The winter of Frankie Machine

55

Mike Pella comes home from the bar, turns the living room light on, and finds Frank Machianno sitting in the La-Z-Boy with a silenced . 22 pointed at Mike’s chest.

“Hello, Mike.”

Mike doesn’t even think about running. This is Frankie Machine we’re talking about here. So Mike says, “You want a beer, Frankie?”

“No thanks.”

“You mind if I have one?”

“Anything comes out of that fridge but a Budweiser,” Frank says, “I’ll put two in your head.”

“It’ll be a Coors, if that’s okay,” Mike says, walking over to the refrigerator. “Lite. Man my age has to watch the carbs. You, too, Frankie, you ain’t no kid anymore, either.”

He gets his beer, pops the tab off with his thumb, and sits down on the sofa across from Frank. “You look good, though, Frankie. Must be all that fish you eat.”

“Why, Mike?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you flip?” Frank asks. “You, of all people.”

Mike smiles and takes a drink of his beer.

“I respected you,” Frank says. “I looked up to you. You taught me about this thing, about-”

“Things aren’t what they used to be,” Mike says. “Peoplearen’t what they used to be. Nobody’s loyal to anybody anymore. Things just aren’t that way. And you’re right-I’mnot the man I used to be. I’m sixty-five years old, for Chrissakes. I’m tired.”

Frank looks at him, and heis different. Funny, Frank thinks, how I see him the way he used to be, not like this. His hair is white and getting a little sparse. His neck is thin in his collar, and the skin is wrinkled. So are his hands, wrapped around the beer can. There are lines on his face that never used to be there. Do I look that old? Frank wonders. Am I kidding myself when I look in the mirror?

And look at this place. A used La-Z-Boy, a crappy sofa, a cheap coffee table, a TV set. A Mr. Coffee, a microwave, a refrigerator. And that’s it. Nothing made with love or care, nothing that looks lived in, no pictures of loved ones.

An empty place, an empty life.

God, is this my future?

“I don’t want to die in the joint, okay?” Mike is saying. “I want to sit down with a beer, fall asleep in my own chair watching a ball game with the Miss July foldout on my lap. I’m tired of all this Mafia crap, and that’s what it is, all crap. There’s no honor, no loyalty. Never has been. We were fucking fooling ourselves. We’re in our sixties now and the better part of our lives is over, so it’s about time we grew the fuck up, Frankie. I’m just tired of the whole thing and I don’t want no part of it no more. If you’re going to shoot me now, fine, shoot me. If not, God bless.”

“You killed Herbie,” Frank says.

“You got me,” Mike says.

“And you were afraid I knew and I’d rat you out on it,” Frank says, “and that would queer your immunity deal. So you put a contract out on me. I wasn’t going to do that, Mike. I’m not a rat. I’m not you. So if you’re worried I’m going to tell the feds-”

Mike laughs. There’s no joy in his laughter. No fun. It’s bitter, angry, cynical. “Frankie,” he says. “Who do I work for now?”