual demons still play in my mind, but for that brief moment I was aware of how intimacy is supposed to be. After that night I knew that what I felt for Tom wasn’t love. I could not marry him, but I would wait until he was out of Vietnam before I told him. To tell him now would be too cruel. I continued to write him, but my letters became less frequent.
As Frankie and I became closer he became more of a mystery. I wasn’t as naive to his lifestyle as he perceived me to be. I’d been around it before. But I didn’t fully understand how it all worked, and Frankie gave no clues. In his constant secrecy, he separated me from that side of his life, causing a huge gap in our relationship. I needed to be intimate with the whole man, not just the face he chose for me to see. He disappeared from time to time, sometimes hours, sometimes days, and danced around my questions. My prodding produced vague answers. When I pushed, he resorted to some lame silliness or just stopped speaking altogether.
On a modeling assignment one day, the makeup person did a great job. I usually hated how they made me up, but it was just one of those days when I looked and felt good about myself. I didn’t want to waste this makeup job without having Frankie appreciate it. I called him from the studio and we made plans to meet at Bino’s for dinner. He sounded as if he couldn’t wait to see me. I loved being with him. He was always so complimentary and proud to be with me, making me feel so special.
After my photo session I rushed to the restaurant, only to sit there for three hours staring at the door. He never showed. Disappointed? You bet. Rosa, Bino’s mom, tried to make me understand in her broken English that this behavior was normal with all of her son’s friends and I shouldn’t worry.
Later, Susie Q and I sat on the floor of our apartment flicking through the pages of Vogue while Linda Bird got dressed for a date.
“Where’re you going tonight, tramp?” Susie Q asked kiddingly.
“To dinner with that rich hunk I met last week. He’s not as much fun as traipsing around with you girls, but at least I’ll eat a good meal. How do I look?” she asked, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead as she checked herself out in the mirror.
“You look great,” I said with just the right amount of sincerity. My mind was still on Frankie. My frustration had eased, but my curiosity was getting the better of me. When the phone rang, I pounced on it.
“Hi, baby.”
“Frankie, damn you! I waited three hours for you today. Where were you?”
“I know, baby, I’m sorry. I got tied up.”
“Doing what?”
Susie Q stirred her tea vigorously, totally engrossed in the confrontation. She wanted to know too.
“Pass the dice, baby. You know better than to ask questions.”
“Why does everything have to be such a secret, Frankie?” I asked, feeling excluded from his life. He tried to gloss over it with his easygoing manner.
“C’mon, Georgie Girl, somethin’ came up. I’m sorry I had to leave you hangin’, but it couldn’t be helped.” Changing the subject, he added in a playful tone, “Flip’s gonna sing with the band at the Play Lounge tonight. Why don’t you see if the girls want to go?”
“Frankie, I can’t stand this anymore. I need to know who you are. Every time I—”
“Look, Georgie Girl,” he interrupted, suddenly becoming serious, “I’m a man of two faces, honey. There’s things I gotta do I have no say about. I can’t discuss it, and I won’t. You’re not blind, baby. You’ve been around me long enough t’get a sense of who I am, so please, stop asking questions that can’t be answered,” he said coolly. After a long pause, he added, “Now c’mon, let’s just go out tonight and have a good time, okay?”
Although I tried to abide by his rule, my irritation over the secrecy was evident. To appease me, he started taking me with him to some of his meetings during the day. He called them sit-downs. I waited at the bar while he huddled in smoky booths with men of Italian descent. I was finally getting a look at the mysterious life he led.
At one meeting it looked like a federation of gangsters. A few were dressed casually in sports shirts and slacks, but most wore suits, starched shirts, and jewelry the average hood wouldn’t hesitate to kill for. Becoming invisible, I chatted with the bartender as I inconspicuously watched them, fascinated.
A thin, gray-haired man with beady eyes and a big nose made an entrance with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He was a small guy, weighing only about 130 pounds, but he was apparently a big man to everyone there. They practically bowed to him. He didn’t look like a king, dressed casually in a dark blue button-down sweater with a collared shirt fastened at the neck, but if there was a chain of command, he was at the top. He sat silently, shifting his steely gaze often, speaking without saying a word.
The others were more animated than the mysterious gray-haired man. Many spoke Italian, others, broken English. The majority, though, spoke in the familiar New York “tough guy” slang I’d come to know. Only fragments of conversation could be heard, but the language created with their hands revealed a lot, especially the forefinger sliding across the throat. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. And the gray-haired man just nodded.
I watched as the conversation got heated, but when they got up to leave they acted as though they were great friends, hugging and patting one another with affection. However, common sense said that one wrong move could easily turn them into treacherous enemies devoid of conscience. Their presence exuded a power that was undeniable.
As strange as it sounds, they intrigued me. They played into my enormous appetite for adventure of the unknown, along with the natural curiosity that accompanies youth. After the meeting I quizzed Frankie about the men.
“Who was that little guy with the gray hair, Frankie?”
“Nobody, baby,” he answered.
“He didn’t look like nobody to me,” I said, trying to prompt an honest answer.
“Georgie Girl . . . C’mon, now, you promised you wouldn’t ask questions if I took you with me,” he reminded me.
I wanted to know everything about Frankie because I loved him. And I hated the secrecy. But a side to his life existed that he had no choice but to keep secret.
My afternoon outings ended the day he took me along to meet with two men. They were not the typical kind of characters he usually met with. These two guys were in suits obviously bought off the rack, with pens in their pockets and dime-store shades. Clean-cut, respectable sorts. Respectable was questionable. Even I could spot a cop in plain clothes. They were the commissioner’s men.
Frankie had som
ehow managed to go above the division, above the bureau, as high as you could go—the police commissioner. Just about any cop in New York could be bought—that was a given—but at that level of the law, secrecy was essential.
The two suits looked at each other in astonishment when we walked through the door of the 23rd Street Bar & Grill on the West Side. Frankie immediately knew he’d made a stupid move. He hurried me to a corner booth out of view and approached them. I was out of sight, but not out of earshot. I peeked through the plastic plants and watched as they confronted him.
“What’s with the broad?” said the heavyset man, demanding an answer.
“She’s just a kid; she doesn’t know anything,” Frankie said.
Standing up, the taller one spouted,“You want protection, make another appointment! Another time, another place.” As they walked out the door they both looked back, glaring disgustedly, leaving Frankie unprotected—at least for the moment.
After-hours clubs in Manhattan were big business, and everyone had their hands out. Police protection did not mean safety from the wiseguys, either. Frankie had to contend with their demands as well, and they demanded a great deal more than a fair share. Fortunately, Frankie had some heavy people behind him. But staying a step ahead of the discontented enemy was a constant struggle. He was always looking over his shoulder. Moving against the grain, he rubbed some bad people the wrong way. Frankie stood firm, giving them a generous cut, but also realizing that greed rules in the underworld.
A quiet night in the club, unusual for a Saturday. Many unoccupied stools lined the long bar, and with no one feeding the jukebox the back room remained quiet and dark. It was kind of lonesome without the usual customers. Even little Flip wasn’t there, and he hardly ever missed a night. His smiling face and constant teasing were greatly missed. Susie Q had gone home for the weekend, and Linda Bird had a hangover and had taken the night off. I was alone behind the bar, and it wasn’t much fun without my sidekicks. No one seemed to be in a laughing mood. The fluorescent lighting under the bar cast an illuminating coldness in direct contrast to the dim red light that filled the rest of the room.
Small groups of men huddled together in heavy conversation. Something was brewing. The atmosphere had felt tense from the moment I’d arrived. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but a strangeness hovered.
The wiseguy from Harlem came through the door. Sensing trouble, Frankie immediately approached him. They were having heated words, but I was too far away to hear what was being said. The Harlem hood thrust out his jaw, ready for battle. Frankie retorted, determined to get the upper hand. Irritated, the big man walked away from Frankie and bellied up to the bar, pushing the stool back to make room for his protruding gut. His left eye twitched as he ran a hand over his balding head, a sure sign he was severely angry.
“Gimme a drink,” he demanded, treating me to his insane expression.
I knew this guy was an irritant to Frankie, but I had no idea why. I didn’t like him for my own reasons. He gave me the creeps. His eyes were as cold as an arctic winter, and he was never very pleasant, throwing his weight around and demanding respect. I poured him his usual, VO and soda. I set it in front of him and moved down the bar, giving him privacy for an ensuing argument with the man sitting beside him. The next thing I knew, he pulled out a gun and aimed it at the man. My mind registered the sight, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even get out of the way. All I could do was stand there, paralyzed with fear.
One shot, two . . . The man fell, but my focus was on the gun. So fast. What? What happened? Stunned, I stood frozen in place, not fully realizing what was happening. My mind couldn’t grasp the reality.
Suddenly I was being pulled. Frankie was practically dragging me out the door. Another shot sounded as we reached the stairs. On the street, we headed for the corner and made the turn. Halfway down the block we ducked into a doorway. He trembled as he held me.
According to the witness still in the club, the wiseguy slowly walked past them, daring anyone to look him in the eye. No one did. They understood the rules. As soon as the shooter left the building, everyone fled.
“Holy shit!” Frankie uttered.
I started to turn, but he grabbed my head with both his hands, holding it inches from his face. Terror reflected in his eyes as he shielded my vision.
“Just kiss me. It’s him. He still has the gun,” he whispered. “Whatever you do, don’t look at him.”
My heartbeat soared. I closed my eyes and kissed Frankie as if it were our last kiss. It could have been. But the man rushed past us, not taking much notice. When he was clearly out of view, we raced back to the club.
Billy was hunched over the body when we walked in. The color had gone from his face as he looked up with a desperate expression.
“Fuck! We should’ve seen this coming, Frankie.”
Frankie bent down to take the man’s pulse.
“Oh, my God! Frankie, is he dead?” I cried, trying to keep in control, but my entire body was shaking. I’d seen dead bodies before, but not from this kind of violence.
“I think he’s still alive,” he answered, frantically searching his pockets for his car keys. “You okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I . . . I think so,” I answered, still trembling.
“Get the car. Pull it up front. Make it fast, Georgie Girl. The cops will be here any minute. C’mon, Billy, help me get him outta here.”
“What about the blood, Frankie, shouldn’t we—”
“No time, Billy. Let’s just get ’im the hell out.” Frankie grabbed under his arms, and Billy grabbed his legs. They struggled to get him down the stairs.
Five thirty in the morning—not long before the sun came up. Remaining anonymous was crucial, no question. They finally got him into Frankie’s borrowed car and we sped off to Bellevue Hospital. Georgia Black came to the rescue. I wasn’t allowed to think of the life draining from the man in the backseat. We had a job to do.
Get to the hospital—fast! There’s a cop! Turn left. Slowly now, don’t blow it. Okay, good. Coast is clear. Hit it.
“You’re doin’ good, baby, you’re doin’ good. Take it easy now; we don’t wanna attract attention,” Frankie said, trying to act calm as he glanced back at Billy and the wounded man.
I drove brusquely, handling the car as though it needed to be taught a lesson, getting us there without incident. When we arrived at the hospital’s emergency entrance, Billy and Frankie dragged the man from the car and left him lying lifeless on the sidewalk. We didn’t know if he was still living or not. Frankie leaned on the horn for a short time, hoping to bring attention to the man and not to us.
“Step on it, baby!” Frankie shouted.
I drove swiftly away from the scene. “Do you think he’s going to live, Frankie?” I asked, on the verge of tears. Georgia Black had retreated. Job done.
“You better hope so, or I’m in deep shit. Drive by the club.”
I turned on East 23rd. From two blocks away we saw the red lights flashing in front of the building.
“Shit,” Frankie muttered.
“Drop me off at Bino’s, Georgie Girl,” Billy said.
“Christ, Frank, we needed this like we need a hole in our heads.” I pulled in front of Bino’s Tavern on 2nd Avenue, and Billy exited the car. “Call me when you hear something,” he said, slamming the door and heading up the stairs from the Tavern to Bino’s apartment.
“Get a hold of Flip,” Frankie instructed. “Tell him I’ll meet him at the Abbey at nine o’clock.”
“Frankie, you drive,” I said, when Billy shut the car door.
“Why, baby? You’re a natural behind the wheel. Good enough to make a career of it. Pays good, too.”
“It’s all a blank. I have no idea how I got there.”
“Well, you did. And in record time!”
Frankie fell silent as we drove down Madison Avenue toward my apartment on East 31st Street. I pulled in front of my building, put the car in p
ark, took a deep breath, and expelled it with a loud sigh.
“That bastard!” Frankie spat, slamming his fist on the dash.
“Who, Frankie?”
“The wiseguy from Harlem, who else? The son of a bitch probably did this so the cops would shut me down. I wouldn’t put it past ’em—those bastards. You’ve gotta get out of here, Georgie Girl. Pack your clothes; I’m taking you to the airport.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Frankie.”
“I don’t want you involved. They’re gonna question all witnesses. You are a witness. I want you outta here.”
“I didn’t see a thing.”
“You’re goin’. Don’t argue. I’ll have to take the heat any way you look at it, but there’s no need to drag you into this mess. I don’t know what you’re doing with a guy like me anyway.”
“Frankie, what are you talking about?”
“This is no kind of life for you, Georgie Girl. You deserve a lot more than I can ever give you. This is my world, honey. Always was, always will be. It’s the only world I know. I don’t have the right to bring you into it.”
“Frankie, what are you saying?”
“Go home, honey. Stay there if you know what’s good for you.”
“Frankie, I know you love me. How can you say that?”
“Because I love you,” he said, wanting me to understand.
“You’re just upset over what happened. You don’t mean that; I know you don’t.”
He looked at me and didn’t say anything. His mind was somewhere else. I wanted to be with him, but it was out of the question. Frankie was acutely aware of the ramifications to come because of this incident. Worrying about me was a burden he didn’t need. I packed my clothes, but had every intention of returning. He just wasn’t thinking clearly; I knew that.
Before my flight had landed in Rochester, Frankie was in custody. Flip and Billy called to keep me posted. The charge was attempted murder. The police confiscated the cards we used to keep track of the bar tabs. They had a mug shot to go with every code name we had. They obviously knew who came and went; it wasn’t that they weren’t aware the club existed. They brought in a stream of potential witnesses, but nobody was talking. The cops on the beat were uptight, but not as much as the commissioner’s men, who were afraid the investigation would blow their cover. Every day Frankie was led from his cell and questioned for hours. They knew he didn’t do it, but they were sure he knew who did.
The Company She Keeps Page 9
