Fallen Angel - TOC

Chapter Twenty-Two

Frankie ran as fast as his legs would carry him down the long, narrow, dimly lit concrete blocked corridor. There was an iron door at the end of the passage, and he rapidly entered the memorized code into the keypad beside the door. The door clicked open, and he grunted with his efforts at opening the immensely heavy door. Finally, he opened it enough to slide past and onto the other side. He groaned as he used all of his might to pull the door closed behind him. Frankie bent down at the waist with his hands on his knees, panting and heaving for air. He turned around and started running down the new corridor, desperate to reach the next door. It had been drilled into his head almost from birth that he had to pass through the third door before he could stop to rest or think.

Frankie ran blindly, his mind blank and concentrating only on reaching the second door. When he finally made it there, he followed the exact same procedure as before, only with a different code punched into the keypad. Instinctively, his mind turned toward the third door and his freedom that lay beyond. He forgot that several yards into the next passage, a long flight of stairs must be navigated. As Frankie went flying down the corridor, he pitched forward, suspended in the air, his feet sailing off of the solid floor surface, and his arms wildly flailing and grasping for contact that was not possible. Gravity took over, and he felt himself rolling headfirst down the long flight of concrete steps. As his body somersaulted down the stairs, Frankie’s shoulder, hip, leg, and side of his head bore the brunt of concrete meeting pliable flesh. He banged and jostled down the steps until he lay in a soggy heap at the bottom, his arms and legs flung every which way. Frankie’s lungs made loud, raspy sounds that echoed throughout the chamber as he tried to get his bearings and figure out what had just happened to him. When he moved, the pain sang throughout his body and head, and he lay still for a moment as the ringing in his ears filled his mind. When he drew in another breath, he was tempted to let it out as a tortured sob, to lay there insensibly and cry for hours, but his survival instinct won out, and the third door beckoned.

Frankie harshly cried out in pain as he staggered to his feet. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, as his face contorted angrily with the agony of his efforts. Running was now impossible, and he limped as quickly as he could toward the next door, which now seemed miles away. It sounded like there was a barking dog in the corridor as he frantically drew in air through his now constricted breathing passages. By the time he was halfway to the door, his left leg went numb, and he used his hands to drag the heavy dead weight and hop. He made it to the third door and gratefully leaned against it, his cheek roughly feeling the cold, hard iron surface. Frankie lifted his shaking hand to the third keypad and entered the code. This door clicked open, but Frankie could barely manage its heavy weight. Repeatedly, he tugged on it with futile, weak pulling motions as his right shoulder was too injured to allow him much strength. Frankie’s fear and frustration sent another jolt of adrenaline into his bloodstream, and he used his left hand to yank as hard as he could, screaming loudly with the supreme effort. The door opened enough to allow him to suck in his breath and squeeze by. Once inside, he applied his left hand to the door handle and used his left leg for leverage to pull furiously. Finally, the door moved to click and lock shut. The movement of the door caught Frankie off balance, and he spilled back onto the floor.

This time, Frankie allowed himself to lie on the floor as he panted and tried to clear his head. There was no panicked push to reach a fourth iron door, as it didn’t exist. Frank had told him that it would take a battering ram to knock down the iron doors, and that no machine could make it down the narrow, twisted stairs that led to the final door. It would be virtually impossible to catch anyone who made it that far. And, the twisted maze of passages that led from there would confound anyone who tried to figure out where the escaped person would eventually emerge out into the world. Now, Frankie had to get up and start down the maze – which was easier said than done. Frankie knew that before the last door to freedom, there were supplies – food, water and maybe a place to rest. This would keep him going and motivate him to keep on.

Frankie scrambled to a stooped over position, with one arm hanging limply by his side and a leg that refused to move on its own. He slowly dragged himself through the passage looking like Igor out of a bad B movie. He knew that it was at least half a mile until the maze completed, and a brief horrific thought surfaced in his mind. What if he couldn’t make it out? No one would ever find him. He’d die an agonizing, lonely death and become mummified before anyone found him – if they ever did. Anger filled his body, and he gritted out a loud "NO" that rang against the concrete block walls as he frowned and entered the maze.

~*~*~*~

Two hours later, Frankie emerged from the maze and hobbled to the exit chamber. There were a refrigerator, storage closet, sink, toilet, and mercifully, a makeshift cot with a folded blanket at one end and a flat pillow on the other. The area was brighter with fluorescent overhead lights, and Frankie felt his entire body sag with relief. He immediately walked over to the refrigerator and pulled on the door latch. Rows of bottled water and juice gleamed at him, and his hand snaked around a large bottled water. After unscrewing the plastic cap, he tipped the ribbed, plastic container and drank deeply, finishing half the liter in one long gulp. He replaced the cap and shoved the bottle back into the refrigerator. Frankie looked down at his watch and saw that three hours had lapsed since his meeting with Frank. Despair washed over Frankie, and his lips trembled. Not now, he told himself. Later, think about stuff later. Take care of yourself first. Frankie sat down on the cot and felt himself relax even more. He set his watch alarm for three hours later, when night would be established and dark. He had no idea what to do when he left the estate, but that would wait. Frankie moaned when he lay down on the cot, his injuries simultaneously erupting in a chorus of pain. When his eyes closed, Frankie immediately welcomed the black nothingness of much needed sleep.

~*~*~*~

Frankie woke up with a start when he heard the loud boom. He sat up on the cot and listened intently. That was an explosion! Or was it? He glanced down at his watch, and his mouth hung open with shock as he realized that either he didn’t set his alarm correctly or he slept through it. It was now 4AM, only one or two hours until daylight. What Frankie didn’t know was that he’d slept for nearly a day, not several hours. Frankie looked around frantically. He had to collect his things and get out of there pronto.

Frankie opened up the storage cabinets and hurriedly pulled out pistols and ammo. He stuffed so many pistols into his waistband that his stomach and bulletproof vest were outlined with rows of gleaming chrome and silver. Frankie decided to leave his vest on since he had no idea what awaited him on the outside. He found a plastic bag and dumped into it bottles of water and prewrapped packages of chips, cookies and mystery meat sticks. He ran over to the toilet and quickly relieved himself, not having the nerve to look and see if he were bleeding again. The way that everything in his body grated and jarred inside, he had no doubt that something was amiss. If he’d had a mirror hanging over the small, white porcelain sink, Frankie would have noticed that a thick trail of blood had congealed on the side of his head and that there was a nasty bruise trailing over his cheekbone with the hint of a black eye. He coughed softly as he tidied up the area, smoothing out the cot and folding the blanket so that it looked like no one had ever been there. He never noticed the small splotches of dried blood trickled here and there on the white pillow.

Before he left the room, Frankie pulled out his father’s wallet to see how much money he had to work with. He gasped at the thick rows of hundred dollar bills. There must be six grand in here, Frankie thought. His right thumb leafed over the clear plastic photo album that his father’s wallet held. Frankie grew still with shock. He’d never seen the interior of his father’s wallet and was stunned to see that it was full of Frankie’s photos – years of photos from babyhood to the present day. Frankie’s hand was shaking, and one of the older photos jarred loose from its plastic holding to float down to the concrete floor. Frankie absentmindedly bent to pick it up, and he stared at the happy, smiling, blond baby with bright blue eyes. Frankie knew that this was him, but he’d never seen a photo of himself at this young age. Most of his early photos were of his toddler days. He’d never questioned that as he knew his mother had died when he was an infant, and Frank had no records before he’d come to collect his son. Frankie turned over the photo before placing it back into the wallet. His hand trembled violently, and he made a low wailing sound as he read the writing. "Lucky Spencer – age one year." The writing had been lightly crossed out and "Frankie Smith" was penned below it in Frank’s handwriting.

~*~*~*~

Unbeknownst to Frankie, the National Guard had been called to the Smith estate to control the rioting that was taking place – a mixture of machine gunfire, bombs and Molotov cocktails that ripped the mansion apart and left it gutted and on fire. The FBI would later marvel at what a miraculous coup it was for over 100 people in Frank Smith’s organization to be arrested in one day for a variety of charges.

When the National Guard eventually reached Frank’s office the following day, the room was virtually destroyed with fire and contained three unidentifiable, burnt up bodies. The secret passage entrance was wide open with the fiery disappearance of the movable bookcase, and several guards investigated the passageway, looking for a potential murderer. The first iron door had frustrated them, and they’d sent for a demolition man to blow the door open. This was the roaring, booming sound that had woken Frankie while he was sleeping on the cot.

Both the guards and the demolition man shook their heads when they encountered a second iron door, and they quickly sent back for more firepower.

~*~*~*~

Frankie snapped to his senses and hurriedly placed the incriminating photograph back in its protective plastic cover. He tucked Frank’s wallet into his pocket and opened the door to his freedom from the Smith estate.

The secret passageway opened into the edge of the thick woods that surrounded the Smith estate. It was hidden in the side of a hill that was covered by bushes and thick brush. Frankie had to practically claw his way out as he tried to balance his plastic bag of supplies on his good shoulder. The mansion was nearly a mile away, but Frankie could see the dark sky lighted up with searchlights and the ominous, smoky glow of still raging, out of control fires. Sirens were wailing continuously, and Frankie blinked rapidly in surprise and fear. He was on his own now – totally. His father slash boss was dead, and the mansion was gone. Hysteria welled at the edges of his consciousness, licking into his mind, nudging and jostling him. He shook his head hard and walked as best he could toward the road that lay beyond the woods. He was leaving Atlantic City. That much he knew.

It was terribly hard not to make any noise as he limped into the night. He had never been in as much pain in his life, perhaps including his kidnapping incident. Frankie clenched his teeth so hard he thought they would break. No one’s gonna take me out, he reassured himself. I’m gettin’ outta here. Dey want me? I’ll kill ‘em. I’m okay, I’m okay. Oh, I hurt so bad. Frankie held a pistol in his hand as he dragged himself along, ready to squeeze the trigger any second at the slightest hint of sound or movement.

Frankie knew where he was. He was now on a side street that led directly to a main road. He determinedly dragged and hopped his way through the night, desperate to place more distance between him and the Smith estate. His bag was becoming a problem as he it felt like it grew heavier with each step, but there was no way he was giving up his food and ammo. When Frankie reached the main road, he kept in the shadows near buildings so that no one would report seeing a young man out walking during this time. A brief thought crossed his mind to steal a car, hot-wire it and roar away to his freedom, but he rejected that idea. Automobiles were too easy to trace, and he didn’t fancy being arrested, not with all of the crimes that he’d committed and that the authorities might try to investigate more thoroughly if he called attention to himself.

Frankie knew that the main road soon offered an entrance ramp to the highway, and he decided to try his luck there with the anonymous, general public. Hopefully, he didn’t look too bedraggled or scary. After walking for nearly a mile without finding the entrance to the highway, his agony increased markedly, and Frankie actively wished for death. He seriously considered ducking into an alley or parking lot and placing his pistol to his head, blowing his brains out. There was nothing left for him anymore, and he couldn’t conceive a way out of his predicament. Now, he was barely walking and crying silently with his enormous physical and emotional pain. He spotted a large sign with surrounding bushes in an elegant landscaping design fronting a business and crawled behind it. He lay on his side in sheer exhaustion, weeping inconsolably for the father that he’d lost literally and figuratively. He’d been stuffing down his reactions to Frank’s death for as long as possible, but now it was payup time. Frankie curled up protectively and ran his hand over his dirty face to wipe off the steady stream of tears that flowed over his cheeks and into his mouth and crevices of his neck.

Wave after wave of emotional anguish permeated his very being, flowing hotly through every cell like tainted blood, and he was seemingly powerless to control it. His body shook and shuddered violently as the events of the killing ran through his mind like a nonstop horror movie. Over and over, he knelt beside his father, seeing him covered with blood and gasping for his last breaths. Over and over, Frankie shook his father to try to rouse him, patting his cheek and crying out "daddy." Frankie reached for one of the guns nestled in his waistband and pulled it out. He lay it flat against his temple as he considered the possibility of using it. His thoughts were fractured with pain, not logical or sequential, and he had a hard time formulating a plan of action. He placed the pistol to his temple several times, and then lowered it to the ground each time. His hand was shaking so hard that the cold metal of the gun banged against his flesh repeatedly. Dey shoulda killed me, thought Frankie desperately. I shoulda let dem. Let me die, oh, let me die. The extreme fatigue in his body finally led him to lay the pistol on the ground away from his hand. He couldn’t do it. He didn’t have the strength. The movie in his mind fast-forwarded to his father’s dying words, and they assaulted him repeatedly with harsh blows. "Go to...Luke…Spencer. He’s your…father. Not…me." Frankie moaned and rocked back and forth on the ground, unable to accept those words, yet knowing them to be true. The photograph of baby Lucky flashed in his mind, and Frank’s handwriting accused him like the proverbial handwriting on the wall. You’re not his son, you’re not his son, Frankie’s mind raced. He felt the bile rising within him, choking in his throat.

"Oh, Johnny, where are you?" he whispered aloud. Johnny always had such good advice. What would he tell him to do? Frankie imagined looking at Johnny and telling him what was going on, what Frank had said before he died. "Find your own answers," he imagined Johnny saying. "Ask Luke Spencer, man to man. Frank had a reason for telling you that." Frankie took in a deep breath and sat up, rifling through his bag. He couldn’t stay here long. He needed to be out of town before sunup. Frankie ripped at the plastic wrap covering a large cookie, and he shoved half of the cookie into his mouth and chewed like a madman. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the cookie rapidly disappeared.

~*~*~*~

Frankie sighed with relief when a trucker finally stopped on the side of the highway. He’d been walking and hitchhiking for nearly twenty minutes and was afraid of being spotted by the police or someone worse before he obtained a ride. He walked up to the truck and opened the door.

"Where are you headed?" the fortyish truck driver asked.

"Port Charles, New York," Frankie replied firmly.

"Hop on in," the truck driver offered. "It’s on my way."

~*~*~*~

Frankie stole several glances at the truck driver from the sides of his eyes. The man had grayish brown hair with a mustache and was wearing a plaid flannel shirt with a cap on his head that had an advertisement for a fertilizer company stamped across the front.

"You look a little beat up," the truck driver said as he took his eyes off of the road and stared at Frankie. "Somebody give you some trouble?"

Frankie set his face and stared straight ahead. "Nothin’ I can’t handle," he replied tersely.

"Well, your head looks bad, and you’ve got a nice shiner. I can drop you off at a medical center if you need it." The man was trying to be helpful, but Frankie brushed him off.

"Thanks. No," said Frankie as he gritted his teeth. He held his breath, and his eyes bugged as the rocking motion of the truck cab sent a vicious stab of pain shooting into his side. He shifted in his seat, laying his head lightly against the window as the tense talk that he had spied on between Ruby and that Luke Spencer guy nagged at his brain. How did Ruby know who he really was and why did Luke deny it? What was going on? Why was he with Frank for all these years? Did the Spencer guy give him away – or did he throw him away? Why didn’t he want him? Why did Frank send him to Port Charles to be around this man and destroy his business? He just had to find some answers and settle this once and for all.

The music from the truck driver’s radio played on and on, and Frankie tuned it out but perked up when he heard a Bon Jovi tune.

~ It's all the same, only the names will change

Just to get back home

Frankie began lightly singing to the tune under his breath as if he were talking to himself.

~ I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride

Wanted dead or alive

Frankie’s voice trembled slightly when he sang the words "dead or alive," and he shivered as he wrapped his arms around his middle.

~ Sometimes I sleep, sometimes it's not for days

And times when you're alone and all you do is think

Frankie coughed repeatedly as he tried to bring more air into his lungs. The music played on in the background of his mind, and he let his emotions dip and sway with the guitar riff. He started singing the song again on the last chorus.

~ I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride

Wanted dead or alive

The truck driver glanced curiously at Frankie. "So you are you wanted dead or alive?" he joked. Frankie stiffened in his seat and within one second drew and pointed his pistol in the truck driver’s surprised face.

"What do you think?" Frankie ground out as his blue eyes darkened and flashed with a threatening intent.

The truck drivers’ hand made an equally quick movement and he answered, "I think this is what they call a standoff, a stalemate," as his longer arm held a pistol directly to Frankie’s head. Frankie’s heart raced - he hadn’t expected this reaction to his outburst.

"Do you think I’ve driven a truck for twenty years to be robbed by a little punk like you?" sneered the truck driver. "So this is what I get for doing a good deed, giving a kid a ride. What’s the problem with your generation? So ungrateful. Spoiled brats."

"I can still blow your head off," shouted Frankie. "You wouldn’t be da first man I killed tonight. And I don’t especially care if I die."

The truck driver expertly maneuvered his eighteen wheeler off to the side of the road and braked. "Out," he ordered tensely with his gun held steady to Frankie’s temple. "I have a shipment to deliver, and I aim to please. Get lost. There’s a truck stop five miles up the road. Go find some other sucker to bother." When Frankie sat still and didn’t reply, the driver’s voice rose. "I said get out!"

Frankie opened the door and slid down from his seat, his feet hitting the ground solidly. His face was set and angry, and he slammed the door. The truck driver manipulated the multiple gears in his vehicle and drove off, leaving Frankie standing alone at the side of the highway in a cloud of black exhaust.

It was about 12PM on Saturday. Frankie had noticed that they were about two hours distance outside of Port Charles the last time he’d seen a road sign. He resigned himself to walking the five miles to the truck stop. I’m gonna call a limo, he determined as he fingered the wallet full of money in his front pocket. Frankie was wearing a sweater but no jacket, and the wind whipping off of the highway felt bitterly cold to him. He hunched his shoulders and carried his plastic bag with him, staying as far away as he could from the swift traffic. His mind emptied tiredly, and he walked mechanically, like a robot, placing one foot in front of the other, over and over again. He tried to ignore it when his left leg went numb again, tingling and annoying him. But, he started stumbling frequently, pitching forward as his feet caught on rocks thrown to the side of the road by passing vehicles. His head was throbbing, and his eyes kept trying to close even as his feet propelled him forward. Finally, his dragging foot tripped him and sent him sailing to the ground, rolling and tumbling into the deep ditch beside him. He landed on his stomach with an "ooof" sound, and his plastic bag spilled it contents all around him. Frankie’s hands grabbed fiercely at the tufts of grass surrounding him, trying to pull himself upright so that he could climb out of the ditch and walk again toward the truck stop. His head felt dizzy and his limbs were like rubber. He gave up and closed his eyes, allowing a soft cloudlike feeling to envelop him into its cocoon of insensibility.

~*~*~*~

It was dark when Frankie woke up again. Every muscle in his body was stiff and contracted from the long period of time that he’d spent sleeping on the hard, cold, damp ground. His mouth was dry as the Sahara, and his hand searched and patted the area for a bottle of water. He gripped one finally, and rose creakily to a sitting position. He gulped down the water as if he life depended on it, which it did. For the next half-hour, he located and consumed each packet of junk food that he’d brought with him, even the mystery meat sticks. He downed another bottle of water, and rose to his feet with some difficulty. His bag was lighter since he only had one bottle of water left and two boxes of ammo. He crawled and inched his way up the side of the embankment, making slow progress as he ignored the cacophony of pains, aches and dizziness that his body presented. He was on his hands and knees at the side of the road, wondering how he was going to walk several miles to the nearest truck stop and telephone.

~*~*~*~

Maxie Jones sat silently and stiffly on the end of the couch in the living room. The clock on the television set chimed eight times with the hour, but she didn’t look up and instead concentrated on her hands folded in her lap. Maxie looked very lovely with her pink sweater set, jean skirt and matching pink barrettes holding her hair away from her pretty yet sad face.

Felicia came into the living room and sat down beside her daughter. She wrapped her arm lightly around Maxie’s shoulders and said, "Why don’t you come into the kitchen, and I’ll fix you one of my famous grilled cheese sandwiches. I’ll fix it exactly how you like it."

Maxie shook her head silently as tears welled up in her eyes and threatened to roll down her cheeks.

Felicia looked worriedly at her daughter and ran a gentle hand over her hair. "Maybe he had a problem, a flat tire or something," she offered.

Maxie shrugged and replied tearfully. "I called Kelly’s and talked to Ruby. He hasn’t come back to town I guess. She hasn’t seen him."

"See, honey?" Felicia said brightly. "There might be a problem at home or with his car. Let’s wait and see what happened. Let him tell you himself. I know you’re disappointed, but if he’s as wonderful as you say, he’ll have a reason."

Maxie’s tears flowed steadily now, and she leaned her head onto Felicia’s shoulder as she sobbed. "What if he doesn’t like me anymore. What if he’s met somebody else that he likes better?"

~*~*~*~

"How are you doing with your unpacking, Sly?" Luke watched as his nephew scurried through the apartment with loads of laundry.

"Almost done," Sly called over his shoulder. "I wish these apartment appliances held larger loads." Sly bent down and placed a load into the mini stacked washing machine in the hallway. He closed the folding door in front of it.

"Oh, Sylvester, we should have saved that baby octopus that you caught," Luke said regretfully. "That was the best catch of the trip. I’ve had more luck fishing in mud puddles at the side of the road. What happened to all the great ocean fishing? I swear there weren’t even minnows in that big pond."

Sly entered his uncle’s bedroom and stood with his hands on his hips. "What would you do with a baby octopus?" he asked, laughing. "You couldn’t stuff and mount it."

Luke shrugged. "Oh, I suppose we could have placed it in a specimen bottle and used it as a decoration on top of the television set."

"Yuck," stated Sly with a crinkled nose. "No way."

Luke’s twinkling blue eyes met his nephew’s green ones. "Just kidding, nephew of mine." Luke walked over to Sly and hugged him. "Did you have a good time?" he asked.

"The best!" Sly answered quickly. "I really like Nikolas. He was cool. We had fun." Sly stepped back and looked serious. "So when is the wedding?"

Luke waved his hand in the air. "I have no cotton picking idea," he replied flippantly. "First we’ll find my woman a diamond, then we’ll worry about dates."

"Is she going to move in here with us?" Sly asked seriously.

Luke laughed. "This bachelor pad has barely room enough for the two of us. I suppose we’ll need to find a house somewhere. A real place to live. How does that sound to you?"

"Cool," Sly agreed happily. "I can’t wait."

~*~*~*~

Johnny pulled the BMW off an exit on the highway, one that would lead him straight into New York City. It had taken him several hours to get this far, but he knew that it would be safer hiding out in this huge city until things blew over. Johnny gripped his arm and made a face. That gunshot wound had come too close to ending his life.

*** He was in the garage, cleaning up Frankie’s car when the man had entered and shot at him. Johnny had fallen to the concrete floor of the garage, but his gun was drawn before he felt the hard surface. Johnny quickly killed the shooter and leaped into the BMW. He was known in the organization as being extremely loyal to Frank and his son Frankie, so Johnny was one of the first persons that the revolutionaries had sought out to destroy. It was no use to try to enter the house and rescue Frankie. Johnny just hoped that the kid had made it to safety in time. Only Frank, Frankie and their personal bodyguards knew of the intricate system of escape routes planned throughout the mansion, and Johnny had plenty of confidence in his boss’s wits.

Johnny floored the BMW and squealed the tires out of the garage. He saw that the gate at the entrance to the estate was strangely opened, and that the guard at gatehouse was absent. The car sailed out onto the road and fishtailed to the left when he took a sudden right turn. Johnny’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel – he knew that it was only a miracle that he’d made it out alive. He actively wished for other miracles as he entered the highway and headed toward his ex-wife’s home.

Johnny and Maria had taken all precautions to hide the location of her residence. Johnny never knew what would happen within Frank Smith’s organization, and he insisted that his ex and his children be safe. They had moved to southern New Jersey in an anonymous suburb outside of a mid-sized city. Johnny felt the blood dripping down his arm and onto his hand. It slid through his fingers and stained the carpeting of the BMW that Frankie loved so much. Boss will have a fit, Johnny decided. He swallowed hard when he realized that Frankie might not be upset if he were dead. He had to notify Maria of what was going down, and then he needed to go into hiding until the revolution died down. Then, he could make plans, real plans for his life for a change. Johnny’s mind drifted to the secret Swiss bank account that contained the equivalent of his retirement. Johnny had mixed feelings. If the revolution were successful, particularly if Frank were killed, then he could start a new life. However, Johnny fervently hoped that Frankie would survive this. He would willingly go back to his life with Frank if the kid could be spared. The only thing was, with Frankie’s injuries, he wasn’t sure how quickly the boss could move or react. Johnny hit the steering wheel angrily with the heel of his hand. Dammit! Frankie, don’t die on me. ***

~*~*~*~

Ruby sat uneasily on the edge of her bed with an upset, worried look on her face. She had her hand on the phone as she thought. Frankie never came back. He said he’d return by Friday night, Saturday morning at the latest. It’s eight o’clock in the evening. Where is he? Ruby recalled Maxie’s phone call half an hour earlier. Frankie is crazy about that girl. There’s no way he’d ever break a date with her. She’s all he talks about, the little cutie. His face sure lights up when he talks about his Maxie girl.

Ruby picked up the phone and dialed the number that she knew by heart. "Barbara Jean," she said decisively. "Hang on girl – we’ve got trouble."

Next chapter...