“We’re partners,” Frankie said. “You can tell me anything.”
“I know, but…”
“Is it about girls?”
The kid flushed—then seemed to get mad at himself for being embarrassed. “It’s girl related,” Matty said. “A couple weeks ago, I was…” That pained expression again.
“Out with it.”
“I was thinking about a girl. Not anyone you know. And something happened.”
Behind the kid, the double doors swung open, and there was Dave, looking pissed. “Frank! I need you downstairs!”
Frankie wanted to say, Shut up, Dave, this is important. But he needed this job.
Down in the phone room, everybody had gathered around the Toshiba CPU. The laptop was wired to the diagnostics port. “What’s the matter?” Frankie asked.
“Half the phones on the first floor are dead,” Hugo said. “The laptop won’t tell us what’s wrong.”
“Maybe you need more dial tone,” Matty said.
Dave looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Frankie said. “Did you check the cards?”
“The laptop says they’re all working. Could you just do your thing?”
The crew was all looking at him. “Fine.” He popped the lid off the CPU. He started checking the cards, making sure they were seated properly. All the indicator lights were on, but all that meant was that they were getting power; the circuit boards could still be malfunctioning.
The first half a dozen cards he checked seemed okay. Then his fingertips brushed the edge of one of the cards at the bottom.
He pulled the card from its slot. “This one,” he said.
The guys knew better than to doubt him.
By then it was time to wrap up. Frankie packed up his tools and he walked with Matty out to the parking lot. Before they reached the van, he gripped the boy by the shoulder.
“So. This thing,” Frankie said, picking up their conversation from the cow room. He’d been rehearsing what to say. As a man marooned on an island of daughters, he wasn’t quite ready for this moment, but who else could Matty turn to? “The first thing you gotta know, it’s totally normal. The same thing happened to me when I was thirteen.”
Matty opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.
“This isn’t something to worry about,” Frankie said. “This is something to celebrate. And I know just the place to go.” As if he just thought of it. As if he had any choice.
Mitzi’s Tavern was starting to fill up with the after-work crowd, if you could use the word “crowd” to describe the dozen wretches who huddled here for a beer and a bump before facing the wife. The décor was Late-Period Dump: ripped-vinyl booths, neon Old Style signs, veneer tabletops, black-speckled linoleum in which 80 percent of the specks weren’t. The kind of place that was vastly improved by dim lighting and alcoholic impairment. Frankie loved it.
“Your grandpa used to bring me here,” Frankie said to Matty. “This is where real men drink. You ever start sitting around the bar at a Ruby Tuesday’s, I will kick your ass.” He pointed to an empty stool. Matty put the UltraLife box on the bar and hopped up.
“No kids,” Barney said. He’d been the bartender since forever—came installed with the building. Frankie had never liked him. He was a big mother, over six feet tall. His head was 90 percent jowl, a face like a mudslide.
“We’re only going to be here a minute,” Frankie said. “Barney, this is my nephew, Matthias. Can you get him a pop? It’s his birthday.”
“How old are you?” Barney asked the kid.
“Depends who you ask,” Matty said quietly.
“Mitzi in the office?” Frankie asked. He scooped up the box from the bar and headed for the back of the room.
“Knock first,” Barney called.
Knock first. Jesus. How many years had he been coming here? Frankie rattled the knob of the office door. “Knock knock,” Frankie said.
There was no answer, so he opened the door. Mitzi sat behind her desk, on the phone. She shook her head at him, but didn’t object when he sat down. He started unpacking the box.
“You know the deal,” Mitzi said into the phone. “Friday, no ifs ands or buts.” She frowned at the growing number of white plastic bottles lining the front of her desk. Mitzi was older than Barney, but where the bartender seemed to ooze excess flesh from his forehead down, Mitzi was shrinking every year, drying out and hardening like beef jerky.
Then to the phone: “Don’t disappoint me, Jimmy.” She hung up. “What’s all this?”
Frankie smiled. “Last week you mentioned you had an upset stomach. This is the UltraLife Digestive Health Program. This one—” He picked up the tallest bottle. “This is aloe concentrate, original goji berry flavor, plus other natural additives. You just mix it with water, or Pepsi, whatever, it soothes your stomach. This is Ultra Philofiber, a mix of fiber and acidophilus, perfect for diarrhea or constipation.”
“Both?” Mitzi said.
“It works on the bacteria in your gut, so it straightens you both ways. And this—”
“I’m not buying, Frankie.”
“I’m not selling. This is a gift.”
“Oh, Frankie, I don’t need gifts—I just need what you owe. Where you been? You said you’d be by at lunch.”
“Sorry about that. My boss is an S.O.B.”
“Are you going to make good on what you owed me Friday?”
It was highly unusual to allow a client to get an extra weekend. Letting Frankie come in on Monday was a favor, and he knew it. He set the cash on the desk. “I gotta tell you up front—it’s light.”
Mitzi didn’t change expression. She picked up the money, dropped it into a desk drawer, and closed it. Behind her, on the floor, sat a black safe the size of a mini-fridge. After he was gone, she’d move the deposits there. She’d never opened it in his presence, but he spent a lot of time thinking about that safe.
“You’re kinda falling behind here, Frankie.”
“I know, I know.”
“I don’t think you do. Counting today’s payment—which is how much?”
“Two thousand nine hundred,” he said.
“Puts you at thirty-eight thousand, five hundred seventy-five.” No hesitation, the number right there in her head. Every visit she gave him the new total, every week he fell a little further behind.
“It’s about to turn around,” he said. “My UltraLife distributorship is bringing in a lot of income.”
“Distributorship,” Mitzi said evenly. She shook her head. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Frankie.”
“I’m not. I won’t.”
But of course he already was. He was in debt to the Outfit. Mitzi’s brother ran the northwest suburbs. There really wasn’t much worse it could get.
“It would kill your dad,” she said. “How is he?”
He forced a smile. “Not dead yet. Though he’s dressed for the funeral.”
She laughed, a sound like wind through dry leaves. “God he had style. Nothing like the Cro-Magnons I grew up with. You give him my regards.”
Frankie stood up. He felt shaky, like he’d been clocked in the head. Maybe that’s what relief felt like. He should have been happy. Another payment down, another week to turn this ship around.
“Oh, Frank?”
The back of his neck went cold. He turned.
“Which one do I take first?”
“What? Oh.” He gestured at the big bottle. “Take the aloe every day, just squirt it into your water. The Philofiber and the Morning Formula you take every morning. Then there’s the Evening Formula, which you take, uh…”
“Every night?”
“You got it. Straighten you out in no time.”