The Temptations of St. Frank (13 page)

Frank had an urge to go into the room and see what was on Annette's desk and dresser. He was curious to find out more about her, about how girls think, and he figured he could pick up some clues in there. But he controlled himself. That wasn't what he was here for. He wasn't going to find anything about the landfill in Annette's room.

He walked to the end of the hallway where another open doorway led to the master bedroom. Frank's heart thumped harder. Going in there would be the biggest sacrilege of all. He just peeked in. The bed was huge. The shiny bronze satin comforter that covered it didn't have a single wave or wrinkle. It was as if it were painted onto the bed it was so perfect. The dressers were massive, a sleek black modern design but Henry the VIII size. Frank leaned over the threshold, looked to the side, and saw the master bathroom door. He wasn't about to go in there. No way. He needed to find the office. If there was an office.

Then something occurred to him. All the bedrooms were at the back of the house, away from the road. Not that this neighborhood had that much traffic noise—it hardly had any traffic at all—but still, that's what rich people who had big houses did. Frank's bedroom faced the street, and at night he could hear the buses drive by, but in a house like this, the rooms in the front wouldn't be bedrooms. They'd be other kinds of rooms. Sewing rooms. Hobby rooms. Offices.

Frank turned around and tiptoed to the closest door on the front side of the house. It was closed. If it was Mr. Trombetta's office, of course it would be closed. If he kept something important in there, he wouldn't leave the door open, right? Frank's fingers were cold as he laid his hand on the doorknob. He was hardly breathing. He turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open a hair, and as he did, he suddenly panicked, thinking it might be on an alarm. But nothing happened. He opened it an inch. Waited. Then another inch and waited. Then another. He peered in. The wall he could see was covered with framed photographs. He opened the door a little more. It looked like the whole room was covered with photographs, dozens of them, mostly black-and-whites but some in color, all of them of people posing together for the camera. Frank barely looked at them, assuming they were just shots from weddings, graduations, and awards banquets. He focused on the dark wood desk and the black leather, high-backed executive chair positioned behind it. A two-drawer wooden file cabinet that matched the desk was in the corner within reach of the chair.

Holy shit! He'd found it. The fucking Holy Grail of Crime and Pollution. If there was anything to be found in this house, it had to be in that file cabinet.

His legs felt rubbery as he moved toward it. Half of him had expected to fail miserably at this stupid Mission: Impossible operation, but now that he'd found the office, he was scared shitless. The file cabinet was right there in front of him. He had to do something. He couldn't not do anything.

He got down on one knee right in front of the file cabinet and stared at it up close for a long moment, evaluating it like a safe cracker. He wrapped his fingers around the top handle, gathering his nerve. He pressed the trigger and pulled, gently at first, using his strength in measured amounts. But the drawer wouldn't give. He pulled harder. No deal. He tried the bottom drawer. Same thing. It was locked.

Fuck!

Maybe the key was in the desk. Probably not, but he had to look. He'd come this far, so he had to try. In his head he could hear Yolanda's grandfather coughing his lungs up. He could hear a lot of people coughing their lungs up. Kids, too. Little kids with deep, wet coughs that made him wince.

Frank walked on his knees over to the desk, afraid that he might be seen through the window if he stood up. He slipped into the high-backed chair and slunk down to hide his head. The chair smelled of Mr. Trombetta's cigarette smoke. And his cologne. Smelling the man's smell, Frank felt that he'd just crossed the line from venal sin to mortal sin, from misdemeanor to felony. Snooping around the house was one thing; now he in Mr. Trombetta's personal space.

The desk's middle drawer was right in front of him. He imagined what might be inside. Paper clips, rubber bands, pens, a ruler, a letter opener, a couple of screws, stuff that had no other place to go and just ended up in the top drawer of the desk. Keys fit into that category. Keys that aren't kept on a keychain because the owner doesn't use them all the time. Frank reached for the brass handles on the drawer, felt them in his fingers, but then hesitated. He wondered if there was a gun somewhere in the desk. Butterflies stampeded through his stomach.

Just fucking open it, he thought, getting annoyed with himself. Stop wasting time.

But as he was about to pull the handles, he glanced up at the photos on the wall and noticed something. Mr. Trombetta was in all of them. In most of the shots he was standing next to other men in suits. Some looked like businessmen. Some looked like politicians—businessmen with bigger smiles. But what caught Frank's eye was a black-and-white photo of Mr. Trombetta with the Four Seasons, the band who did “Rag Doll” and a bunch of other hit songs. Trombetta was smiling and the guys in the band were smiling, but Frank couldn't imagine in a million years Mr. Trombetta liking rock music. Frank pegged him for a Rat Pack kind of guy—Sinatra and Dean Martin. Maybe Sammy Davis, Jr., once in a while but not as much as the other guys. Frank's father had the same kind of taste in music.

Frank's eye wandered to the next photo in the row, and he stared at it hard because he wasn't sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. He got out of the chair and moved closer to get a better look.

“Holy shit!” he whispered.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Trombetta standing on either side of John Lennon.

He kept staring at it because it didn't make any sense. Why was John Lennon, hands down the fucking coolest guy in the Beatles, hobnobbing with the Trombettas? Frank didn't get it. There was no way in hell the Trombettas listened to the Beatles.
Nobody's
parents listened to the Beatles. They
hated
the Beatles. They hated rock'n'roll. Most of them even hated Elvis, and he was practically on par with Sinatra in Frank's book.

Frank studied the photo. The Trombettas were all dressed up as if they were going out to hear Vic Damone in Vegas, but they were posing with John fucking Lennon. Lennon wearing ratty jeans and sunglasses and a leather cap. And they all looked like they were enjoying each other, the Trombettas smiling and Lennon caught in the middle of saying something, probably something typically smartass that you have to be with-it and kind of intellectual to get. But the Trombettas wouldn't get it. How could they? They were parents.

Frank's whole world was shifting, huge tectonic plates moving under the crusty surface of his mind. Were the Beatles somehow involved with the mob? No way! He refused to believe this. Absolutely impossible. But Lennon looked relaxed and happy to be with the Trombettas. That didn't seem possible. But there it was, proof positive, concrete evidence, right on the wall. Lennon sure as hell didn't look like he was being forced to be there, no one holding a gun to his head. As if anyone could force him to do anything. Come on, he was fucking John Lennon for chrissake. But he shouldn't have been there. He shouldn't have been with
them
. He's different, he's special, he—

“Hey! What're you doing here?”

Frank jumped. His heart nearly flew out his mouth. He looked toward the doorway where the voice had come from. Annette Trombetta stood there with her arms crossed, looking at him as he looked at her in her bikini. She wasn't wearing anything else, not even flipflops. His eyes automatically went to her cleavage. She had really nice breasts. Round and soft but perky at the same time. Her Nancy Sinatra flip hung below her shoulders, full and lush just like Nancy's. Annette's face wasn't bad either, even though she looked more like her father than her mother, and her father looked like a bulldog.

“What're you doing here?” She sounded annoyed, but she was grinning. “And stop checking out my tits.”

Frank's face caught on fire. How did she know? And why was she grinning?

“So what the hell are you doing in my father's office?”

“I was looking for the bathroom,” he said. “Your mother said I could come in and use it. If I needed to.”

“This isn't the bathroom.”

“Yeah. I know.”

She kept grinning at him. “You know, if he caught you in here, you'd be in
big
trouble.”

“I was just looking for the bathroom.” He knew he sounded pathetic, but he had to stick to his story. “But then I saw all the pictures,” he said, gesturing at the walls,“and I kinda got interested. You know, distracted.”

“What's so interesting?” She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips.

“Do your parents really know John Lennon?”

“What do you care who they know?”

“Come on! He's one of the Beatles! Have you met him?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “You need the bathroom, then go to the bathroom. This way.” She crooked her index finger, and he stood up. He didn't dare look at the file cabinet as he moved toward the doorway. If she caught him looking, she might figure out what he was up to.

“This way,” she said, walking down the hallway, her bare feet on the carpet. Her ass had a nice little jiggle.

“Are you staring at my ass?” she said without turning around.

His face reignited. “No.”

“Why not? Is there something wrong with my ass?”

“No, nothing.”

“How do you know if you're not looking at it?” She turned her head and gave him a look, busting his balls and flirting at the same time. And she was just a sophomore. The average sophomore at St. A's couldn't walk and chew gum at the same time. Girls that age usually aren't that geeky, but they're not like this. Not the ones he'd met. Course, he didn't know that many girls, sophomore or otherwise. That was the biggest drawback of going to an all-boys school.

She stopped in front her bedroom door and spun around with the perky grace of a gymnast. “Go in here.”

“What?”

“Use my bathroom.”

“Really?”

“Do you have to go or not?”

“Yeah. I do.” He didn't, but she was up to something, and he wanted to find out what it was. He just might like it.

He stepped into her room, and she followed him in. “In there.” She pointed to the bathroom.

He looked in. The sink, toilet, and tub were Valentine's Day red, the tiles hot pink. He'd never seen a red toilet. Never imagined that one could exist. He went in and closed the door behind him. Thought about locking it but didn't. He stood over the toilet, unzipped his fly, and fished out his dick. He managed to work up a little tinkle, but his pee didn't show against the red of the toilet. He flushed anyway and washed his hands in the red sink. He had to splash water around the rim to get rid of the dirty water spots. He wiped his hands on a matching red bath towel. A
used
bath towel, he noted. Used by her no doubt. He sniffed it. It smelled sort of like black cherry soda.

When he opened the door, his eyes popped out of his head. She was lying on her back on the unmade bed, the psychedelic pattern of the sheets all around her, an unlit cigarette between her fingers. A Haight-Ashbury Venus on the half-shell.

“Want some?” she said, twiddling the cigarette.

That's when he realized it wasn't a cigarette. It was a joint. He'd never smoked marijuana before, didn't even know anyone who had, but he knew a joint when he saw one. Hippie college students who protested against the war were always on the news passing joints around. And he'd seen the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers comics, three goofball hippies who were always getting high. Frank was definitely curious about marijuana. He intended to try it, but he'd just assumed that he'd have to wait until college for that.

“Do you want some or not?” she said.

“Yeah… sure.”

“Close the door.”

Frank's gaze slid down her bare legs as he went to the door and closed it. She struck a match, lit the joint, and took a deep drag. He could hear her inhaling. She held out the joint to him.

“Here,” she said, holding her breath. She seemed pretty experienced with this.

Frank sat on the edge of the bed, took the joint, and held it between his thumb and forefinger the way the Freak Brothers did. He just assumed that was the accepted way to smoke a joint. He brought it to his lips and inhaled. Immediately he started coughing. Annette looked at him through half-closed lids, grinning like a cute little lizard. Frank tried it again, taking smaller puffs. He held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could because he'd heard that was the way to do it.

“Don't just hold it. Gimme.” She reached out for the joint and took another hit.

He exhaled but didn't feel any different. He wondered if it took a while to get high. Or maybe he was already high and just didn't know it because he was high.

Their fingertips touched as she passed the joint back to him. He took another toke and held the smoke in as he watched her hand crawling over the psychedelic sheets, moving from Yellow Land to Orange Land to Purple Land to Dirty Blue Jean Land, which was his leg. She circled his knee with her finger. Her hand was small and pudgy, and moved like a sly little animal.

“You're name's Frank, right? Just like your father.” Her voice was a drowsy purr.

“Yeah.” He couldn't stop staring at the pudgy little animal playing on his knee.

“Just like my brother. He's a junior, too. What do they call you at home? Frankie? Frankie Boy?”

Was she mocking him? How did she know? “No,” he said. “Just Frank.”

“Oh.” She took another toke and continued her thought while holding her breath. “Because my brother is called Johnny because my father is John. But sometimes he's Johnny Boy. I guess it's an Italian thing.” She exhaled.