The Winter of Frankie Machine

by Don Winslow

  He knew, Frank thought.

  He knows.

  There was a little hurt look in his eyes as he tried to hold the door, but Frank was too strong and just ripped it open.

  “I’m sorry,” Frank said.

  He put four shots into Bap’s face.

  The blood followed him back into the street.

  Frank went to the funeral. Marie seemed inconsolable. Later on, she sued the FBI for negligence. The suit didn’t get very far.

  Neither did the murder investigation.

  The feds liked Jimmy for it, and charged him, and threw the hit into the indictment salad against L.A. with everything else, but they had no evidence and couldn’t prove anything.

  And Frank got his button for that night, him and Mike.

  They had a cheesy “ceremony” in the back of a car pulled off the I-15 near Riverside, with Chris Panno and Jimmy Forliano. That was it: Chris just pulled off the side of the road and Jimmy turned around to the backseat, pricked Frank’s thumb with a pin, kissed him on the cheeks, and said, “Congratulations, you’re in.”

  They didn’t hold burning paper, or a stiletto or a gun, or anything like that. It was nothing like it was supposed to have been in the old days, nothing like it was in the movies.

  Mike was disappointed.

  Frank went straight after the hit on Bap.

  Mike went to San Quentin.

  He had gotten popped for extorting local gamblers—the feds had a wire tap of him and Jimmy Regace discussing it, so they were both jacked up good. The feds tried to put him behind the wheel for the Baptista hit, with Forliano as the triggerman, and tried to get him to trade up, but Mike didn’t buy the bluff, and he wouldn’t have taken the deal anyway.

  Whatever else Mike was or wasn’t, he wasn’t a rat.

  And he never breathed Frank’s name.

  Nobody did, and Frank sweated it out (literally) down in Rosarito. That same spring, the California Crime Commission listed ninety-three names on its “Organized Crime” list, and Frank wasn’t on it. He figured that he had dodged a big bullet, so it was time to lay low.

  Frank saw Richard Nixon one more time.

  It was the autumn of ’75, and the president wasn’t the president anymore, but the ex-president, in exile and disgrace in San Clemente.

  He came down to the Sur in October to play in Fitzsimmons’s golf tournament, his first public appearance since being hounded out of office. Frank was in the parking lot when Nixon’s limo pulled in and he saw him get out of the car. Nixon didn’t look jaunty anymore; he looked beaten and old, but he played a full eighteen holes, and this time he didn’t seem to mind being seen with the likes of Allen Dorner and Joey the Clown and Tony Jacks, who were playing, too.

  They didn’t mind being seen with Richard Nixon.

  26

  Is it possible? Frank wonders.

  Could Marie Baptista, Bap’s widow, have learned something in her suit against the FBI? Bided her time, saved her money, maybe? Put out a contract on me that Vince picked up?

  It’s unlikely, but I have to find out.

  He gets in the rental car and heads for Pacific Beach.

  Marie Baptista still lives in the same house.

  Frank hasn’t seen her since Bap’s funeral, thirty years ago. He remembers the way to the house, though. Now he walks up the narrow little path between the well-tended flower gardens and rings the bell, like he used to do in the old days when he was coming to pay his respects.

  Marie still looks great.

  Tiny, diminished in the way of old people, but still great. She still has that pretty face, and the bright eyes, and one look at those eyes tells Frank that this old lady could commission a hit to revenge her husband.

  “Mrs. Baptista,” Frank says, “do you remember me? Frankie Machianno?”

  She looks puzzled. She’s trying hard, but it’s not coming to her. Or she’s a terrific actress.

  “I used to work with your husband,” Frank prompts.

  As a matter of fact, I worked for both of them, he thinks.

  “I used to drive you to get your groceries?” Frank says.

  Her face brightens. “Frankie…Won’t you come in?”

  He steps inside. The place has that musty, flowery-perfume smell that comes with old ladies. But it’s as neat as a pin and clean. She must have help come in. Bap must have left her comfortable.

  Good for Bap.

  “Would you care for some tea?” Marie asks. “I don’t drink coffee anymore. My bowels.”

  “Tea would be nice,” Frank says. “Can I help you?”

  “I just put water on,” Marie says. “Sit. I’ll only be a minute.”

  Frank sits on the sofa.

  Bap’s crappy paintings hang all over the walls. Watercolor after watercolor of ocean scenes—and a bad portrait of her, Bap at his worst, but she must love it. To her, she looks beautiful.

  Photos of Bap sit on every flat surface. The bad comb-over, the big bug eyes, the thick glasses, the awkward smile. Frank has a different picture of Bap burned in his head. Bap in the phone booth, blood running…

  Marie comes in with two cups on saucers. Frank stands and takes one of the cups from her, then steadies her as she sits in her chair.

  “It’s so nice to see you, Frankie,” she says.

  “Nice to see you,” Frank says. “I’m sorry I haven’t come more often.”

  She smiles and nods. If it was her, Frank thinks, you’d know it by now. She’d look scared, or guilty; you would see it in her eyes.

  “Did you bring my groceries?” she asks.

  “No, ma’am,” Frank says. “I don’t do that now.”

  “Oh.” She looks confused. “I thought…”

  “Do you need groceries, Mrs. Baptista?” Frank asks.

  “Well, yes.” She looks around the room. “My list…I thought I…Where is it?”

  “Is it in the kitchen?” Frank asks. “May I go look?”

  She’s frowning, looking around the room. Frank gets up, sets his teacup on a doily on the side table, and walks into the kitchen. He finds the list taped near the telephone. She either forgot to call the delivery service, or forgot that she called. Either way…

  “Mrs. Baptista,” he says as he steps back into the living room, “may I go get these for you?”

  “That’s your job, isn’t it?” she snaps.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  He finds an Albertsons in a strip mall three blocks away. It doesn’t take him long, as the list is short—a few cans of tuna fish, some bread, some milk, some orange juice. He goes to the frozen section, carefully chooses a few of the better-quality meals for one, and tosses them into the basket.

  He rings the bell again when he gets back. She lets him in and he sets the bags down on the kitchen counter and starts putting things away. He shows her the microwave dinners before he puts them in the freezer. “You can make these in five or six minutes,” he tells her.

  “I know that,” she says impatiently.

  Looking into the eyes of this old woman, he has so many memories. Her in her black dress, “the hot little number,” Al DeSanto, and Momo. She was a tough lady, surviving all that, then marrying Bap to boot.

  She reaches out, touches his arm, and gives him her best charming smile. Oddly enough, it is charming. She’s still beautiful.

  “I’ll tell Momo,” she says, “you did a good job.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Marie.”

  “I can’t do that, Mrs. Baptista.”

  He puts the dinners in the freezer, says good-bye, and leaves.

  Yeah, you’re a great guy, he thinks. You kill the woman’s husband, so you buy her a couple of frozen dinners.

  That should make it okay.

  But it wasn’t Marie who ordered the hit.

  So I’m still stuck with the question, Why did Vince Vena want me dead? And if he wasn’t acting on his own, then why did Detroit want me dead?

  Doesn�
�t matter, he decides. If Detroit didn’t have a beef against me before I killed Vince, they sure do now. They can’t just let someone kill a member of the ruling council of the Combination and walk away, even if it was in self-defense.

  So this isn’t going to be any short mix-up that can be quickly fixed. They’ll be coming, in force and for the long haul, and they won’t quit until they’ve put me in the dirt.

  This is going to be a war, and I’ll need the resources for a war.

  He heads up to La Jolla to see The Nickel.

  27

  “We have an ID on your floater,” the rookie agent tells Dave.

  He’s back in the FBI office downtown. The young agent came in like an acolyte bringing the chalice to a bishop. “How did you know, Mr. Hansen?”

  “Dave,” Dave says. “I feel old enough already today.”

  And I can’t remember this kid’s name, he thinks. The new crop all look alike, just like this one. Slim but muscular, clean-cut, short hair. Tailored black or blue suits, white shirts, understated monotone ties.

  This one is particularly meticulous about his clothes. He’s wearing the standard white shirt, Dave notices, but it has French cuffs with expensive cuff links.

  Cuff links, Dave thinks. What’s it coming to? And Troy—that’s the kid’s name. Troy…Vaughan.

  “But how did you know, Dave?” asks Troy.

  To check the fingerprints against the OC files, he means. Still, that was a lot of files, and Dave’s a little surprised they already have a hit. Supercomputers, I guess, he thinks. In the old days, it was a matter of—who cares, these aren’t the old days.

  “I didn’t know,” Dave says. “It was a hunch.”

  “Awesome.”

  “You going to give me the ID?” Dave asks.

  Troy blushes and shows him the file.

  Vincent Paul Vena looks a lot better in his mug shot than he did on the rocks at Point Loma. He’s giving the camera that classic wise-guy “I don’t give a shit” smile, the one they must teach in Goombah 101.

  Vena has quite a sheet—simple assault, aggravated assault, shylocking, gambling, extortion, arson…. He did a five spot in Leavenworth for the fire. The Michigan cops liked him for several murders in the nineties but couldn’t hang any on him. And the word is that he’d just risen to the ruling council of the Combination.

  None of that means much to Dave. What does mean something—means a lot—is that Vena was the guy in Detroit whom Teddy Migliore kicked up to. It was Vena who looked after the San Diego strip club and prostitution business for the Combination.

  “What’s a Detroit guy doing in California?” Troy asks.

  “Vacationing?” says Dave.

  Maybe, Dave thinks, but probably not. More likely he was out here doing damage control from the G-Sting indictments.

  Maybe hit somebody.

  But it looks like someone hit back.

  Dave finishes reading the Vena file, then gets in his car and drives over to what used to be Little Italy. Frank Machianno didn’t show up again for the Gentlemen’s Hour or at the bait shop, which was still locked up. No one has reported him missing, but he is missing, goddamn it.

  Dave walks over to the downtown branch of the library, where Patty Machianno works part-time. Just to have a chat with her, not as an FBI agent, but as a concerned friend.

  She’s not there.

  He walks all over the building and doesn’t see her, so he asks a woman her age behind the front desk.

  “Is Patty here today?”

  The woman looks at him, then glances at his wedding ring.

  “I’m a friend of Frank’s,” he says. Because everyone loves Frank the Bait Guy. “I was in the library, thought I’d say hi.”

  “Patty called in sick yesterday,” the woman tells him. “Said she wasn’t sure how long she’d be out.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dave goes back to the office, checks out a car, and drives over to Patty’s house. He rings the bell half a dozen times, then snoops around the house, peeking in windows. The place is all locked up. He looks in the mailbox, and it’s empty. No mail, no newspaper. He knows that Patty takes the Union-Trib, because Frank is always bitching about it.

  “She could read it at the library,” Frank told him.

  “Maybe she likes to read it over breakfast, Frank.” Patty is a devoted Padres and Chargers fan and reads the sports section every morning. She’s addicted to Nick Canepa’s columns.

  Dave calls the newspaper’s customer-service line.

  “Hey, Frank Machianno here,” he says. “I didn’t get my paper this morning.”

  He gives the lady on the phone Patty’s address. A few seconds later the girl gets back on the line and says, “Sir, you stopped delivery for two weeks.”

  Dave ends the call, dials the office, and gets Troy on the line. “Troy, get a license plate number and registration for a Machianno, Patricia, and start looking for the vehicle.”

  He spells out the name.

  “Try the airport,” he tells Troy. “Not the main lot, but one of the bargain lots.”

  A woman married to Frank Machianno for all those years wouldn’t pay prime parking fees at the main airport lot. She’d go to one of the cheaper commercial lots off PCH and take the complimentary van to the airport.

  Troy asks, “What file should I—”

  “You don’t,” Dave snaps. “You don’t open a file; you just do what I ask.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t call me ‘sir.’”

  “No.”

  Dave feels badly about snapping at the kid. He says, “Troy, you’re doing a great job, okay?”

  Dave leaves Patty’s house and drives up to Solana Beach. He feels a little guilty about doing it, because Frank doesn’t know that Dave knows about Donna. Frank has a thing about keeping his private life, well, private, and he probably wouldn’t like Dave intruding into his personal life. Except that there’s a Bureau intelligence file on Frankie, and Dave’s studied every word of it.

  I’m worried about you, Frank, Dave thinks as he drives north.

  Donna Bryant’s shop is closed.

  Dave gets out of the car, walks up to the door, and reads the hand-lettered sign.

  ON VACATION.

  Donna Bryant doesn’t take vacations.

  Dave has checked in on the shop from time to time, and it’s always open—seven days a week. If Donna Bryant were really taking a vacation, she would have planned it well in advance and would have arranged for someone to work the shop. At the very least, she would have had a printed sign made up—with a date announcing when she would reopen.

  But she doesn’t know when she’ll be back, Dave thinks.

  She didn’t know she was leaving, either.

  So Frank’s in the wind, his ex-wife is gone, and his girlfriend, who is as big or bigger a workaholic than even Frank is, goes on a sudden vacation.

  All after a Detroit strong-arm man washes up on the rocks.

  No. It doesn’t work that way.

  Frank Machianno’s in trouble.

  But Frank would never go in the wind without making sure his loved ones were safe first. Patty and Donna being gone is a good sign that Frank is still alive, that he told them to get scarce and then went off the grid himself.

  And where is Jill?

  He debates whether to call her. On the one hand, he wants to make sure she’s safe; on the other hand, he doesn’t want to scare the hell out of her. And there’s something else: Jill Machianno doesn’t know that her father is…

  And Frank just got back on good terms with her, and that means the world to him, and the last thing Dave wants to do is screw that up.

  So find her, he tells himself, put a loose surveillance on her, but let it go at that. In the meantime, it might be a good idea to put a little pressure on Sherm Simon.

  See what The Nickel has to say.

  28

  “Run.”

  That’s what The Nickel has to say when he ge
ts Frank’s call. Just the single word, Run, before he sets the receiver down. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Do not come by the office or anywhere near it. Just run.

  “Run?” Dave Hansen asks.

  He’s sitting across the desk from Sherm Simon.

  “Japanese movie,” Simon answers. “Kurosawa. If you haven’t seen it, you should.”

  “That was Ran.”

  “Ran, Run, what’s the difference?”

  “A big difference,” Dave says, “if that was Frank Machianno on the phone.”

  “Frank who?”

  “Don’t play games with me.”

  “I don’t play games,” Sherm says. “Do you have a warrant, Agent Hansen? Because if you don’t…” He gestures to the door.

  “Frank may be in trouble,” Dave says.

  No shit, Frank may be in trouble, Sherm thinks. I may be in trouble. We all may be in trouble. There’s trouble that you’ve had, trouble that you presently have, and trouble you’re going to have—that’s the world.

  “You hold Frank’s mad money,” Dave says. It’s a statement, not a question.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m trying to help him,” Dave says.

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  Dave gets up and leans over the desk. “Well, don’t seriously doubt this: The Patriot Act gives me carte blanche when it comes to money laundering, Mr. Simon. I can open you up like a kid’s juice carton and spill you out all over the place.”

  “You know goddamn well,” Sherm says, “that Frank Machianno—and I’m not implying any relationship here—has nothing to do with terrorism. The notion is ridiculous.”

  “That’s not what I’ll tell the judge.”

  “No, I’ll bet it isn’t.”

  “If you see him,” Dave says, “if he contacts you, you let me know right away.”

  Sherm doesn’t make any promises.

  29

  Troy Vaughan leaves the Federal Building to go grab some lunch. They have a good cafeteria in the building, but Troy feels like getting some air. He tucks the Union-Tribune under his arm and leaves his office.

  “It’s raining,” the receptionist tells him.