forehead popping out.
"You listen to me, asshole, and listen
closely. I'm saying this once. You tell that prick that we are even. I'm done. I
don't owe him nothin', and he ain't getting nothin' else from me. And if you,
or him," pointing inside the cab, "or even Depardieu, so much as
spits on the sidewalk, I will be all over you."
He let his collar loose, and Manny reached up to
smooth his shirt. Tomoso was still just inches away. "You got it?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. I got it. You sure you
want me to pass that on to Mr. Depardieu? He might find it a little, shall we
say, disrespectful? "
"Damn right I want you to pass it on. I don't
care what happens. We are done. You've got your fucking name, and that's the
last little chore he gets out of me. Period. If he needs anything else, well,
you can tell him I'm not doing anything for him. I wouldn't piss on him if he
was on fire."
He paused, thinking about it. "Well, maybe.
After he burned for a while. I might piss on him. But not enough to put it out.
Tell him that. Capiche? "
"Okay, okay. I'm out of here." Manny
handed the detective a card. "Could you give that to Andrea for me?"
The detective stared at him, and the card, and
back at him again, before tearing the card in half, then into quarters, and
finally into tiny little pieces. Holding his hand out at arm's length, he let
the pieces slow filter from his hand into the gutter. Then he picked up the
cigarette butt and flicked it inside Manny's car. "Saving you a ticket for
littering." Then he turned and went back inside the station.
Manny stole a quick glance at the window. He saw
Andrea peeking through a corner, then quickly again closing the curtains. He
smiled at her again.
He climbed into the car, unfolding the paper. He
studied it for a moment, picturing the address in his head before speaking.
"Okay. Here it is. Let's go see this Mr.
Uh, Mr. Frank Notini."
* * *
Frank arrived home about two hours after leaving
the boys. He'd stopped for a quick one, a well-deserved one, in his mind, and
then another. All things considered, he wasn't there all that long before
deciding to head home.
Emotionally, he'd been on a rollercoaster. At
first, when he thought he had an honest-to-God treasure, he'd been ecstatic. Then,
realizing he had nothing but the proverbial 'box of rocks', he sank just about
as low as he'd ever been. He'd felt the frustration and anger flowing through
him as he reached for another drink. His guardian angel, he'd long decided, was
sitting in a bar, just like him, but across town, with no interest in helping
him out. It seemed his angel must have gotten bored, slipped out of whatever
bar he had been hiding in, and just for pure entertainment, had picked Frankie
up and body slammed him to the ground.
How else to explain what had happened to him?
The bartender had been a little leery – for good
reason. Frankie had been in such good spirits a short while before, and here he
was, back, in a far less desirable, but far more common, mood.
Regardless, he was almost home now, and at a
reasonable hour, and in a reasonable condition.
It wasn't because he was drunk, far from it. It
wasn't because he ran out of money, though he'd used most of the bills he'd
stashed in the back of his wallet. It wasn't even because he had pissed off the
bartender, one of the few who had tolerated his moods for far too long,
(business was business, and he was a paying customer, though the bartender
never put it quite that way). It was because he was so frustrated he found that
even drinking didn't touch it. Not like drinking had helped in the past. Now, though,
the alcohol seemed to just
"You listen to me, asshole, and listen
closely. I'm saying this once. You tell that prick that we are even. I'm done. I
don't owe him nothin', and he ain't getting nothin' else from me. And if you,
or him," pointing inside the cab, "or even Depardieu, so much as
spits on the sidewalk, I will be all over you."
He let his collar loose, and Manny reached up to
smooth his shirt. Tomoso was still just inches away. "You got it?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure. I got it. You sure you
want me to pass that on to Mr. Depardieu? He might find it a little, shall we
say, disrespectful? "
"Damn right I want you to pass it on. I don't
care what happens. We are done. You've got your fucking name, and that's the
last little chore he gets out of me. Period. If he needs anything else, well,
you can tell him I'm not doing anything for him. I wouldn't piss on him if he
was on fire."
He paused, thinking about it. "Well, maybe.
After he burned for a while. I might piss on him. But not enough to put it out.
Tell him that. Capiche? "
"Okay, okay. I'm out of here." Manny
handed the detective a card. "Could you give that to Andrea for me?"
The detective stared at him, and the card, and
back at him again, before tearing the card in half, then into quarters, and
finally into tiny little pieces. Holding his hand out at arm's length, he let
the pieces slow filter from his hand into the gutter. Then he picked up the
cigarette butt and flicked it inside Manny's car. "Saving you a ticket for
littering." Then he turned and went back inside the station.
Manny stole a quick glance at the window. He saw
Andrea peeking through a corner, then quickly again closing the curtains. He
smiled at her again.
He climbed into the car, unfolding the paper. He
studied it for a moment, picturing the address in his head before speaking.
"Okay. Here it is. Let's go see this Mr.
Uh, Mr. Frank Notini."
* * *
Frank arrived home about two hours after leaving
the boys. He'd stopped for a quick one, a well-deserved one, in his mind, and
then another. All things considered, he wasn't there all that long before
deciding to head home.
Emotionally, he'd been on a rollercoaster. At
first, when he thought he had an honest-to-God treasure, he'd been ecstatic. Then,
realizing he had nothing but the proverbial 'box of rocks', he sank just about
as low as he'd ever been. He'd felt the frustration and anger flowing through
him as he reached for another drink. His guardian angel, he'd long decided, was
sitting in a bar, just like him, but across town, with no interest in helping
him out. It seemed his angel must have gotten bored, slipped out of whatever
bar he had been hiding in, and just for pure entertainment, had picked Frankie
up and body slammed him to the ground.
How else to explain what had happened to him?
The bartender had been a little leery – for good
reason. Frankie had been in such good spirits a short while before, and here he
was, back, in a far less desirable, but far more common, mood.
Regardless, he was almost home now, and at a
reasonable hour, and in a reasonable condition.
It wasn't because he was drunk, far from it. It
wasn't because he ran out of money, though he'd used most of the bills he'd
stashed in the back of his wallet. It wasn't even because he had pissed off the
bartender, one of the few who had tolerated his moods for far too long,
(business was business, and he was a paying customer, though the bartender
never put it quite that way). It was because he was so frustrated he found that
even drinking didn't touch it. Not like drinking had helped in the past. Now, though,
the alcohol seemed to just
Similar Books
