The Temptations of St. Frank (31 page)

He rolled out of the bushes and looked all around, panicked that there was no safe place to go. The gym was surrounded by a big parking lot. Anyplace he ran he'd be spotted immediately. He couldn't go back into the gym. He thought maybe he could sneak across the lot, moving from parked car to car for cover, but the cars were few and far between, not enough to hide him from Musso and the lynch mob. He was the Frankenstein monster, running from the torches and farm tools of the angry villagers. They were going to burn him alive!

A big shiny black car glided along the curb, heading toward Frank. Maybe he could flag it down and bum a ride out to the road or even down to the bus stop where he could catch a bus home. Frank raised his sleeveless arm to wave the car down but then hesitated when he saw that it was a Lincoln. That could be the archbishop's car for all he knew.

The car slowed down as it approached him, and the back door opened as it pulled to a stop. To Frank's surprise, Mr. Nunziato climbed out of the backseat, wearing his usual white belt and white shoes. His big gap-toothed smile shifted to an expression of deep concern when he saw Frank's bloody arm and ruined blazer.

“Frankie, what the hell happened to you? You're bleeding.”

“Yeah, I know. I fell…” Frank didn't know how to begin to explain how he'd gotten this way.

“Come on. Get in the car.” Mr. Nunziato shepherded him toward the Lincoln. The look of parental concern on his face put Frank at ease. The Moose wasn't gonna catch him. Frank ducked his head and scooted into the backseat.

Mr. Nunziato jumped in after him and slammed the door shut. “Drive!” he said to the fat-necked man behind the wheel.

Frank then realized that there was someone on his other side, shoulder to sleeveless shoulder with him. Mr. Trombetta. He stared hard at Frank, jaw muscles pulsing, like a dog ready to bite. He had something in his lap, impatiently tapping his manicured fingernails on it. A copy of the yearbook.

Where the hell did he get that? Frank wondered. From his buddy Fitzgerald?

Frank looked to Mr. Nunziato, but his face was blank, the look of concern long gone. He was just a block of flesh, a bookend holding Frank in place on one end, Mr. Trombetta on the other. Frank tried to make himself smaller so he wouldn't have to touch Annette's father.

The car whizzed through the parking lot and hit the street, hardly slowing down to make the turn. The air inside was frigid with air conditioning.

No one said anything. Frank didn't dare open his mouth and didn't even want to look at the yearbook. But if Trombetta was pissed off about the photo, then he knew that Frank knew about the landfill. Fuck!

The driver turned his head toward the backseat. “Where to, Mr. Trombetta?”

“You know where.” Trombetta arched a menacing eyebrow at Frank.

“You got it,” the driver said.

The car picked up speed. The sound of Trombetta drumming his fingernails on the
Summit
filled the silence.

Frank stared straight ahead through the windshield. He was barely breathing.

Frank had no idea where they were. It was somewhere in Newark, he figured, because he could see planes coming in low to the airport, but he didn't recognized the neighborhood at all. He'd tried to pay attention to the roads as they drove here, but the driver mostly took side streets, and Frank was soon confused.

“Stop,” Trombetta said. “Right here.” It was the first thing anyone had said since they'd started out. He was still drumming his fingers on the yearbook in his lap. Frank's heart was pumping twice as fast.

Cold air blew into the backseat from the air-conditioner, but Frank was sweating buckets, even the armpit that didn't have a sleeve. He looked to Mr. Nunziato for help, but he wouldn't look at Frank, his expression hard.

Trombetta opened the yearbook and flipped to the back. Frank knew exactly where he was going. To the humor section. To the photo. When Trombetta found the page, he banged his finger on the picture of the unholy trinity and barked, “What the fuck is this supposed to mean?”

Frank glanced down at the caption he'd written:
When the smoke gets in your eyes…

“I'm waiting, smart guy. Explain.”

“Well,” Frank started. “Everybody in the picture is smoking. Monsignor Fitzgerald, the mayor… you.”

“But what the fuck does it
mean?
”

“It's like the old song. You know, “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”? The Platters?” Frank cringed. It was such a lame joke, but it was the only thing he could think of the night he'd written it. The night he saw Tina in Monsignor Fitzgerald's room.

Trombetta glared at him. “Is it supposed to be funny? I don't get it. Explain it to me. Tell me what's funny about this?”

“Well, it's not funny like a joke. It's just a funny observation. A slice of life.” Frank felt like an idiot saying “slice of life” to a mob boss. What the fuck did he know about slices of life? What did he care?

“How did this get in here?” He banged his finger on the page. “Who put it in here?”

Frank exhaled slowly. If he started lying, it was only going to get worse. “I wrote it,” he said.

“And who approved it? Wasn't there a teacher or something who approves this shit?”

“The monsignor approves everything that goes in the book. But he was busy the night I tried to give it to him. So…” Frank shrugged. “It just got in.” Frank thought about telling Trombetta about Fitzgerald messing around with a high-school girl, a girl just like his daughter, but he worried that it might backfire. Trombetta might not believe him. He might think Frank was bad-mouthing a man of God and that he was making it up. The Trombettas had Annette's First Holy Communion picture hanging on the wall outside their bedroom. They were good Catholics. Squealing on the monsignor might piss off Trombetta more. If that was possible.

Trombetta got in Frank's face. His eyes were like atomic missiles on target to blow Frank's ass to kingdom come. Frank could feel his hot breath. “I think
you think
you know something.”

Frank didn't know how to respond to that, so he kept his mouth shut.

“What the fuck do you think you know? About me. About smoke getting in your fuckin' eyes. Huh? Answer me.”

“I—“ Frank glanced at Mr. Nunziato. “I— It's just a joke. A bad joke. About you guys all smoking.”

Just shut up, he told himself. If you're gonna die, you don't wanna die sounding like an idiot.

“Smoke, huh?” Trombetta started nodding that small nervous kind of nod that means bad shit is just about to happen. Not that any of this had been good shit so far.

Trombetta looked past Frank to Mr. Nunziato. “I can't believe this fuckin' kid. I let him into my fuckin' house. Let him date my daughter.
My daughter!
And this is what he does!” Trombetta threw the yearbook onto the floor and stomped on it repeatedly, like a toddler having a tantrum.

A strong wind blew a cloud of dust across the car. Like the landfill smoke, Frank thought. He was starting to feel numb. He wasn't as scared as he was resigned. This was about the landfill—that was obvious. But what were they gonna do? Kill him? For a lame joke in a high school yearbook? Or would they just beat the shit out of him? He glanced at Mr. Nunziato. Was he gonna do the beating? Or would they let the beefy driver do it? Or would it be Trombetta himself? Probably not with his manicured hands. Probably with a baseball bat. Or a lead pipe. Something like that.

Trombetta nodded to Mr. Nunziato. “Take his wallet.”

What the fuck? Frank thought. So the cops couldn't identify the corpse?

Mr. Nunziato put out his hand. “Gimme your wallet, Frankie.” He meant business.

Frank shifted his weight on one cheek of his ass so he could get to his back pocket, trying not to touch Mr. Trombetta any more than he had to. As soon as he pulled out the worn brown leather wallet, he panicked. The condom was in there. Was this evidence of what kind of person he was? Would Mr. Trombetta think that he had done it with Annette because he kept condoms in his wallet? Sure, he wanted to, but he never got to home base with her. But Mr. Trombetta was gonna think he did. Shit!

Mr. Nunziato snatched the wallet out of his hand. Frank tried to make eye contact with him and beg for mercy, but he wouldn't look at Frank. Mr. Nunziato opened it and pulled out the cash. He counted the bills fast with an angry snap.

One dollar. Two dollars. Three dollars. A five. A hundred.

“Whoa!” Trombetta gestured at the $100 bill. “Where'd you get that?”

Frank looked at Mr. Nunziato, and this time he caught his eye. It was the hundred he had given Frank when he'd caught him coming out of Mrs. Trombetta's bedroom in the middle of the afternoon. Mr. Nunziato didn't look like he was made of granite all of a sudden.

“I asked you a question,” Trombetta said. “Where'd you get the hundred?”

Mr. Nunziato's brows slanted back. Frank remembered what he'd told him when he gave him the money. “Do the right thing.”

“Whatta you, retarded?” Trombetta barked. “I asked you a question. Where'd that hundred come from?”

The driver was staring at Frank, his arm draped over the seatback, but Frank was looking at Mr. Nunziato. Frank saw a way to turn this all around. But Mr. Nunziato was looking a little scared, and until today he'd always been very good to Frank. Like another father. A father who didn't drive him crazy and make him mow lawns.

Trombetta grabbed Frank's tie and yanked him like a bad dog. “You think you're pretty fuckin' clever. You think you know things. You think you're hot shit. Well, I'm gonna show you what happens to little shits like you.”

“I don't think he knows nothing.” Mr. Nunziato had that hard-ass look on his face again. He folded Frank's money in half and put it in his own shirt pocket, then dropped the empty wallet in Frank's lap. “Maybe we should just leave him here before he pisses his pants on your seats.”

“You're only saying that ‘cause he's your buddy's kid. You wanna protect him.”

Mr. Nunziato shrugged. “Hey, I don't give a shit one way or another. You want to do him, we do him. I just don't think it's worth it.”

“How come?”

“'Cause what's he gonna do to you? He ain't J. Edgar Hoover for chrissake. He's just some jooch trying to be a wiseass.”

“So what do
you
think we should do with him?”

“Leave him here.”

Frank's stomach bottomed out. He looked over at the looming projects. This was the goddamn ghetto. He could get killed here.

“We take his money and leave him here,” Mr. Nunziato said. “Teach him a lesson.”

Trombetta stared hard at his underling.

The beefy driver laughed through his nose. “That ain't a bad idea, boss.”

“Did I ask you anything?”

“No.”

“Then shut the fuck up.”

“Sorry, boss,” the man muttered.

Trombetta looked at Frank as if he were a turd on his leather seats. “You're right,” he finally said. “He's not worth the trouble.”

“That's what I'm saying,” Mr. Nunziato said. “Is he worth that kind of aggravation?”

Frank assumed that “that kind of aggravation” meant trouble with the cops over a murder.
His
murder.

“Make sure he doesn't have any cash, then boot him the hell outta here.”

Mr. Nunziato took Frank's wallet and ran his fingers through the back compartments. Frank knew there was no other money in there, just the rubber. Mr. Nunziato must have felt it, but he didn't pull it out, thank God. He dropped the wallet in Frank's lap and went through the pockets of his jacket and patted his pants pockets. “Gimme the change,” he said, looking Frank in the eye, trying to connect with him.

Frank sensed that he was worried, but he wasn't going to rat the man out. He dug the change out of his pants pocket and poured it into Mr. Nunziato's hand. Mr. Nunziato opened the door and got out, then ducked his head back in.

“C'mon. Out,” he said. “Hurry up.”

Frank slid across the seats. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Trombetta glaring at him. “And stay the fuck away from my daughter. You hear me?”

Frank nodded without looking at him. The man had nothing to worry about on that count.

As Frank climbed out of the car, a stiff breeze blew dust in his face, making him squint.

Mr. Nunziato grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him up close, nose to nose. He growled under his breath. “You did the right thing, kid. I owe you one.” He quickly dipped his hand into the side pocket of Frank's jacket, then shoved him away, making Frank stumble.

Mr. Nunziato got back into the car. The door slammed shut, and the car took off, kicking up a cloud of dust as it raced away. Frank breathed through his sleeve and closed his eyes to keep the grit out. When he opened them again, the Lincoln was back on the road. All of a sudden it was very quiet, only the breeze in his ears. He shaded his eyes against the sun as he tracked the car driving away. He saw two other cars on the road but no people anywhere. I'm Robinson Crusoe, he thought, looking down at his ragged jacket. Fucking stranded.

He reached into the pocket that Mr. Nunziato had put his hand in and found his change. He stared at it in his palm. Twenty-one cents. Three nickels and six pennies. Thanks a lot. The bus costs at least a quarter. If he could find one.

He looked all around. Nothing but weeds and dirt and projects and tenements. He looked up at the sun. He guessed it was probably around noon. Could be worse, he thought. It could be after dark. He started walking in the direction the Lincoln had gone, his desert boots kicking up puffs of dry dirt with every step.

A black man behind the wheel of an emerald-green Eldorado leaned across the seats and looked up at Frank over his shades. He rolled down the power window, and Frank heard “Tighten Up” on the car radio. Archie Bell and the Drells.

“You looking for pussy?” he said.

The man had been driving at a snail's pace for the past two blocks, following Frank as he walked along the sidewalk. Frank had thought
pimp
the minute he saw the car, and the man himself reinforced that impression. He had a fleshy face, a considerable gut, stiff processed hair, and rings on every finger. He kind of looked like B.B. King, but it was hard to tell how old he was. He could be anywhere between 35 and 55, Frank guessed.

“You want pussy? That what you want?”

“Excuse me?” Frank had heard him just fine, but he didn't know what else to say.

The man pinched his nose and stifled a wet-sounding chortle that escaped anyway. “Only two reasons white boys come down to the ghet-to. Horse and pussy.” He tipped his sunglasses to the end of his nose. “And you don't look like the horse type.”

“I'm just looking for a bus,” Frank muttered and kept walking.

He was on a narrow street of tenements. He'd been walking for at least 45 minutes, and he hadn't seen a white face since he'd been abandoned. The people he'd passed—mostly middle-aged women and old men—took one look at his shredded jacket and gave him a wide berth. He looked like a lunatic, and a person had to be genuinely crazy to walk around this neighborhood with his skin color. Only hippies frolicked happily interracially. And even they only had a few black sprinkles on their basically white cupcake world. Maybe in Haight-Ashbury there was no racial tension, but this was Newark, where black people had rioted just a few years ago, and everybody—whites and blacks—were brought up to be wary of a different color. That's why he was keeping his nutcase jacket on. If people thought he was wacko, they'd probably leave him alone.

The pimpmobile cruised along with him, the man leaning over the seat as he steered with one hand. “I gots white meat, too, if that's what you want.”

Frank's face flushed with humiliation. He must look like a loser, he thought, because only losers have to resort to prostitutes. And even if he did want a prostitute, what was he gonna get for twenty-one cents? He was absolutely ashamed to be in this helpless, cashless situation.

“Hey, I'm talking to you, boy,” the man's bullshit friendliness turning cross.

Frank kept his eyes straight ahead and kept walking.

The Eldorado suddenly shot ahead, jumped the curb, and blocked the sidewalk. The man jumped out of the car and glared at Frank over the vinyl rooftop.

Oh, shit! Frank's heart beating faster than “Tighten Up.”

“You're acting pretty uppity for a white boy on my street. Especially when y'all's dressed up like a raggedy-ass Robinson Crusoe.”

Frank just stared at him.

The man slapped his hand on the rooftop. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Mr. Uppity, treating me like some ignorant nigger? That's what you're thinking. I know it.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Don't fuckin' lie to me! I hate liars more than anything. I'd rather have a man call me a nigger to my face than pretend.”