Frank nodded. “Used a fish-line garrote. I don’t use that too often. Nearly sliced Bobby’s head off. But I mean, can you blame me?”
Win spread his hands. “How could anyone?”
Frank laughed too hard again. “Nice having you visit.”
“Oh yes, good times.”
Frank laughed some more.
He just wanted to talk, Win thought again. It was pathetic, really. This former mountain of a man was that broken, desperate, and thus Win could use it. “You said before that Herman looked classy. That he appeared to be more legitimate than you.”
“Right, so?”
“Could you elaborate?”
“You were there, you know how it was with me and Herman. Herman wanted to be legit. He wanted to go to fancy parties and play old golf clubs like yours and he got the midtown office in the nice high-rise. He put dirty money into real businesses, like that suddenly made the money clean or something. So toward the end, Herman only wanted to handle gambling and loan sharking. Guess why?”
Win said, “Because there was less violence?”
“No, if anything, they’re more violent, what with collecting and stuff.” Frank Ache leaned forward, and Win could smell the decay on his breath. “Gambling and loan sharking felt legit to him. Casinos do gambling and they’re legit. Banks do loans and they’re legit. So why can’t Herman do the same?”
“And you?”
“I handled the other stuff. Whores, drugs, like that, though let me tell you, if Zoloft ain’t a drug that don’t work better than blow, I’ll suck off a hyena. And don’t get me started on whores being illegal. Oldest profession. And when you think about it, what man doesn’t pay for sex in the end?”
Win did not argue.
“So why you here?” Frank smiled and the sight was still eerie. Win wondered how many people had died, their last sight being that smile. “Or maybe I should ask, whose ass has Myron stuck his finger up now?”
Time to show his hand. “Evan Crisp’s.”
That widened Frank’s eyes. “Whoa.”
“Yes.”
“Myron met up with Crisp?”
“That he did.”
“Crisp is nearly as deadly as you,” Frank said.
“I’m flattered.”
“Man, you going up against Crisp. Should be fun watching that.”
“I’ll send you the DVD.”
Something dark ran across Frank’s face. “Evan Crisp,” he said slowly, “is one of the main reasons I’m here.”
“How’s that?”
“See, one of us—me or Herman—had to go down. You know how RICO is. They needed a scapegoat.”
Scapegoat, Win thought. The man has no idea how many people he personally murdered, including one for seeing him cry. But he’s a scapegoat.
“So it was either me or Herman. Crisp worked for Herman. Suddenly Herman’s witnesses vanish or recant. Mine didn’t. The end.”
“So you went down for the crimes?”
Frank leaned forward again. “I got thrown under the bus.”
“Meanwhile, Herman lives on, happy and legit,” Win said.
“Yep,” Frank said.
Their eyes met for a moment. Frank gave Win the smallest nod.
“Evan Crisp,” Win said, “is now working for Gabriel Wire. Do you know who that is?”
“Wire? Sure. His music is pure, one hundred percent, grade-A crap. Does Myron rep him?”
“No, his partner.”
“Lex something, right? Another no-talent.”
“Any clue why Crisp might be working for Gabriel Wire?”
Frank smiled with small teeth that looked like Tic Tacs. “In the old days, Gabriel Wire did it all. Blow, whores—but mostly gambling.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“The favor?”
“Done.”
Nothing else said on that. Nothing else needed.
“Wire owed Herman big,” Frank said. “At one point—now I’m going back before he started the Howard Hughes act, what, fifteen, twenty years—his tab was more than half a million.”
Win considered that for a moment. “There are rumors that someone messed up Wire’s face.”
“Not Herman,” Frank said with a headshake. “He ain’t that stupid. Wire can’t sing a lick, but his smile could unsnap a bra from thirty paces. So no, Herman wouldn’t mess with the breadwinner.”
Outside the room and down the hall, a man screamed. The guard by the door did not move. Neither did Frank. The screaming continued, grew louder, and then it was cut off as though with a switch.
Win asked, “Do you have any thoughts on why Crisp would be working for Wire?”
“Oh, I doubt he’s working for Wire,” Frank said. “My bet? Crisp is there for Herman. He’s probably on the scene making sure Mr. Rock ’n’ Roll pays up.”
Win sat back, crossed his legs. “So you believe that your brother is still involved with Gabriel Wire then?”
“Why else would Crisp be watching him?”
“We thought that perhaps Evan Crisp had gone legit. Perhaps he took a cushy security job for a recluse.”
Frank smiled again. “Yeah, I can see how you might think that.”
“But I’m wrong?”
“We never go legit, Win. We just become bigger hypocrites. The world is dog-eat-dog. Some get eaten, some don’t. All of us, even your buddy Myron, would kill a million strangers to protect the few he cares about—and anyone who tells you different is a liar. We do it every day in one way or another. You can either buy that nice pair of shoes or you can use that money to save some starving kids in Africa—and yet you always buy the shoes. That’s life. We all kill if we feel justified. A man has a starving family. If he kills another man, he can steal his loaf of bread and save his kids. If he doesn’t kill the man, he doesn’t get the bread and his family dies. So he kills the man. Every single time. But see, the rich man doesn’t need to kill to get a loaf of bread. So he says, ‘Oh, it’s wrong to kill’ and makes up rules so no one hurts him or takes the million loaves he’s saving for him and his fat family. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Morality is subjective,” Win said, making a production of stifling a yawn. “What a philosophical insight, Frank.”
Frank chuckled at that. “I don’t get many visitors. I’m enjoying this.”
Win spread his hands. “How could anyone?”
Frank laughed too hard again. “Nice having you visit.”
“Oh yes, good times.”
Frank laughed some more.
He just wanted to talk, Win thought again. It was pathetic, really. This former mountain of a man was that broken, desperate, and thus Win could use it. “You said before that Herman looked classy. That he appeared to be more legitimate than you.”
“Right, so?”
“Could you elaborate?”
“You were there, you know how it was with me and Herman. Herman wanted to be legit. He wanted to go to fancy parties and play old golf clubs like yours and he got the midtown office in the nice high-rise. He put dirty money into real businesses, like that suddenly made the money clean or something. So toward the end, Herman only wanted to handle gambling and loan sharking. Guess why?”
Win said, “Because there was less violence?”
“No, if anything, they’re more violent, what with collecting and stuff.” Frank Ache leaned forward, and Win could smell the decay on his breath. “Gambling and loan sharking felt legit to him. Casinos do gambling and they’re legit. Banks do loans and they’re legit. So why can’t Herman do the same?”
“And you?”
“I handled the other stuff. Whores, drugs, like that, though let me tell you, if Zoloft ain’t a drug that don’t work better than blow, I’ll suck off a hyena. And don’t get me started on whores being illegal. Oldest profession. And when you think about it, what man doesn’t pay for sex in the end?”
Win did not argue.
“So why you here?” Frank smiled and the sight was still eerie. Win wondered how many people had died, their last sight being that smile. “Or maybe I should ask, whose ass has Myron stuck his finger up now?”
Time to show his hand. “Evan Crisp’s.”
That widened Frank’s eyes. “Whoa.”
“Yes.”
“Myron met up with Crisp?”
“That he did.”
“Crisp is nearly as deadly as you,” Frank said.
“I’m flattered.”
“Man, you going up against Crisp. Should be fun watching that.”
“I’ll send you the DVD.”
Something dark ran across Frank’s face. “Evan Crisp,” he said slowly, “is one of the main reasons I’m here.”
“How’s that?”
“See, one of us—me or Herman—had to go down. You know how RICO is. They needed a scapegoat.”
Scapegoat, Win thought. The man has no idea how many people he personally murdered, including one for seeing him cry. But he’s a scapegoat.
“So it was either me or Herman. Crisp worked for Herman. Suddenly Herman’s witnesses vanish or recant. Mine didn’t. The end.”
“So you went down for the crimes?”
Frank leaned forward again. “I got thrown under the bus.”
“Meanwhile, Herman lives on, happy and legit,” Win said.
“Yep,” Frank said.
Their eyes met for a moment. Frank gave Win the smallest nod.
“Evan Crisp,” Win said, “is now working for Gabriel Wire. Do you know who that is?”
“Wire? Sure. His music is pure, one hundred percent, grade-A crap. Does Myron rep him?”
“No, his partner.”
“Lex something, right? Another no-talent.”
“Any clue why Crisp might be working for Gabriel Wire?”
Frank smiled with small teeth that looked like Tic Tacs. “In the old days, Gabriel Wire did it all. Blow, whores—but mostly gambling.”
Win arched an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“The favor?”
“Done.”
Nothing else said on that. Nothing else needed.
“Wire owed Herman big,” Frank said. “At one point—now I’m going back before he started the Howard Hughes act, what, fifteen, twenty years—his tab was more than half a million.”
Win considered that for a moment. “There are rumors that someone messed up Wire’s face.”
“Not Herman,” Frank said with a headshake. “He ain’t that stupid. Wire can’t sing a lick, but his smile could unsnap a bra from thirty paces. So no, Herman wouldn’t mess with the breadwinner.”
Outside the room and down the hall, a man screamed. The guard by the door did not move. Neither did Frank. The screaming continued, grew louder, and then it was cut off as though with a switch.
Win asked, “Do you have any thoughts on why Crisp would be working for Wire?”
“Oh, I doubt he’s working for Wire,” Frank said. “My bet? Crisp is there for Herman. He’s probably on the scene making sure Mr. Rock ’n’ Roll pays up.”
Win sat back, crossed his legs. “So you believe that your brother is still involved with Gabriel Wire then?”
“Why else would Crisp be watching him?”
“We thought that perhaps Evan Crisp had gone legit. Perhaps he took a cushy security job for a recluse.”
Frank smiled again. “Yeah, I can see how you might think that.”
“But I’m wrong?”
“We never go legit, Win. We just become bigger hypocrites. The world is dog-eat-dog. Some get eaten, some don’t. All of us, even your buddy Myron, would kill a million strangers to protect the few he cares about—and anyone who tells you different is a liar. We do it every day in one way or another. You can either buy that nice pair of shoes or you can use that money to save some starving kids in Africa—and yet you always buy the shoes. That’s life. We all kill if we feel justified. A man has a starving family. If he kills another man, he can steal his loaf of bread and save his kids. If he doesn’t kill the man, he doesn’t get the bread and his family dies. So he kills the man. Every single time. But see, the rich man doesn’t need to kill to get a loaf of bread. So he says, ‘Oh, it’s wrong to kill’ and makes up rules so no one hurts him or takes the million loaves he’s saving for him and his fat family. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Morality is subjective,” Win said, making a production of stifling a yawn. “What a philosophical insight, Frank.”
Frank chuckled at that. “I don’t get many visitors. I’m enjoying this.”
