The winter of Frankie Machine

17

Tracking down Mouse Junior is a cinch.

Frank simply calls 411, gets the number for Golden Productions, and dials it.

“Hey,” he says to the receptionist, “I’m the caterer for the shoot today, and I can’t locate it. Can you tell me…”

It’s in the Valley, of course.

The San Fernando Valley is the porn capital of the world. You can’t bounce a tennis ball in the Valley without hitting a bare ass waiting to go on the set. An incorporated part of Los Angeles, it tried to secede a few years back, ostensibly, Frank thinks as he turns on the 101 and heads toward the Valley, to re-create itself as the Republic of Porn.

So you have Hollywood, and then, to the north, you have Holly-woody. Gay guys with Viagra-fueled erections banging drug-addicted girls on bare mattresses tossed on lawns in Encino.

About as erotic, Frank thinks, as an intestinal bug.

But the truth is that the “adult-entertainment industry” outgrosses (no pun intended) Hollywood, Major League Baseball, the NFL, and the NBA combined. It’s a major money maker, and where you find money being made, you’ll find the guys.

He finds the shoot with no problem. It’s a big house in Chatsworth, with a walled-in backyard and the inevitable pool. He knows he has the right place because Mouse Junior’s Hummer is parked on the street, which just goes to show you how careless this thing has gotten lately, when you take a whack at a guy, miss, then keep using your own car like you don’t have a worry in the world.

Unless it’s an ambush, Frank thinks.

He drives around, looking for a work car, but he doesn’t see one. Nor does he see any guys on the corner. If Mouse Junior has security with him, they’re all in there watching the action. Which is really dumb, Frank thinks as he drives up the switchback where he can look down at the backyard. He parks, gets his binos out, and checks the scene.

If I wanted to take Mouse Junior out, I could do it right from the car with a single rifle shot, and then all his security could do for him would be pick his dead body up off the wet grass.

Because there is the dumb little punk, with his dumber wingman, Travis, standing around with the director and the crew, trying to figure out where to shoot now that it’s raining. The cast and crew are miserably gathered in a knot inside the covered patio, and the director seems to be trying to figure out how to shoot in there, and, sure enough, a couple of gaffers go out and roll a chaise lounge onto the patio. A production assistant finds a towel and wipes it off.

Which is considerate, Frank thinks-at least the actors get to work on adry lawn chair.

Frank focuses the glasses on Mouse Junior. It would be easy to take him out, but Frank doesn’t want Mouse Junior’s blood; he wants information. So he has to sit there and wait for a chance.

There are five things that make guys give you an opening:

Carelessness.

Fatigue.

Habits.

Money.

Sex.

That’s it. That’s the list.

Mouse Junior’s already committed carelessness, and it would be enough to kill him, except that Frank doesn’t want him dead. So now he has to wait for Mouse Junior to commit one of the other five deadly sins.

Frank’s money is on sex.

Which is not a huge long shot, seeing as how Mouse Junior is standing there watching a young lady having sex with herself right now. She’s a petite blonde with an enormous chest, a rack off the rack, as it were. And she has the requisite tattoo on the small of her back, the “tramp stamp,” as Mike Pella refers to it.

A dolphin, frolicking in a wave.

Frank’s offended on behalf of dolphins.

He’ssurfed with dolphins, for heaven’s sake. Sometimes they do that, ride along with the surfers, just for fun. And some of the best memories of his life come from watching dolphins play in the break at sunset. He doesn’t need to see them depicted on some porn actress’s back.

Frank doesn’t get the whole tattoo thing anyway, doesn’t see the attraction at all. He doesn’t think they look good on young bodies, and what happens when gravity takes its inevitable toll and the drawings start to go south?

Not a pretty picture.

Mouse Junior has his eye on Dolphin Girl.

She has her eye on him.

It’s porno puppy love.

Kind of sweet, if it weren’t so disgusting.

She’s playing with herself and moaning and making eyes off-camera at Mouse Junior, who’s standing there shifting his weight from one leg to the other and grinning like the congenital idiot he is.

In the meantime, Male Porn Star is getting a smoker from another young man, and now he breaks off and walks onto the set, and Dolphin Girl takes over the oral chore. Then Male Porn Star returns the favor, and then they go through a tedious rotation of positions-like sexual gymnasts performing their mandatory techniques-which culminates in the requisite money shot on her face, which she receives with apparent enthusiasm, if not downright gratitude.

Then it’s lunchtime.

Frank doesn’t know if “adult entertainers” have a union, but they seem pretty prompt on the lunch break, and everybody lines up on the patio to work their way down the long table.

Mouse Junior waits as a production assistant hands Dolphin Girl a moist towelette to wipe her face off with, then steps forward and drapes a terry-cloth robe around her shoulders, proving, Frank supposes, that chivalry is not, indeed, dead. He watches as they separate themselves from the group and eat their lunch by the covered barbecue grill.

And talk about what? Frank wonders.

The scene she just did? Or the one she’s about to? About her performance, her technique? Some pointers from the “producer”? Career notes? What?

Doesn’t matter.

Frank waits until the lunch break is over, then drives closer to the house and finds a parking spot down the street.

Dolphin Girl comes out about two hours later and gets into a Ford Taurus. Frank follows her as she drives down the street to the on-ramp of the 101. He stays a few cars behind her as she drives south, then exits at Encino. She lives in one of those two-story blocks of apartment buildings like thousands of others in the L.A. area. Frank follows her into the parking lot, where she pulls into her assigned slot. He finds an empty space and parks, then watches as she walks up to the second floor and lets herself into her apartment.

Then he drives out, finds a Subway, gets himself a turkey sub and a bottled iced tea, goes to the convenience store in the same strip mall and buysSurfer, then drives back across the street from her apartment building and waits.

The sandwich is good-not great, not like he’d build for himself at home, but good. He chose the turkey with whole-grain bread because both Donna and Jill have been after him about his carb intake, what with all the pasta.

Diet fads, Frank thinks-a while back everyone was “carb packing” and you couldn’t sell enough pasta at the restaurants, and now carbs are the devil and protein is the thing.

Mouse Junior doesn’t get there until almost eight.

Must have been problems on the set, Frank thinks. Script troubles, camera breakdowns, erectile dysfunctions, Astroglide shortage…

Anyway, Mouse Junior comes in his Hummer and he comes alone. Carelessnessand sex, Frank thinks, a deadly daily double. The only question is whether to take him now or wait untilafter he’s gotten his rocks off.

It would be better to do it in the apartment than on the street, Frank thinks, but Dolphin Girl has nothing to do with this. So he decides to leave her out of it, hoping that Mouse Junior doesn’t spend the night.

In short, Frank thinks, you hope he’syou.

He sets the alarm on his watch and takes a half-hour nap, knowing that Mouse Junior isn’t going to be that fast. He leans back in the seat and sleeps soundly until the little ringer wakes him up; then he gets out, opens the trunk, takes out a slim jim, and walks over to the Hummer.

In the old days, if a boss’s son was paying court, as it were, there would’ve been guys out on the street waiting, taking his back.

Not now.

Frank walks up to the Hummer and opens the door. The alarm goes off, but no one pays attention to these things anymore, and it only takes him a couple of seconds to reach under and disarm the stupid thing.

He climbs into the backseat and lies down on the floor to wait, hoping that Mouse Junior is a bad lover.

Mediocre, as it turns out.

It’s nearly 10:30 when Mouse Junior emerges from the apartment building.

Whistling.

Unreal, Frank thinks as he hears Mouse Junior warbling. The kid is a walking cliche. He waits as the door opens and Mouse Junior gets behind the wheel. Then he presses the pistol barrel into the back of the driver’s seat so Mouse Junior can feel it poking into his back.

“Press your hands onto the ceiling,” Frank says. “Hard.”

Mouse Junior does it.

Frank reaches over and finds the pistol in Mouse Junior’s shoulder holster, empties the chamber, and tucks the gun into his own waistband.

“Now put your hands on the wheel,” Frank says.

Mouse Junior does that, too. “Please don’t kill me, Mr. Machianno.”

“If I wanted you dead,” Frank says, “you’d already be dead. Just understand that if you make me shoot you through this seat, it will be the bulletand the hand-tooled leather and God knows what else that will be blowing through your vital parts. Capisce? ”

“I understand,” Mouse Junior says, his voice quivering.

“Good,” Frank says. “Now let’s go see Daddy.”

It’s a long drive to Westlake Village, mostly because Mouse Junior develops a case of verbal diarrhea and can’t stop the foolishness flowing out of his mouth. About how happy he is that Frank’s alive, how shocked he was about what happened on the boat, how he and Travis ran and called his dad right away to see if he could help, how the whole L.A. family has been-

“Junior? Shut up,” Frank says. “You’re giving me a headache.”

“Sorry.”

“Just drive,” Franks says. He tells him to go to the one place in the world that no one would expect Frank Machianno to go: Mouse Senior’s place of business. The coffeehouse will be closed to the public by now, but Frank knows that Mouse Senior and half the L.A. family will be there.

Which is just what he wants.

Get this thing settled so he can get his life back.

When they get there, Frank tells Mouse Junior to pull into the back parking lot, keep the engine running, and use his cell phone to call his dad. Mouse Junior’s hand is shaking like an old drunk’s as he punches the number on speed dial.

When Frank hears Mouse Senior answer, he grabs the phone.

“Come outside,” he says.

Mouse Senior recognizes the voice. “Frank? What the fuck?”

“I have a gun pressed to your kid’s back and I’ll pull the trigger unless you’re out here in ten seconds.”

“What are you, drunk?” Mouse Senior asks. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“One…”

“Frank, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“Two…”

“Frank, I’m looking out the window, I see Junior sitting in his car by himself.”

“Tell him,” Frank says to Mouse Junior.

“Dad?” Mouse Junior says. “He’s here. He’s in the backseat. He has a gun.”

“That was three, four, and five,” Frank says.

“Is this a kidnap thing?” Mouse Senior asks. “Are you crazy, Machianno? Are you out of your fucking mind? ”

Is it possible, Frank thinks, that Mouse Senior didn’t know about the setup?

“Six,” Frank says.

“I’m coming out! I’m coming out!” Frank keeps the gun on Mouse Junior’s back but rises up just enough to see out the window. Mouse Senior steps out the back door. His brother Carmen is with him, and so are Rocco Meli and Joey Fiella. The Martini brothers won’t be carrying guns, Frank knows, but Rocco and Joey will definitely be strapped.

It doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to take a shot at him while he’s this close to the boss’s son. I could, Frank thinks. I could make the shot and never splash a drop of blood on the kid, but that’s me, that’s not them.

And they know it.

They also know that I could have killed the kid already, if that’s what I was about. And I would have been within my rights to do it, for setting me up. The fact that I brought him here, where it would be tantamount to suicide to pull the trigger, let’s them know I want to make peace.

He says, “Pete, you know your son could be dead already.”

“Take it easy, Frank.”

Frank hasn’t seen Mouse Senior in years. The boss still has that broad, flat, frying-pan face, but the lines in it are a lot deeper and his hair has gone completely white.

“I’m taking it easy,” Frank says. “You do the same and you just listen. We’ve apparently had some sort of bad misunderstanding, Pete, to lead you to think you had to have me clipped. If you think I’m going to flip on you for Herbie Goldstein, you’re wrong. I haven’t been arrested, indicted, or even questioned about it. And even if I had, I’m not a rat.”

“I never thought you were,” Mouse Senior says. “What thefuck are you talking about?”

“The little sit-down with Vince Vena on the boat?” Frank sees some movement from the corner of his eye. “Tell Joey to stop working his way around the other side of the car.”

“Joey, stand still,” Mouse Senior orders. “Frank, what the fuckare you talking about?”

“He doesn’t know?” Frank asks Junior.

Mouse Junior shakes his head.

“You’d better tell him.”

“Tell me what?” Mouse Senior glares at his son. “Tell mewhat, Junior? What did you fuck up now?”

“Dad…”

“Goddamn it, tell me!”

“Me and Travis were shooting some porn down in San Diego,” Mouse Junior says. “Internet porn, Webcam shit…streaming video…”

“You fucking little asshole,” Mouse Senior says. “You know that’s-”

“I was trying to make some money, Dad!” Mouse Junior says. “I was trying to earn!”

“Keep talking.”

“I was making so much fucking money, Dad,” Mouse Junior says. “Then the Detroit guys found out. They jammed me up, said they were going to take it to you unless-”

“What did youdo, Junior?”

“They just wanted me to set up a meeting,” Mouse Junior cries. “Get Frank to come, sit down with Vena. That’s all. I didn’t know they were going to kill him; I swear, I didn’t know. They just said tell him this story, get him to the meeting, I could keep my business down there.”

“Frank, I’m sorry,” Mouse Senior says. “I didn’t know.”

“Baloney,” Frank says. “Detroit would never come on your turf and clip one of your guys without you signing off on it. You’re the boss.”

“The boss?” Mouse Senior asks, his mouth twisting into a rueful sneer. “Boss ofwhat? I’m the boss ofshit. ”

It’s the stone-cold truth.

Most of Mouse’s guys are in the joint, what he’s got left are garbage, and he’s looking down the barrel of another indictment. Heis the boss of shit-Frank just didn’t realize that he knew it.

“So where are we now, Frankie?” Mouse Senior asks. He turns to his son. “You know the man is within his rights to kill you.”

“Dad-”

“Shut up, idiot,” Mouse Senior says. He turns to Frank. “You have a daughter, Frank. You know how it feels. You want me to give him a good beating, I will. But let him go, please. Father to father, I’m begging you. I’m humbling myself.”

“Who?” Frank asks Mouse Junior. “One chance to tell me the truth-who came to you?”

“John Heaney,” Mouse Junior says.

John Heaney, Frank thinks. No wonder he looked so edgy when I saw him-could it have been just last night?-outside Freddie’s. John, my old surfing buddy, my friend, the guy I helped get half a dozen jobs…

That’s this world we live in.

“Get out of the car,” Frank says.

Mouse Junior practically falls tumbling out of the Hummer. Frank climbs into the driver’s seat, slams the door shut, puts the vehicle into reverse, and roars out of the parking lot onto the street. From the rearview mirror, he can already see Joey winging shots at him, Rocco scrambling to a car, and Mouse Senior slapping Mouse Junior upside the head.

But taking a break long enough to yell-

“Kill that cocksucker!”