The winter of Frankie Machine

19

Joey Fiella cranks the car onto the on-ramp of the 101 South and hopes his Mustang can handle the curve.

It does.

Junior’s Hummer didn’t.

Its left front fender is crumpled against a light pole and smoke is coming up from the engine.

“Junior’s going to be pissed,” Rocco says.

“Fuck him,” Joey says.

He pulls the car off on the shoulder behind the Hummer.

“This is a piece of luck,” Rocco says.

Yeah, but which kind? Joey thinks as he grabs his pistol and opens the door. Rocco does the same, and they approach the Hummer from both sides, guns pointed, like cops on a sketchy traffic stop.

Fuck Junior and his tinted windows, Joey thinks as he gets to the driver’s door, because he can’t see inside and can only hope that Frankie Machine is slumped against the steering wheel with his melon cracked in half.

He decides not to take any chances. Frankie could be playing possum in there, and besides, another car could be coming up the ramp any second. So Joey Fiella just starts shooting. Rocco catches the panic bug and does the same thing, and the two of them empty their guns into the front windows.

The window glass shatters.

Joey blinks.

Frankie ain’t in there.

And his own Mustang is pulling onto the highway, with Frankie behind the wheel.

This isn’t good, Joey thinks.

It isn’t going to be any fun explaining to Pete how he shot Junior’s Hummer to shit and got his own car stolen.

And let Frankie Machine get away.