The winter of Frankie Machine

51

The Nickel’s been expecting it.

A call from Frank on the backup phone.

Four in the morning, he’s in that surreal half sleep when the phone rings.

“Frank, thank God.”

“Sherm.”

“Look, there’s a clean passport and airline tickets waiting for you in Tijuana,” Sherm says. “You can be in France tomorrow morning. The EU won’t extradite on a capital crime. Everything’s taken care of for Patty and Jill. Godspeed, my friend.”

“Am I going to walk into another ambush, friend?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sherm listens to Frank tell him about the ambush at the bank and the GPS monitor that led to the motel in Brawley.

“Frank, you don’t think-”

“What am I supposed to think, Sherm?” Frank asks. “Who knew about that bank? You and me.”

“They came, Frankie,” Sherm says. “I gave them nothing, I swear.”

“Who came?”

“Some wise guys,” Sherm says. “And the feds.”

“The feds?”

“That buddy of yours,” Sherm says. “Hansen. They have warrants out for you, Frank. For Vince Vena and Tony Palumbo.”

Tony Palumbo? Frank thinks. That must have been the guy with the garrote on the boat. “You know anything about this Palumbo, Sherm?”

“Word on the street,” Sherm says, “is that he was an FBI undercover, an informant, the guy behind the G-Sting indictments.”

G-Sting, Frank thinks.

Strip clubs.

Teddy Migliore.

And Detroit.

“Who were the wise guys?” Frank asked.

“I don’t know,” Sherm says. “All I know is I gave them nothing. Frank, whereare you?”

“Yeah, right.”

Sherm sounds legitimately hurt. “After all these years, Frank.”

“WhatI’m thinking, Sherm.”

“You have to trustsomebody, Frank.”

Is that right? Frank thinks. Who? There were three people who knew about the existence of that bank-me, Sherm, and Mike Pella. The only one I absolutelyknow didn’t flip on me is me.

So I’d better find Mike, and I don’t know where he is. There’s somebody who might, though.

Can I trust Dave?

Because we’ve been friends for twenty years?

And because he owes me one?