Chapter 7: Frankie

Back in the office Jill, sat down at her desk. There were two phones; a duplicate of the 2564HL from the observation lounge, and a 3666 automatic dialer. Jill opened a small roledex and flipped through it, finding a tab marked, Muigliucci, Francis Lido, and pulled the card out of it, and inserted it into the auto dialer. She said some words on the phone, mentioning her husband’s name, and then waited.

“Hello, Mr. M,” Jill said, “George want’s to talk to you. Something to do with Larry Mandelbaum, transferring you now...”

She hit a button on the auto Dialer, and then dialed the extension of the Call Director, waited until it rang, hit a transfer button, and dialed the number of the extension on the cocktail table in the lounge.

Back in the lounge, the phone rang in a musical melody of a Western Electric 2500-series phone. George quickly picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

“Hey, Mr. M,” George said, “How are you?”

“Ey, George,” Frankie’s voice came back over the phone, “How’s ya old man doin’? And let me ask ya, what do ya want outta me? Ya never call me just to say hi anymore. And what’s it gotta do with fuckin’ Larry, huh?”

“Dad’s doing good,” George replied, “Yeah, sorry I haven’t been in touch, life’s busy, you know?”

“Yeah, ain’t that the truth?” Frankie replied, “But, yeah, Larry?”

“You remember you owe me a small favor, right?”

“Yeah, okay, so alright, I owe ya a fuckin’ favor,” Frankie replied, “What’s it gotta do with Larry, I’m askin’ ya! I gotta lot of stuff ridin’ on that jackass.”

“A mover I don’t know, Rico from Miami, um, Federico Lombardi-”

“Fuckin’ Rico?” Frankie exclaimed, “Georgie, ya ain’t tryin’ to tell me that over-grown Soldati is tryin’ to muscle in on me?”

“Well, yeah,” George replied, “He’s kidnapped Larry’s father in law to try to blackmail him into turning allegiance, and then they ended up kidnapping a personal friend of mine you don’t know in the same goal, so now I’m neck deep in it. They want us to meet him where I think they are stashed, to exchange Larry for my friend, so they can pressure him to do what they want so that he can get his father in law back.”

“His father-in-law?” Frankie retorted, “Is he fuckin’ crazy?”

“He’s something,” George said, and then gave him a quick run down on the nights evens.

“Ya know what, kid? You’re swimmin’ in deep waters now. I’ll send some of my trusted guys to take care of this goomba. We’ll make him take a long walk off a short bridge. He’ll learn not to mess with me, thinkin’ I run some kinda Mickey Mouse operation over here!”

“I’m in deep water, sure,” George said, “But I want to give him a piece of my mind, myself. I don’t take kindly to people shooting up my cars, kidnapping my friends, trying to kill my clients, or acting like a hot-dog in my state. We do this together or I don’t tell you where he is.”

“You got brass, kid,” Frankie admitted, his voice tinged with respect. “You got a reputation, too. I know your old man wouldn’t want you workin’ with me, ya know what I’m sayin’? If I got you whacked or somethin’, I couldn’t look him in the eye, again. Me and him, we go way back. He’s a practical man, a smart man. But hey, if you’re willin’ to take the risk, who am I to turn down some extra firepower?”

“Your word, Frankie,” George replied, knowing Frankie was old fashioned; he’d cheat and steal, but he kept his promises, “Give me your word we do this together.”

“Brass, kid, brass. A’ight? Yeah, I give ya my word. We take down this cock-sucker together.”

“Let’s talk this over in person,” George replied, “How about tonight? Just tell me where.”

“Musso & Franks sound good to you?”

“Sounds wonderful,” George replied, “I’m going to bring one of my operatives, okay?”

“Hey, I bring one, you bring one, you got me?”

“Sure thing, Frankie, six sound good?”

“Bene,” Frankie said and hung up.

“You fucking fool!” Larry rasped, “He’s going to fucking kill me!”

“Have you done anything to make him kill you?” George said with a raised eyebrow.

“I got into this mess.”

“And then you ended up getting me to get you out. You should have told him first, he would have been free.”

“With you which one of us is going?” Josh asked.

“The one who’s the best driver, the best shot, and the best fighter.”

“Afraid, I was, you were going to say that,” Josh sighed, “When you didn’t want to get involved with all this meshugaus, I remember, Acky.”

“Hush, Joshuluh,” Akilah whispered, “You know the things that changed, and you know why. I have to pick up the rental, do you want to drive me, and then pick up Simcha from Sharon?”

“Oy gevaldt,” Josh said in acceptance.

“I do not mind doing the driving,” Akilah said, as Josh timidly pulled his 1996 Chevrolet Caprice wagon out into traffic going north on Santa Fe Avenue.

“Please Acky, frayed my nerves are.”

“Are you unhappy with our life, Josh?”

“Always you ask that question,” Josh sighed, and tugged lightly at his beard, “Acky, I worry. Raising Simcha by myself I worry. Going to sleep without you, I worry. There, I was not, but the twice you were shot at last night, with a machine gun, even. What is there to enjoy about this? But unhappy this does not mean I am, okay? I love you, I love George, I love Jill, I love our family, our daughter. But now with the mob? A mob war we have to get involved with?”

“I do not like when people shoot at me,” Akilah said dryly, and cranked down her window, “I still do not understand why you did not add any options on to this car.”

“Nobody wanted a car optioned like this,” Josh said, “But the power windows were $700, and a discount I got because the moving they couldn’t do. Like this, do the thinking, for every time you roll down the window, $2 we are saving. The $50k George paid for your wagon, beyond my comprehension, it is.”

Akilah sensed his upset, and undid her seatbelt and slid over to him, and rubbed herself against him.

“I love you, Acky,” Josh said, putting his arm around her, “That is why the worrying I do.”

“They shot you, Joshua,” Akilah whispered, “I can not get over that. What happened.”

“Yes, the two graves,” Josh whispered understandingly, “I know.”

“I can not be who I was,” Akilah said softly, “I tried. I am sorry.”

“Sorry you should not be, Acky,” Josh said, “Had it been you they had shot, places would be changed.”

“No,” Akilah said, “You are too sweet to be like me.”

“Just careful you should be, okay?” Josh said, “For nothing would I trade you, but lose you I worry about.”

Josh turned right onto Figuroa street, and then pulled into the Enterprise rental center.

Akilah kissed him, promised him she’d be careful, and then went into the rental car place. Josh sighed yet again, pulled the column shift into reverse, better positioned his whale to turn out of the parking lot and drove back on to Figuroa. He wasn’t going all that fast, and in any case the 4.3 liter V8 engine only produced 200 horsepower, not all that much in 4300lbs of American full-size wagon.

He turned right on 8th street, and then left onto the entrance to the 110 freeway. He didn’t think much during this. His love was not city traffic, and he did best in that driving the van, where it towered over traffic and gave him more time and concept to pre-plan his motions. As much as he loved his wife, the way she could coax a car through a mess of traffic like a oiled eel both awed and scared him. He envied and feared the speed with which she comfortably drove a car, and even with a stick shift, which was an amount of coordination that was beyond him.

Merging on to the freeway, he carefully slotted in to the right lane and attempted to set the cruise control; it was a pointless exercise, as the traffic was too dense to use it. He stayed in the right lane, never really exceeding 50 mph, and often creeping along slower than that. He was not fond of LA traffic. Everyone was so aggressive, so they could save moments off a long trip; most were not Akilah; every move she made got her somewhere, and she gave up when traffic was too dense to do that; no, most of these idiots weaved angrily back and forth, falling further behind as or more often than they moved forward.

Honking, revved engines, cursing, screaming, road rage. Not that his home town of Queens didn’t have this, but there was more of this here. And the people were angrier. Fewer of them could realistically use transit. Here, he could have theoretically used the 51 bus to get to Sharons with a short walk, for example, but it would take almost three times as long at best, same with the similar 53 bus.