The winter of Frankie Machine

50

Four more bodies, Frank thinks as he drives through the desert.

English Pat Porter and his two boys.

And Mac.

Four more candidates, but not exactly strong ones. Hell, all that was almost twenty years ago. Even back then, the word was that people in London were relieved that Porter and his crew hadn’t cashed in on their round-trip tickets.

And Mac?

He’d had no family, no people. And the SDPD hadn’t exactly rushed to investigate the murder of a crooked ex-cop.

Of course, Mike lost the Pinto Club. Without Mac to restrain him, he ran it into the ground and ended up burning it down before the IRS, the bank, or the other creditors could take it away from him.

Then he got popped for the arson and went in for a ten spot.

The Migliores eventually took over the whole San Diego strip club business, and the prostitution and porn that went with it, with the Combination as their grand protectors.

But what does it have to do with me? Frank wonders.

Is it possible that the feds have reopened one of the Strip Club War cases and are going after the Migliores? So they’re eliminating potential witnesses, including yours truly?

If that’s the case, maybe Mike is in the dirt instead of the wind.

Frank pulls off the road.

Tired.

It hits him like a cold, hard wave.

This fatigue, this…despair. This acknowledgment of reality-that he can run and fight, run and fight, andwin every one, but that eventually, inevitably, he’s going to lose.

Hell, Frank thinks, I’vealready lost.

My life.

The life I love, anyway. Frank the Bait Guy is already dead, even if Frankie Machine ekes out survival. That life is gone-my home, the early mornings on the pier, the bait shack, seeing my customers, sponsoring the kids.

The Gentlemen’s Hour.

All gone now, even if I “live.”

And Patty.

And Donna.

And Jill.

What’s left of them now for me? Brief, tense meetings in hotels somewhere? Hurried embraces in the thick air of fear? Maybe a quick kiss, a fast hug. “How are you?” “What’s new?” Maybe there’ll be grandkids someday. Jill will send pictures to some post office box. Or maybe I can check in on one of those Internet sites, watch my grandchildren grow up on a little laptop screen.

If life is just running now, why bother?

Why not just swallow the gun right here?

Jesus, he thinks, you’ve become Jay Voorhees.

This is what kills you, surer than a bullet.

He makes a phone call.