Who could he send?
He’d go outside the family. New York, maybe Florida, maybe even the Mexicans.
He could get it done.
It’s a problem.
“Tell you what,” Frank says. “I’ll get Vena off your back, one way or the other. Set up a meeting with him. I’ll come along. If he sees me there, he’ll be more reasonable. If not…”
He lets it hang there. The rest is obvious.
Travis likes the idea, anyway. “That’ll work, J.,” he says. “If Vena sees that we have Frankie freakingMachine on our team, he’ll shit his pants.”
“No, he won’t,” Frank says. “But he will negotiate more reasonable points.” He turns to Mouse Junior. “You don’t want a war if you can help it, kid. I’ve seen war. Peace is better.”
Something you’ll learn when you get a little older, Frank thinks, if you don’t get yourself killed first. Young guys, they always want to prove how tough they are. It’s a testosterone thing. Older guys see the beauty in compromise. And save the testosterone for better things.
Mouse Junior thinks it over. Judging by the expression on his face, it’s apparently a grueling process. Then he asks, “What about the fifty K?”
“The fifty is for solving your problem,” Frank says. “Either way.”
“Half now,” Mouse Junior says, “half when the job is done.”
Frank shakes his head. “All of it up front.”
“That’s unprecedented.”
“Thisis unprecedented.”
Them approaching him directly, that is. The protocol is that they should have gone through Mike Pella, capo of what’s left of San Diego, who’d collect a referral fee.
It would be good to talk to Mike about this Vena thing, get his take. Mike Pella is an old-school mafioso, among the last of a dying breed. He and Frank have been tight since forever. Mike’s been his friend, his confidant, his partner, his captain. Mike would be able to give him the lay of the land, steer him clear of the land mines.
But Mike, with his instinct for survival, has been in the wind since the Goldstein thing came back up.
Good place for you to be, Mike.
Stay there.
“Two-thirds, one-third,” Mouse Junior says.
“I’m notnegotiating with you, kid,” Frank says. “I gave you the conditions under which I’ll work. If it’s worth it to you, fine. If not, it’s also fine.”
The money’s in the Hummer.
Mouse Junior sends Travis out to get it. He brings back a briefcase containing fifty K in used bills, nonsequential.
“Dadsaid you’d want it all up front,” Mouse Junior says, smiling.
“Then why were you busting chops?” Frank asks. Because you’re a smarmy, wise-ass punk, Frank thinks, trying to prove how smart and tough you are. And you’re neither. If you were smart, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into this predicament. If you were tough, you’d take care of it yourself.
“It’s just business,” Mouse Junior says. “Nothing personal.”
Frank wishes he had a dime for every time he’s heard that line. The wise guys all heard it in the firstGodfather and liked it. Now they all use it. Same with the termgodfather, for that matter-until the movie came out, Frank never heard the word in that context. The boss was just the “boss.” Those were good movies and all-well, two of them were-but they had nothing to do with the mob, not the mob that Frank knows, anyway.
Maybe it’s just a West Coast thing, he thinks. We never went in for all that heavy “Sicilian” stuff.
Or maybe it’s just too warm out here for all those hats and overcoats.
“Mr. Machine?” Travis is saying.
Frank shoots him a dirty look.
“Mr. Machianno, I meant,” Travis says. “There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The sit-down is tonight,” Mouse Junior says.
“Tonight?” Frank asks. It’s already after midnight. He has to be up in three hours and forty-five minutes.
“Tonight.”
Frank sighs.
It’s a lot of work being me.
8
Mouse Junior hands him a cell phone.
“It’s on speed dial,” he says, pressing the button for him.
Vena doesn’t answer until the fifth ring.
“Hello?” He sounds like the phone woke him up.
“Vince? Frank Machianno here.”
There’s a long pause, which is what Frank expected. Vince’s mind has to be whirling, he figures, wondering why Frankie Machine is on the phone, how he got this number, and what he wants.
“Frankie! Long time!”
“Too long,” Frank says, not meaning it.
If he never talked to Vince Vena again, he’d be very happy. He knows Vince from the old days, back in the eighties in Vegas, when it was open territory and everybody’s playground. Vince was a fixture at the Stardust, practically furniture. When he wasn’t at the blackjack table, he was out catching the comedians’ shows, and then he’d annoy everyone by constantly reciting their routines. Vince liked to think he did a pretty good Dangerfield, which he didn’t, although, unfortunately, that never stopped him from doing it.
Poor Rodney, Frank thinks now. That was a truly funny man.
“Hey, Vince,” Frank says, “This thing with Mouse Ju-with Pete’s kid.”
“J.,” Mouse Junior prompts.
Vince’s voice sounds pissed off. “What is it? Mousedick Junior been whining to you?”
“He reached out.”
Frank chooses these words deliberately, because they have a very specific meaning: I’m involved now. You’re dealing with me.
Vince hears it. “I didn’t know you was in the DVD business, Frank. If I did, I’d’ve come to you in the first place. No disrespect, huh?”
“I’m not in the business, Vince. It’s just that, well, the boss’s kid reaches out to me, what am I going to do?”
“The boss?” Vince laughs, then sings, ‘“Who’s the leader of the club that’s made for you and me? M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E.’”
“Anyway,” Frank says. “I’m going to come along for the sit-down, you don’t mind.”
Or even if you do.
“These kids,” Frank continues, “they don’t know what’s right”-he casts a pointed glance at the two doofs sitting across from him, who look down at the floor-“but you and me, I’m sure we can get it straightened out.”
He’s sure they can. What he’ll do is, he’ll take ten K of the fifty along as a gesture, then negotiate Vince down to fifteen points on the rest of the deal. That’s a fair offer, one that Vince should accept. If not, Mouse Senior is in a position to bitch to Detroit about Vena, get him in line. If none of that works…
Frank doesn’t want to even think about that.
It’ll work.
“Hey, whatever’s right, Frankie,” Vince is saying.
Which means he’s going to be reasonable, Frank thinks. He says, “See you in a little bit, Vince.”
“Give it a half hour,” Vince says. “Me and this chick are making some waves, you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Frank says. And who says “chick” anymore?
“Didn’t Mousedick Junior tell you?” Vince says. “I’m on a boat. Here in San Diego.”
“A boat?”
“A cabin cruiser,” Vince says. “I’m renting it.”
“It’swinter, Vince.”
“A friend of ours cut me a deal.”
Classic wise guy, Frank thinks. Long as they think they’re getting a deal, they’ll go for it. So you got a cheap shakedown artist on a boat he can’t use, in the rain.
Classic.
He knows what’s coming next.
Vince doesn’t disappoint him. “So if the boat is rockin’,” Vince says, “don’t come knockin’.”
“Finish your beers,” Frank says. “Then let’s go get this straightened out.”
He goes into the kitchen, opens a drawer, and takes out an envelope. Then he comes back into the living room, counts ten thousand out from the fifty, puts it in the envelope, and slides it into his jacket pocket.