Fallen Angel - TOC

Chapter Thirteen

The black BMW slowly pulled into the long driveway fronting the Atlantic City mansion. The mansion was lighted so thoroughly that it almost appeared to be daylight. Johnny pushed the electronic button to roll down the window, and he leaned slightly over the car door to talk to the guard stationed at the property’s entrance. "Hey Andy," said Johnny in a low tone of voice. "Johnny," replied Andy as he glanced over his dark glasses at the man in front of him. "You and the boss home for awhile?" he asked conversationally. "For a week," Johnny said shortly. "Anything going down that I ought to know about?" he asked casually. Andy shrugged. "A bit of unrest. Just watch your back a little more than normal," he suggested. Johnny nodded and said, "Thanks." "Have a good one," commented Andy as he waved the BMW on up the driveway.

Johnny glanced over at the passenger seat, which contained a heavily napping Frankie. Frankie had slept most of the way on the trip after consuming two beers and a bag of pretzels. Johnny had kept the radio on low to the oldies station that Frankie loved. Johnny shook his head. He was a rock and roll man himself, but Frankie’s tastes were slowly winning him over. He actually sought out the old tunes occasionally when he found himself alone in the car. Johnny smiled slightly and wondered at how young Frankie looked when he was asleep with his hand curled up under his chin. To Johnny, Frankie was boss, and he was merely an employee, a glorified servant really. But something about Frankie always tugged at Johnny’s paternal heartstrings just a little.

Further up the driveway was a separate, circular, brick drive that contained within its confines an elaborate, decorative fountain, which was almost a storey high. It was a combination dolphin and water nymph concrete sculpture that shot water under pressure high into the air. The mansion had a Miami Vice look about it, which was appropriate since the architect was the professional of choice by Floridian drug dealers throughout that southern state. It was a combination of southern colonial and modern with tall columns fronting the two-storey porch, and the outside of the house wrapped in creamy white stucco. The estate was huge – almost three city blocks long. And, Frank had bought up the adjoining land nearby to limit his exposure to potential neighbors. To the back was a large, heated inground pool complete with cabanas, umbrellas and other outdoor party essentials. Further to the rear was the rollicking, cold Atlantic Ocean itself with a small beach rimming the property. No one could approach the Smith estate without being detected by land or by sea. Over twenty highly professional guards patrolled the area by day and night, armed and ready to detain or bury any intruders.

Johnny pulled the BMW up beside the front porch. After letting Frankie out and handing over his bags, Johnny would park the car in one of the twenty underground garages that contained the Smith family vehicles. Johnny lightly touched Frankie’s arm. "Hey boss," he said softly so he wouldn’t startle the boy. "Frankie, wake up. We’re home." Frankie stirred suddenly and rubbed his eyes as he yawned. "Thanks, Johnny," he said. "What time is it?" Johnny looked at his watch. "It’s almost midnight," he stated. Frankie ran his hand through his hair. "Okay," he replied. "Let’s go." Frankie opened the car door and stood waiting for Johnny to retrieve his bags from the trunk of the car. After picking up his two suitcases, Frankie said, "See you tomorrow?" Johnny nodded. "Sure. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything." Frankie nodded and headed for the massive front door that was stained mahogany and surrounded by intricate, leaded glass and brass patterned windows. He opened the front door and greeted the guard in the ornately decorated, two storey high foyer. "Hi Reggie," he said lightly. "I’m baaaack!" Reggie’s head nodded on his thick, ex-football player’s neck. "Welcome back, boss," he said respectfully. Frankie trudged to the west of the foyer and finally placed his bags at the foot of the guard standing at the cleverly disguised elevators fronted by wood paneling. "James," said Frankie. James pushed the secret button on the elevator and allowed Frankie to enter first. "Good to have you back, Frankie," said James after they exited the elevator and walked down the hallway to Frankie’s suite. "Yeah," said Frankie reluctantly. James deposited the bags in front of Frankie’s door and nodded respectfully before retreating for the elevator.

Frankie entered his personal code, known only to himself, Frank and one trusted housekeeper, into the electronic keypad to the side of the wood paneled door. The door clicked open slightly, and Frankie entered with a massive sigh. The lights turned on automatically as soon as Frankie entered, and he dumped his bags to the side of the door. He entered the living room of his suite and headed for the small, discreet refrigerator nestled in the wall lined with bookshelves and a covered entertainment unit. Frankie picked up the remote and pushed the button that opened the door to the big screen TV. He bent over to look in the refrigerator and selected a can of his favorite beer. He kicked his shoes off into a corner and jettisoned himself onto his black leather sofa. Clicking through the hundreds of channels available on the satellite dish, Frankie settled for an old war movie that pitted the Romans against the barbarians, with the disadvantage certainly against the barbarians who were frequently run over by chariots or impaled by the ever-present short, Roman sword.

Frankie’s suite of rooms was decorated in a masculine, Danish modern look coordinated throughout several rooms. Frankie had a master bedroom, guest bedroom, study, living room and palatial bathroom at his disposal. Most of the furniture was stained a deep mahogany or black, and abstract modern print carpets tastefully defined the borders and activity areas of the rooms. There was the occasional animal print fabric and bold, geometric designs of expensively framed artwork decorating the neutral, tan walls.

After watching TV for half an hour, Frankie succumbed to his tiredness and clicked off the appliance, which promptly moved back into its nesting place and covered itself with the wooden door. Frankie stripped and threw off clothes onto the floor in a haphazard way as he walked toward the bathroom to wash up before bed. He stood in the hunter green and black marble encased bathroom that was as large as some people’s small houses, brushed his teeth and glanced at himself in the mirror, crinkling his nose at the pasty complexion and dark circles that rimmed his eyes. "Beauty, Frankie, a real looker you are," he complained at himself as he turned off the lights and headed to bed wearing only his white, cotton briefs. He threw off four or five pillows from his king sized bed and pulled back the black, patterned duvet. Before climbing into bed, he picked up the nearby portable phone and ordered yet another servant to wake him up at 8AM sharp. Slipping into the 400-thread count sheets, he turned off the lamp beside the bed and sank into a very deep sleep.

~*~*~*~

Next morning…

Frankie threw open the four doors to his wall-length closets. Many rows of shirts, trousers and suits were arranged by color and season, and there were numerous cubbyholes for his collections of sweaters, sweatshirts, and shoes. Frankie usually dressed somewhat formally, as befitting his status as number two man in the organization. However, he’d become accustomed to dressing more casually for his undercover operation as a mere high school student, so he selected a pair of black, pleated trousers and a thin, silk, multicolored sweater that highlighted the blue of his eyes.

Frankie padded back to the bathroom and plugged in his blowdryer, working through his dark, silky hair with a brush. He squinted into the mirror and made a face. The light brown-blonde roots of his hair were beginning to make their presence known. I gotta get another dye job, he thought regretfully. I hate this. Frankie stared into the mirror for a minute. His sad, tired eyes regarded him accusingly as his heart dropped. I want to get out of this life, he thought desperately. The only way I’m gonna get out is in a fancy box that they lay into the ground and cover with dirt. Frank will never let me leave. He’s got too much evidence against me to hold over my head, and I know too much about him. Frank operated in such a manner that he used Frankie to commit crimes because he was a minor, practically immune against prosecution. Frankie was often the front man for Frank’s carefully orchestrated plans. He was indispensable to Frank – at least until his eighteenth birthday. And, the fact that Frankie knew enough about Frank ensured Frankie’s silence – if he wanted to live. It was a catch-22 situation – damned if you do, damned if you don’t. The witness protection programs were a joke. Frank almost always found his marks and killed them or worse. So, Frankie resigned himself to the fact that he was in it for life.

~*~*~*~

Frankie entered the fifty-foot long dining room lined with endless French doors that revealed the immaculate, professionally manicured gardens just beyond the expanse of glass. The customary breakfast buffet was laid out sumptuously at one end of the room, and a long, white clothed table dominated the middle of the room. An assortment of guards and other favored house employees gathered around its perimeter, eating and drinking coffee and juice. As Frankie was selecting a plate full of muffins and fruit along with a generous cup of black coffee, Frank entered the room, his hand around the waist of one of his favorite whores. "Junior!" he said heartily. "You’re back." Frankie glanced to his left and gave his father a small smile. "Yeah, I’m back," he said nonchalantly. Frank put his arm around Frankie’s shoulders and said, "Come sit down with Cathy and me. We have some catching up to do." Frankie looked at the whore beside his father with dead eyes. He nodded and followed Frank to the table. Frankie set his plate and cup down and sat in the chair across from Frank. "How’s business?" he asked Cathy with a sarcastic tone of voice. Cathy shot death rays at Frankie with one look and a toss of her long, bleached hair while Frank’s face colored with anger. "Watch your mouth, kid," he said lightly. Frankie didn’t say anything else and started in on a muffin, chewing slowly and sipping his coffee.

"When did you get in last night?" asked Frank. Frankie shrugged and didn’t look up. "About midnight," he replied.

"I’m sure I was occupied then," laughed Frank as he patted Cathy’s hand and gave her a lascivious grin.

An uneasy, angry look washed over Frankie’s features, and he began eating more rapidly. He remembered himself in time and set his features hard, protecting himself against any display of emotion in front of Frank. He looked up gratefully when he saw Johnny approaching. "Come sit here," instructed Frankie with authority as he pointed to the seat beside him.

Since the group was complete, Frank said to Cathy, "We have business. Go powder your nose. Take the morning off and get a manicure or something." He patted her rear as she rose and turned to leave the table.

"Give me your assessment of the mission, Johnny," stated Frank as he buttered a slice of toast. Hatred shone from Frankie’s eyes as he recognized Frank’s typical tactic of playing one party against the other in order to get the juicy dirt.

Johnny’s loyalties, however, lay primarily with Frankie, and he was careful to try not to implicate his boss in anything that would anger Frank. After working for Frank for fifteen years, Johnny had become an expert at handling the mobster. "The mission is on track," he replied confidently. "Sorel’s dead, Corinthos is reeling in confusion, Morgan is officially set up as of tonight." Johnny blinked and looked down at his plate as he thought quickly. He knew that Frank wouldn’t believe him unless he revealed at least one bit of dirt about Frankie. "We still don’t have Luke Spencer under our thumbs," he said, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at Frankie. "He wasn’t staying at his place when we visited, so we trashed the business and left a calling card. We need to tie up that loose end."

Frankie knew the game as well, but he still took in rapid breaths, and the color shot to his cheeks, betraying his intense emotions. Frankie had become an unrepentant perfectionist and hated to have mistakes in his work pointed out to him.

"I’ll discuss that with you, Frankie, when we meet after breakfast in my private study," said Frank simply. Frank looked at his son’s failing ability to compose himself and smiled wickedly. "You’re excused now, Johnny," he said, knowing full well that it was really Frankie’s position to excuse his own employee. The need to dominate was always at the front of Frank’s daily activities list.

Frankie concentrated on inhaling the rest of his food, certain that the discussion in his father’s study was not going to be pleasant. As Johnny left the room, he reflected on how his life had been ruined when he’d agreed to come and work for Frank’s Smith’s organization. He’d joined this particular mob upon leaving prison after his sentence for stealing a car was served with time off for good behavior. A man had approached him and offered him a job – an offer too good to refuse. Johnny knew that no one would be interested in hiring an ex-con for a good job, so he decided to become an enforcer and bodyguard for Frank Smith. The job had ruined Johnny’s subsequent marriage, due to his frequent absences and odd hours, and had denied him the company of his children. He was only allowed supervised visits once per month for several hours on a weekend day. The divorce court hadn’t looked too kindly on his past as an ex-con and current mob employee when it came to awarding custody.

Frank rose from the table and placed his napkin beside his plate. "Come, on Frankie," he said seriously. "Let’s go."

~*~*~*~

Frankie looked around his father’s study. He’d been in this room with Frank countless times. Frank used to watch him sometimes when he was a toddler. Frankie would quietly play with his toy cars and trucks while his father took care of paperwork and other matters. In later years, the two would play strategy games in order to build on Frankie’s innate talents.

Frank sat in his executive chair behind his desk, and Frankie took the leather-padded chair in front of the desk. He crossed his leg and nervously jiggled his foot, unsure of Frank’s mood or intent for the meeting. Frank crossed his hands on his desk and looked closely at Frankie. It was obvious to him that his son was bearing both an attitude and a secret of some sort.

Finally, Frank broke the silence. "Why didn’t you take care of the Luke Spencer matter the way we discussed? You were supposed to use his club as a primary money laundering point in the new Port Charles network."

Frankie looked Frank in the eye. "Johnny and I went over to Luke Spencer’s bar to rough him up some and convince him to launder money for us, but he wasn’t there. He disappeared for three days."

"Then why didn’t you go back when he returned?" questioned Frank.

"Went on to other business – Sorel, for one," replied Frankie as he casually inspected his nails and wore an emotionless expression on his face. "And, I’m attending the local high school. It’s time-consuming."

Frank stood up quickly behind his desk and slammed his fist onto a pile of papers. "Dammit!" he cursed. "You’re to do exactly as we planned the mission. You remain detached. You’re not supposed to be involved with the local high school," he said, sneering with the last three words. "Why the hell do you think I paid for all of those expensive tutors?" he demanded. "You have your education."

Frankie jumped up from his seat and hotly retorted, "I needed a cover because of my age. No one just wanders around town during the day if they’re fifteen years old. I’d stick out and look suspicious. I need to be able to have contingency plans. Nothing is set in stone when you’re on the road in a mission."

"Don’t you talk down to me!" yelled Frank. "I’m your father. You listen to what I say and do what you’re told. No talking back."

"Yeah, unfortunately," Frankie muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Frank demanded as his face flamed up with anger.

"Nothing!" shouted Frankie, whose chest began heaving with emotion. He was quickly losing his battle to stay calm and maintain his ability to think rationally.

"You’re going on slot machine patrol this afternoon," Frank stated maliciously. "Get used to wandering around checking up on the local clientele, asking them if they need any assistance."

"You wouldn’t dare," Frankie shot back fiercely. "You send your number two man in to be humiliated, and the men will talk. They’ll lose respect for you. And you and I both know you can’t afford to lose anymore than you already have!" Frankie took a step backward, stunned and wide-eyed at the hot words that had foolishly shot out of his mouth. He’d seen Frank kill men long before they’d given him the kind of lip that he just did.

Frank’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he walked around his desk and approached the boy. He quickly backhanded Frankie so hard that he fell into a heap on the floor. Before he could even try to get up, Frank pulled back his leg and fiercely kicked him in the side, then folded his arms with satisfaction to watch Frankie groan and pant with the sudden pain. He bent down and pulled the boy up by his hair, shaking him hard like a mangy dog. He pulled Frankie’s face close to his and whispered. "No respect will be lost if you’re dead, little one," he said as he smiled demonically. "Tell me why I shouldn’t twist your neck now and throw you into the ocean as fish food? Who would notice your absence, and who would care?"

Frankie didn’t reply, as he barely stood, shaking and white with fear. Frank pulled a gun from his waistband and cocked it, ordering Frankie with a low, mean voice. "Open you mouth." Frankie froze, unable to comply with the command. Frank grabbed his hair again so viciously, that Frankie yelped. Frank rubbed the gun along the side of Frankie’s face and paused when he reached his lips. He threw Frankie to the ground and held the gun to the back of his head. "Execution style?" he asked. "Maybe you’ll live to be a vegetable. It does happen sometimes, you know. Lucky for you, you’re in the perfect position to say your prayers." Frank held the gun to Frankie’s head for several minutes without speaking, and then he sighed deeply. He was tiring of this game and ready to move on with his day. He replaced the pistol in his waistband and hauled Frankie up from the floor by one arm. Frank stared at Frankie’s face for a minute and then pulled him into a hug. "You’re my son," he said, stroking the boy’s hair. "I love you. But don’t cross me again or I will be forced to harm you – permanently. I don’t want to do it, but what choice do you leave me if you continue this way?"

Frankie’s eyes pooled with tears as Frank continued to hug him. He was still trembling slightly, and his mouth parted with the shock of it all. Confusion, sadness, and fear continued to radiate from his face and shut down his heart. He felt otherworldly, like he really didn’t exist and this was just a dream. It wasn’t real. He really was somebody else’s son. Somewhere his real father loved him and would care for him. But his gut didn’t lie as it burned with shame, regret and longing.

~*~*~*~

Luke Spencer turned the steering wheel and pulled into the parking lot at the private section of the airport where the Cassadine jet was fueled and waiting for the eager vacationers.

"Uncle Luke, I am so excited." Sly brimmed with happiness and good humor as he practically bounced in his seat. Luke glanced at Sly as he turned off the ignition.

"I’d say that taking a little trip agrees with you," he replied with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Going to Greece on a private jet is more than a little trip," admonished Sly. "I’ve never been there."

"Did you pack enough underwear and your toothbrush?" asked Luke with a paternal tone.

"Yes," said Sly with a nod of the head. "And I checked everything twice. We’re good to go. Besides, it’s too late to do anything about it now," he laughed.

Luke smiled as his eyes washed over his nephew’s features, taking in his shining green eyes and wide smile. It’s nice to see him so happy, thought Luke. I’m going to have to thank Alexis for this. I hope he gets along with that nephew of hers, although Sly is fairly easygoing. People seem to take to him. "I have a surprise for you," said Luke. "It’s in the trunk. I slipped it in when you weren’t looking."

Sly’s eyebrows rose. "A surprise – for me?" he asked. "Why?"

"Because you’re my nephew, and I love you – that’s why," stated Luke frankly as he lightly slapped Sly on the knee. "Let’s go see what it is," he commented as he opened the driver’s door to his car.

Luke popped open the trunk and handed a badly wrapped gift to his nephew. The package was tall and unwieldy, and there were two kinds of wrapping – one with a silver foil background and green stripes on top, leftover Christmas paper, and the other a blue and red abstract print that Luke had purchased in an emergency when the Christmas paper had run out. Luke handed the package to Sly whose eyes lit up when he tore at the wrapping. "A fishing pole," he exclaimed with surprise.

Luke helped him remove the rest of the wrapping and explained conversationally. "That fishing rod that you gave me was so nice, I decided to buy you one, too," he said. "This one is similar to mine, but a different model and color. I hope you like it."

"This is so cool, thank you so much," said Sly as he propped the pole to the side of the car and gave his uncle a big hug. Luke’s face softened, and he smiled while hugging Sly. He patted the boy on the back and said, "You’re very welcome, Sly."

"There you are!" called Alexis brightly as she joined Luke and Sly at their car. Nikolas trailed several feet behind her and joined his aunt with a smile. "You’re on time, but we got here about half an hour early. We’re impatient! We’re ready to go!" she exclaimed. Alexis paused as her eyes wandered up and down Luke’s body. "Why you look absolutely fabulous," she complimented him. "Who’s your dresser?" Luke placed his arm around Sly’s shoulder and squeezed. "Sly - my nephew, the fashion plate," he said proudly. "He helped me pick this outfit last night." Luke looked down at his new clothing, a slate blue polo shirt that showed off Luke’s blue eyes, and a pair of modest, pleated khaki shorts with a matching belt. Even his bony knees seemed to protrude less with the calming effect of the neutral khaki fabric nearby.

~*~*~*~

One hour later…

Luke sighed deeply and stretched out his long legs comfortably. "This is the life," he said with contentment. "You’re spoiling me, Alexis. I could definitely get used to this, darlin’." Luke reached an arm out to Alexis, and pulled her close to him so that she nestled in and lay her head on his chest. Luke absentmindedly stroked Alexis’ hair and said, "Thanks for inviting Sly and me on your vacation. I’ve never seen Sly so happy before. I really thank you for that."

Alexis moved her head and tilted it upward so that she could look directly into Luke’s eyes. "My pleasure," she whispered. "Nikolas and Sly are my two favorite teenaged boys. I want them to get to know one another. Even though they’re several years apart, hopefully, they can form a nice friendship. Neither of them has a brother. It’s nice to be close to someone like that."

"I have another reason to be glad that Sly is getting away for a short period of time," Luke continued. "He’s made this new friend at school that I’m real worried about." Alexis sat back up and frowned with concern. "What happened?" she asked curiously, her brown eyes searching Luke’s face for answers.

"You remember when I told you that Frank Smith hit my bar and left that note?" Luke reminded Alexis. "Yes," she replied. "What does that have to do with Sly?"

"I think it was Frank Smith’s bastard son that trashed my place. And he’s the same friend that Sly just made at the high school. Alexis, I think the evil spawn is buttering up Sly, trying to get close to him so he can move in for the kill and destroy us all. I really don’t know what I’m going to do. I need this time away to clear my head."

~*~*~*~

Nikolas and Sly were seated far enough away from their aunt and uncle to be able to carry on a private conversation. Sly had spent the previous hour grilling Nikolas about the particulars of Greece and the island until Nikolas held up his hands and laughed. "I give up," he said. "I’m going to have to buy you a book on the subject. I’m wiped out. Can’t tell you anymore."

Sly laughed. "I guess I have been a motormouth, but I’m pretty excited. Thanks for letting us come with you."

"It’ll be fun to show someone new around the island. I’ll give you the grand tour, how’s that?" asked Nikolas.

"Sounds great," replied Sly with enthusiasm lighting up his face. "Do many people speak English?" he asked. "Because all I know is English and little bit of Spanish. I can order from a menu without making a fool out of myself," he added.

Nikolas nodded. "Most people speak English, the ones that are educated that is. Most people take at least a couple of years in school. Much of Europe is like that. Americans are about the only ones in the world who can’t speak several languages. Just works out that way I guess. If we meet someone who speaks only Greek, I can translate for you."

Sly shook his head and laughed. "Oh yeah, I bet you’ll set me up and tell some woman that I said her dress is ugly!"

"Would I do something like that?" grinned Nikolas with fake humility.

Next chapter...