Green Monster

by Rick Shefchik

  Still, Frankie couldn’t help but feel that old excitement. He’d been in L.A. for fifteen years now, getting by on the crumbs Sid Mink let fall to the floor. Acting sure as hell didn’t pay the bills. Five movies, total—unless you counted that recruiting thing he did for the Navy down in San Diego. Shit, more people saw that on TV than all his movies combined.

  But Frankie’s ship was about to come in. Once he got rid of Sid Mink, he’d be Bugsy Siegel all over again. Those Hollywood snobs would trip over themselves inviting him to their parties. They’d see what they’d been missing—a good-looking guy with a build like Stallone or Arnold could only dream about now. He could be the next Rambo, the next Rocky, the next Terminator. The Latin Stallion—no, that didn’t sound quite right, but why the fuck couldn’t it happen? If they wouldn’t cut him in, he’d cut himself in. In two days, he could do it.

  And now his agent finally calls. It pissed him off—just when everything is starting to look up, suddenly the lazy asshole finds something.

  “Yeah, what is it, Larry?”

  “Damnedest thing, Frankie. I just got a call from a producer who’s making a big-budget action flick, and he saw you in that thing, what was it called—‘Death Bus.’ I guess it was just on TV or something. Anyway, he loved you, and he had an actor walk off the set this afternoon, right as they’re starting to shoot. He’s up the creek for a big, strong guy to play a…what was it…oh, yeah, the leader of a biker gang. You can ride a bike, can’t you, Frankie?”

  McQueen. Brando. Fonda. Hopper. Navarro.

  “Hell, yes, I can ride a bike. What, are you shittin’ me? I rode out here on a hog fifteen years ago from New Mexico.”

  He’d also sold the bike fourteen years ago, and hadn’t ridden one since, but Larry didn’t have to know that.

  “That’s great,” Larry said. “He’d like his casting guy to meet you tonight. You’d be on the set tomorrow, if it works out. Somewhere out by San Bernardino.”

  “It’s gotta be tonight?” Frankie said. “You mean, like, right now?”

  “If you want it. Lotta lines, pays good. I think you’re on screen for, like, a quarter of the flick.”

  “Really? That much.”

  What am I doing, Frankie wondered. I don’t need this now. I need to keep my eye on the ball here. Payday in two days, unless something comes out of nowhere to fuck it up. I should just lie low, stay close to the phone, then start counting my money. But this flick, I’d have lots of lines, Larry said. On screen for, what, twenty, twenty-five minutes? How great would that be? Shit, I’ve been sticking with this guy for years and he’s got me nothing but crowd scenes and auditions for ‘Muscle-bound man in tank-top’ roles. I can’t pass this up. I can’t—not when I’m finally getting something from the little cocksucker.

  “What’s the producer’s name?” Frankie asked.

  “Williams. Robert Williams.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I think he’s one of those wine-and-microchip guys from Napa who’s made a ton of money and has always wanted to get into the movies.”

  I know the feeling, Frankie thought. Except for the ton-of-money part.

  “And what’s the name of the movie?”

  “Uh…lemme think…‘Day of Doom,’ ‘Day Before Doom,’ something with ‘Doom’ in it. I haven’t seen the script, but the guy says it’s one of those save-the-world-from-the-Apocalypse things.”

  “Anybody else in the cast that I’ve heard of?”

  “I can’t remember right now…”

  “Do I get a sex scene?”

  “Look, Frankie, do you want this or don’t you? I gotta tell you, it’s been tough finding films you’re right for, and you’re not gettin’ any younger. This could be a breakthrough for you. You do this, I could start getting you more mature action parts. But it’s only on the table tonight. The guy’s got two other actors he’s ready to call if you don’t want it.”

  “Yeah, okay. I want it. Where do I meet him?”

  Larry gave him the address of an office park in Inglewood, not far from Frankie’s house in West Hollywood. Frankie was surprised that a movie producer would set up a meeting there, but he had to admit that he didn’t know what the fuck these producers thought or how they operated. If he did, he’d have been in more pictures. Besides, this Williams guy was new to the business, he needed somebody right now, and the casting director was taking the meeting. Maybe the casting director lived in Inglewood. Who knew? All Frankie cared about was that he was going to be in a movie, with lots of lines. Big budget, with a theatrical release this time. For that, he’d drive to fuckin’ Tijuana.

  “Fawna, I’m goin’ out,” Frankie said. Fawna hadn’t paid attention to the phone conversation. Of course, Fawna didn’t pay much attention to anything when she was on blow or ecstasy, which was most of the time. Lost in her world. Great lay, if she wasn’t too high. But Frankie knew he could do better. Next week, with the money and the movie role, he was putting this puke-hole of a house up for sale, and shopping for something in Palos Verdes. Fawna wasn’t coming with him.

  He went inside the house and called Jesus. He wouldn’t need an entourage—that would look bad for a supporting actor. But it made sense to bring one guy with him. You never knew.

  Ten minutes later, a dinged-up Chevy Tahoe pulled up in front of Frankie’s one-story stucco house, shrouded by two short, fat palm trees. Jesus got out and walked to the door. It was still warm out, and Jesus wore a black tank-top that showed off his bulging triceps and delts. Jesus was smart, though; he never worked his body to the point where he had a better set than Frankie. If Frankie was busy and couldn’t get to the gym for a few days, Jesus didn’t pump, either. Sometimes he spotted for Gino and Mikey, but he always stayed a few reps behind the boss.

  “Kinda late,” Jesus said when Frankie met him at the door. “What’s up?”

  “My agent called,” Frankie said. “Can you believe it? I was gonna see about getting his face on a milk carton. Says he’s got a job for me, starting tomorrow, but I gotta meet the casting director tonight.”

  Jesus shrugged. He knew the boss was obsessed with getting into the movies. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care. Jesus drove the car, muscled the pushers and bookies, and didn’t ask Frankie a lot of questions. It wasn’t a bad job—you had to look over your shoulder to make sure one of Sid Mink’s guys wasn’t around, but Jesus could take care of himself. Besides, something told him Frankie was going to be moving up in the world someday, maybe soon. He had that thing, what did they call it? Charisma. He wasn’t some porky, dried-up old fart like Mink. Frankie had balls, good looks, and the energy it took to be somebody. Lately Frankie’d been making lots of plans, something about a kidnapping that was going to pay off big. He wouldn’t give Jesus all the details, but it involved one of the Dodger players who worked out at Laswell’s. Frankie just told Jesus to be patient, because the money was going to be rolling in pretty soon. Jesus had heard that kind of talk before, but this time it sounded like the real thing, and he liked that.

  Jesus had the Tahoe’s radio tuned to Que Buena, the Hispanic music station. Frankie didn’t like that down-home, old country shit; it was for small-timers, homeys, guys from the barrio who weren’t ever going to make it. He hit the scan button, looking for classic rock. He was pumped up about this acting gig, and he needed some high-energy headbanging to match his mood. He wanted to walk into that audition like a rock star. He settled back when he found a station playing “Beautiful Girls” by Van Halen.

  He couldn’t help thinking about the Alberto Miranda deal as Jesus piloted the big SUV down La Cienega. He’d received an update earlier that morning. Elena Miranda was still under Jefe’s control, getting weaker, definitely, but she’d live long enough for the money transfer on Friday. Then Jefe would turn her loose, let her wander around until she found her way home or someone found her. It didn’t matter. The shanty would be torched by then, all traces of Jefe and his team dest
royed. Jefe would get his cut, to divide up among his partners any way he saw fit. Frankie expected Jefe to kill them; that’s what Frankie would do. Dead kidnappers don’t talk. As for Jefe, a million bucks should buy his silence. If not…well, anybody could be killed, anytime, anywhere.

  Except, apparently, that private dick from Minnesota. He’d missed Skarda twice, and that really pissed him off. Now Skarda was somewhere in L.A., but he didn’t seem to be getting any closer to finding Frankie or figuring out what was going on. And Skarda didn’t have enough time left. There was nothing he could do to stop Kenwood from paying off now. Maybe a week ago Frankie would have passed up this audition; there was too much up in the air then, too many ways that things could go wrong. Jefe might have let Elena get away, Miranda might have gone to the cops, Kenwood might have refused to pay…but none of that happened. He was almost home free, and it was time to expand his horizons. The money, the acting job, the new house, the new girlfriends…life was about to get very, very good.

  Jesus got on the 405 at Florence and exited five minutes later at West Century. They found the address they were looking for in a complex of boxy, two-story office buildings between the freeway and the eastern edge of LAX. With the constant hum of the freeway and the din from the arriving and departing jets, it wasn’t the kind of location where you’d try to get a lot of thinking done. He hoped they had a halfway quiet room for the audition.

  Jesus pulled into the parking lot outside the building they’d been directed to. The main entrance was a glass door near the north corner of the building, with the address stenciled in black numbers on the stucco wall next to the building. The front of the building was not lit, but from the streetlights along the curb, Frankie could tell that a company name had been spelled out in three-foot-tall letters above the door at some point, but the letters had been taken down a while ago, leaving a faint outline behind that he couldn’t read. There was a light on inside, illuminating two of the windows that faced the street, but the blinds were drawn.

  There were two other cars in the lot, a new Cadillac and an old Nissan. So nobody was driving a Mercedes or a Hummer—big deal. Probably just the casting director and an assistant, maybe a makeup artist or something. These Hollywood producers didn’t get rich by going to auditions at one in the morning.

  Jesus parked in front of the entrance and got out of the SUV first. Frankie was checking his hair in the mirror behind the sunshield, so he didn’t see Leon come from out of the shadows beside the building, walk up to Jesus, and put a bullet through his temple. But Frankie did hear the sharp pop, followed by someone pulling his door open and grabbing him by the arm. He tried to yank free and reach for the gun in the glove compartment, but he heard the mechanical sound of a semi-automatic being racked next to his ear, and a familiar voice:

  “You wanna die, Frankie?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Frankie eased his hand away from the glove compartment and slowly turned to see Joey Mattaliano—Joey Icebox, they called him, because he was built like a Frigidaire—with a gun pointed at the base of his skull. Through the open driver’s-side door, Frankie saw the other guy who was always with Sid Mink. Leon somebody. He had a gun, too, pointed directly at Frankie’s face. Frankie might be able to make a quick move and out-muscle Joey Icebox, but Leon would blow him away. Frankie looked down at Leon’s feet. He could see Jesus’ arm on the asphalt driveway, blood-streaked and immobile. He must be dead. Jesus.

  It was a set-up. They’d got to his fucking agent, that no-good piece of shit.

  The sweat was pouring down Frankie’s body, seeming to pool in his shorts and freeze around his genitals. Mink must know about the kidnapping. But how? He hadn’t told Jesus any of the details. Maybe Jesus had said something to Mikey or Gino; you couldn’t trust those two to go get a sandwich without shooting their mouths off to somebody, trying to prove how tough and important they were. Could Miranda have talked? But that would be crazy—he had to know his mother would be killed the moment anyone even suspected what was going on. Maybe it was Jefe; Frankie’d never met the guy, so who’s to say he didn’t try to cut a better deal for himself with Mink?

  Frankie knew he had just a few minutes, or even seconds, to bargain for his life.

  “Look, Joey, let me talk to Sid,” Frankie said. “Please. We can straighten this whole thing out.”

  “What thing would that be, Frankie?” Joey asked.

  “Come on, Joey. I know Sid knows. I was always gonna cut him in. Right from the start—honest. I just couldn’t let anybody else know about it until it all went down. But Sid’s gonna get his cut. Friday. Just lemme talk to him. Joey. Joey. Please.”

  The door to the office building opened, and Sid Mink walked slowly down the steps, swinging his big gut from side to side. He’d shut off the lights inside. He walked over to the SUV and looked down for a moment, staring at the spot where Jesus lay.

  “Guy’s name was Jesus?” Mink said, looking at Leo, then at Frankie. “This one ain’t gonna rise again.”

  Frankie had thought Mink was soft and old; he thought he could take him down. But it looked like he’d been wrong. Mink wasn’t washed up yet. That weary-old-fatman-at-the-Dodger-game act was a phony. But if he let Mink in on the plan, he’d have to give up maybe half of his take. Besides, Joey Icebox and Leon and maybe some of the other guys in Mink’s organization would know, too. Fuckin’ mobsters couldn’t keep their mouths shut. He should have just set up Mink for a hit—get it over with, bang, boom. Joey and Leon would be taking orders from him now.

  Instead, he was going for a ride—one way.

  Joey and Leon hauled Frankie out of the SUV and shoved him into the Cadillac. Then Leon went back to the SUV and got the gun out of the glove compartment. Mink got into the passenger seat, Leon got behind the wheel, and Joey sat in the back, holding a gun to Frankie’s ribs.

  “What should we do about the Nissan, boss?” Leon asked Mink.

  “Leave it. It’s clean.”

  The other car had been a dummy, just to convince Frankie that there really was a meeting at the office building. He should have smelled it; the car was a piece of shit, something Joey Icebox or Leon drove over from a chop shop. Not even a studio flunky would drive a crate like that.

  Joey backed up and turned the car toward the exit to the street. Mink didn’t say anything, so Frankie knew they already had his future figured out. He was going to be taken somewhere, shot and dumped. But first, they’d want to find out what he knew.

  They were on the 405 heading north toward the hills when Mink finally spoke.

  “So Frankie Navarro thought he was big enough and smart enough to pull a $50,000,000 scam to fix the World Series—that’s what we got here, Frankie?”

  Sid didn’t know Frankie very well. They’d crossed paths a few times at neighborhood festivals, political fundraisers, and the occasional social gathering at the home of mutual acquaintances. Frankie had decided right after arriving in L.A. that he and Mink were different breeds of cat, and he’d never get anywhere working for him. Mink was old-school, a relic from the days when the L.A. mob had some juice. Frankie wanted no part of it; he had to be free to do his own thing, to pursue acting at the same time he was building up his own little network of dealers and bookies. Besides, L.A. was changing. Mink was more comfortable dealing with white gamblers and black dope pushers; Frankie knew the barrios. Frankie wasn’t from East L.A. or Mexico, so he knew he’d never be able to move up in the Latino gangs. He worked the fringes—Mink assumed the La Raza boys looked out for him, and the Latinos figured Frankie was in good with Sid Mink.

  Frankie had just pushed it way too far.

  “It’s not like that, Sid,” Frankie said. “Like I told Joey Icebox—I was gonna cut you in. You know that. I just didn’t want to tell the world, you know? It was a tricky deal. If somebody talked…”

  Mink lit his cigar and pushed the button on the door to roll his window down halfway. He took a long drag and, ins
tead of blowing it out the window, blew it at Frankie.

  “See, that’s what I don’t get,” Mink said. “You’re tellin’ me you didn’t trust me? YOU didn’t trust ME?”

  “No, I don’t mean it that way, Sid,” Frankie said. Shit, everything he said came out wrong. There had to be something he could say, something he could offer Sid, that would keep him alive. Think, Frankie.

  “How did you mean it?”

  “I…I…”

  “C’mon, you fuckin’ little spic punk piece of shit!” Mink yelled. Now the veins were standing up in his neck, and he leaned over the back seat to get his face closer to Frankie’s. “I gotta listen to people tellin’ me we’re the Mickey Mouse Mafia. They say the cops are laughin’ behind our backs, that the unions don’t respect us no more, and the newspapers write editorials about our ‘declining influence.’ I’ll show you ‘declining influence.’”

  Mink reached over into Leon’s jacket and took out his Walther PPK with the silencer still attached. He pointed it at Frankie’s right bicep and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through Frankie’s arm.

  “Christ!” Frankie screamed. He clutched at the blood that poured out of his arm.

  “You think you’re so fuckin’ tough, you and those muscle boys you hang around with,” Mink said, his cigar hanging wet from the corner of his mouth. “What good are your muscles doin’ you now, huh Frankie? You look like a fuckin’ clown, like one of those dumb stiffs from a fuckin’ beach movie.”

  Frankie’s arm hurt like hell, but he wasn’t going to whimper for Sid Mink. Joey handed him a handkerchief and said, “Here. Don’t bleed all over the upholstery.”