Chapter Fourteen
Frankie paced around his living room, pausing every once in a while to bend over slightly with a pained look on his face and a sharp expulsion of air from his pursed lips. He frowned as he considered what to do next. Frank had given him the rest of the morning off to "rethink his attitude," as he put it. Frankie’s first instinct had been to jump into his BMW and drive away to Las Vegas or some other anonymous place to hide out, but he quickly rejected that impulse as childish and ill-fated. It certainly hadn’t been the first time that Frankie had been beaten or humiliated by his father, but this time was different. Frankie had really thought that Frank would kill him. So certain, in fact, that he’d had to change his pants for the pee stains that ran down the leg of the garment.
Frank was starting to change in ways that frightened both Frankie and the men in the organization. Frank had always been ruthless and cutthroat, no argument there, but he’d also been logical and business-like. His behavior was predictable, and the men knew where they stood and what their duties were. If they performed, they lived and prospered, if they failed, they died or were delegated to washing cars. It was a formula – simple and easy to understand. Over the last ten months or so, Frank’s personality had started to shift. He grew petty and vindictive, and men sometimes "disappeared" if Frank perceived some offense or slight. There had been rumblings of discontent within the organization, as it was generally perceived that Frank was getting old, and that he was losing his touch or maybe even his mind. It was hard to pin down who was starting rumors or recruiting men for a possible mutiny. Tempers were prickly, and eyes were wary. Frankie’s recent promotion was one tactic devised by Frank to tighten up the ranks and regain some of the respect that he had lost. Frank was aware that he was in his sixties, and Frank Junior represented new blood and new ideas. However, Frank had no intention of making the second hand man position anything other than a front for his own plans and strategies. Frankie was still supposed to obey his father’s every command without exception. But, Frankie could sense the instability within the organization, and his natural teenaged desires for separation from his father were getting in the way of his unquestioning obedience. Arguments had become more frequent. Finally, Frankie had felt like he just wanted to be free.
At first, it had been fun to go on missions and be involved in the same criminal activities as his father. Frank’s pride in his son’s progress and abilities and the attention that it brought had made Frankie happy. He hadn’t questioned the morality of the issues that he found himself buried in until they piled up so high that he nearly choked on them. Frankie’s innate conscience and genetic personality grated against his behavior and more and more frequently left him feeling dirty and tainted.
A burning sensation shot through Frankie, and he ran into the restroom, grimacing in pain as he quickly relieved himself. He looked down into the toilet bowl in disbelief at the swirls of bright, red blood mixing with his urine. Back in the living room, Frankie gripped his side and bent over, trying to relieve the constant, nagging pain. He straightened when he heard a gentle knock at his door. Looking through the peephole, Frankie saw Johnny standing outside the door, and he let his employee in.
"How did it go with your father?" Johnny asked respectfully. "I’m sorry I told him about Luke Spencer, but you know the drill. It was all I could think of that wouldn’t get both of us killed." Frankie didn’t say anything, and Johnny grew concerned when the boy suddenly doubled over with a cursing exclamation, stumbling and barely making it to the couch. Johnny sat down beside Frankie. "Boss? What’s wrong with you?" he asked worriedly. "You’re pale and sweating, and look like you’re in pain. Did Frank work you over again?"
Frankie bared his teeth into a facsimile of a smile. "You could say that," he gritted out. "I think he kicked my kidney. I got blood in the urine and it’s killing me."
"Let me see," said Johnny in a parental tone. Frankie leaned to his right, and allowed Johnny to raise the side of his sweater. "Oh God," Johnny said quietly. "Oh no. Your whole side is black and blue, and it’s swollen over the kidney area." Johnny lightly touched the kidney with his fingertips, and Frankie cried out loudly. "Yep, it’s tender," said Johnny with a shaky smile.
"I need a doctor," Frankie said breathlessly. "Can you sneak one up here without Frank knowing about it? I don’t want him or nobody else to know he hurt me."
Johnny looked thoughtful, stroking his chin and frowning. "I don’t know if I can get somebody in here who’s a new face," he said regretfully. "Security is too tight. It’d be better if I took you off the estate." Frankie didn’t reply, and Johnny studied his face. Boss seems emotionally upset about something. What the hell did Frank say to him? Johnny lay a light hand on Frankie’s arm. "You know, Frankie, you can talk to me if you want," he said. "I’m a father. I have kids of my own. I can take off the employee hat for a minute to listen. Then, I’ll go right back to being Johnny who you can order around like you want. Does that work for you? I want to help if I can."
Frankie studied Johnny’s face and said, "Okay," in a small, resigned voice. He lay down on the couch on his good side, and Johnny sat on the floor nearby. "Johnny," Frankie started, "He was gonna kill me. I’m sure of it." Frankie’s voice shook with the strong emotions elicited by the memory. "After he beat me up, he…he put a gun to my head, execution style. No, first he ordered me to open my mouth. He was gonna shove dat gun in my mouth. But I couldn’t do it, so he forced me down. I kneeled dere for a long time with dat cocked gun to my head." Frankie closed his eyes. "He hugged me then. He said he loved me and didn’t want to kill me, but I might force him to."
Johnny remained silent for a short time while he processed the events described by Frankie. He sighed. "First off, the only time I ever hit my children was when they were two years old and playing with the electrical outlets. I’d pop them gently on the butt to catch their attention. That’s the only time a parent should hit a child. You know that Frank shouldn’t hit you like that, don’t you?"
Frankie nodded slightly, his hand curled up under his moving chin. "Yeah," he sighed sadly. "It don’t do no good anyway. Just makes me hate him." An unreadable, sinking feeling dimmed the brightness of Frankie’s blue eyes.
"As far as the words he said. Your father is mixed up. I really do think that he loves you, but he doesn’t know how to feel it or show it. Everything gets confused and comes out wrong. But you and I both know that power and control are number one with Frank. Nothing else. That’s the way it was before you were even born. Frank’s behavior has nothing to do with you. Don’t go beating yourself up over it or feeling like something is wrong with you, because there isn’t anything wrong with you. It’s him. Any normal father would be proud to have you as his son," explained Johnny.
Frankie’s hurt eyes sought Johnny’s. "Do you really think so?" he asked shyly. "You’re not just making dis up because you work for me?"
"I’m not wearing the employee hat now, remember?" replied Johnny. "You’re a good boy – smart, nice, funny. You’d make anyone proud. I’m proud of you."
"Thanks," said Frankie. He frowned and groaned. "Now put your employee hat on and get me the hell out of here and take me somewhere I can get patched up."
~*~*~*~
Frankie walked carefully down the back stairway, inching his way along and holding onto the rails for support. Finally, he exited unnoticed through the servant entrance at the back of the mansion. Johnny was waiting with the BMW by the door. Frankie painfully eased into the open passenger door and clenched his teeth, taking in a sharp, hissing breath as his back met the seat. He didn’t bother fastening his seatbelt as that would only make the pain worse. He closed his eyes and rested as Johnny drove quickly through the back streets of the Atlantic City area and left town. About two towns over, he pulled into an Immediate Care facility and parked the car. He opened the passenger door and helped Frankie out of the car and toward the entrance door of the clinic.
When the friendly, helpful receptionist balked at Frankie’s lack of an insurance card, he pulled open his wallet and shoved it under her nose. "There, is dat enough?" he gritted out. "I’m payin’ cash!" The receptionist’s eyes bugged at the sight of at least three inches width of crisp $20 bills. "Not a problem," she smiled.
When the name of Sylvester Smith was called, Frankie and Johnny rose and followed the nurse.
~*~*~*~
"That doctor wanted to admit you to the hospital. You’re lucky we talked our way out of it. Hopefully, these drugs will do the trick. The doctor said you need bedrest and no mixing alcohol with the pain medication," said Johnny as he handed Frankie the bag of medicine that he’d just bought at the pharmacy.
Frankie sneered and said, "Yeah, right."
"I mean it, boss," replied Johnny firmly. "No way you can mix this stuff with alcohol. You’ll either pass out or fall flat on your face or say something that will really get you killed this time. Listen to me. Don’t do it."
Frankie rolled his eyes. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly.
"And drink lots of water," instructed Johnny.
Frankie’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t push it," he said heavily.
~*~*~*~
Frankie lowered the lightweight bulletproof vest over his head, fastening the straps to the right and left of his trunk, and he was extra careful not to tighten the strap over his sore left side. His black tuxedo was laid out on his bed, cleaned, pressed and ready to be worn. He whistled a light tune under his breath to keep his mind occupied while he dressed for the annual convention to be held that evening at the Smith estate. Each year, all Smith employees visited the estate for an evening of networking, strategy and entertainment. It was an event that drew the employees close together into a more cohesive family-like structure. Frankie reflected on Frank’s warning that there was likely a traitor in the ranks and that management, including himself, needed to be extra careful this year to protect themselves and pack extra heat just in case of assassination attempts.
Frankie had always had bodyguards slash babysitters since Frank had brought him into the mansion, but this was the second year that he’d had Johnny. Frank had let his son choose his own bodyguard from the ranks, and Frankie had chosen someone he liked as well as respected for his abilities. Tonight, Johnny would shadow him, following his every movement and continually scan the crowds for any suspicious activity. It was a tough job. Only those men who were intelligent as well as athletic were suited to that type of work. In the last two years, Johnny had prevented one kidnapping attempt and one assassination attempt on Frankie’s life. Frankie shuddered when he thought about the potential kidnapping. He didn’t know if he could survive another ordeal like that. No one should have to go through something that gruesome twice in one lifetime.
Frankie stepped into the special shoes that he had made for him. They featured two-inch lifts that made him seem almost five feet eight inches tall. He’d bought them when Frank began taking him around and showing him off at events about two years ago. Frank was a tall, well-built man, and the contrast with his young, much slighter son was noticeable. With a little more height, Frankie looked better beside his father, not so different. Frankie figured that he took after his mother in appearance. He didn’t remember what she looked like in the photo that he’d seen as a toddler, but one of the whores once said to him that his mama must have been real pretty to produce a son like him. Frankie went into the bathroom and inspected his face for marks. He turned his left cheek and made a face when he saw the light red welt where Frank had backhanded him. He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of foundation, dabbing it lightly into his skin with a cotton ball to cover up the injury. About a year ago, he’d had his favorite hooker, Michelle, buy him some supplies and show him how to cover up the signs of abuse. Frank had always been physically harsh with his son, smacking him or shaking him roughly if he got out of line or disappointed him in some way, but things changed last year. Frank began to act like he hated his son. He seemed to beat on him regularly to relieve a vague inner stress. More often than not, Frankie would walk around with a black eye, split lip, loose tooth or bump on his head. It seemed as if Frank often didn’t like a certain look on Frankie’s face or the timbre of his voice – as if the son reminded the father of someone the father hated.
Frankie’s perpetual cuts and bruises lended him a certain romance amongst the guards and enforcers that worked away from the estate. They were always teasing him about being "Da Prizefighter," calling him Rocky and throwing fake punches at him so he would duck. Then, they always ruffled his hair and gave him fighting tips, assuming that he was fighting with his peers. But the employees working and residing in the house had heard the names that Frank called his son and remembered the loud voices and muffled cries of pain behind closed doors. More often than not, they avoided Frankie, looking the other way when he approached, or they hurriedly crossed the room. There was nothing to acknowledge, nothing to say. Everyone, including Frankie, knew the score. Cross Frank and suffer the consequences.
Frankie made an aggravated sound at the back of his throat as he wrestled with the bow tie that came with the tux. After trying four times, he swore like a sailor and threw the tie to the floor. He thought he’d never get the hang of doing a bow tie. When there was a knock at the door, he crossed the room and admitted Michelle, his escort for the evening. Michelle was a petite blonde, only six years older than Frankie, and a lot of fun with a sparkling personality. She really liked Frankie a lot and had given him all kinds of invaluable lovemaking tips, letting him try them out on her - repeatedly. Frankie laughingly called her his romantic mentor.
"Hi, babe," he said lightly as he wrapped an arm around her waist and leaned over to kiss her on the mouth. "How’ve ya been since I’ve been gone?"
"Pretty good, Frankie," Michelle answered. She pouted and kissed him on the lips again. "But I sure missed you!" Michelle frowned when she saw the bow tie littering the floor. "You still haven’t figured out how to do the tie yet, have you?" she scolded. Frankie shook his head. Michelle picked up the tie and curled her index finger toward herself. "Come here, handsome," she instructed. "I’ll tie it for you."
~*~*~*~
Somewhere in the air over the Atlantic Ocean…
The two adults were sacked out, sleeping soundly arm in arm as the two teenagers roamed the plane, raiding any cupboard that contained food.
"I can’t find any more chips," complained Nikolas with a pout.
"Over here," said Sly with a mouth full of them. Nikolas joined Sly in front of a cabinet that contained three large bags of potato chips. "Sodas are down there," pointed Sly. Nikolas squatted in front of the bar refrigerator and surveyed the contents, smiling when he found the Coca-Cola. Nikolas snapped the top of the can of soda pop and ripped open the bag easily with one large hand. He stuffed a handful of chips into his mouth and smiled. "I love junk food," he said contentedly.
"Yeah, I can tell," teased Sly. "I’m not doing so bad myself."
"There are doughnuts in the end cabinet," confessed Nikolas. "There are three left I think." Nikolas held his stomach and burped. "Excuse me," he said aloud.
"Are they fresh?" asked Sly with a concerned look.
"Day old?" guessed Nikolas.
Sly shook his head. "They’re only good fresh. Fresh with a cup of hot chocolate."
"Picky," grinned Nikolas.
"My Uncle Luke says I’m in a growth spurt," explained Sly as he inhaled more chips and took a long swig of soda. "That’s why I eat so much. He says his grocery bill is double what it was last year," Sly stated proudly.
"I think I’m almost done growing," confessed Nikolas. "But I work out a lot for sports, so I use up a lot of energy. And I ride my horse every day."
"You have a horse?" Sly asked with an incredulous look on his face. "That’s so cool. What’s it like?"
"Horses are neat," said Nikolas. "They’re real sensitive and require lots of affection, but they like to work, too. It makes them happy if you ride them. And wow, riding a horse is like taking a magic carpet ride, floating over the earth with the wind rushing into your face. It really helps me to put things into perspective if I have a bad day, you know. Like yesterday," he muttered angrily as a dark look clouded his features.
Sly looked concerned. "What happened yesterday?" he asked curiously. "If you want to talk about it," he added quickly. "I know it’s none of my business."
Nikolas shrugged. "It’s just this new kid at school. I don’t know his name, but he looks like he might be old enough to be a sophomore. Anyway, it’s like he has it in for me. First I caught him kicking my car, then he went and keyed it. I caught him in the act. I roughed him up a bit to teach him a lesson, and the brat pulls this huge gun on me, and just grins and laughs. He’s a nutcase. I should have turned him in at school, but it was Friday, and we were leaving for break. Maybe I should do something about it when we get back."
Sly’s eyes bugged. "That’s serious," he agreed. "Someone pulled a gun on you? That’s wild. Pretty scary, too."
Nikolas chuckled. "I ran out of there in a hurry," he admitted sheepishly. "I’m not interested in getting killed over a car, you know. Oh yeah, and this guy disses my Jaguar. He’s so proud he has this German BMW, and he called my Jaguar an English pantywaist car. Can you believe that? What a fool."
An uneasy feeling crept up on Sly and remained lodged in his stomach. "What’s this guy look like?" he asked in a nervous voice.
"He’s on the short side, slender, dark hair, pale skin," replied Nikolas. "Nice enough looking when he’s not wearing a sneer or waving guns in people’s faces."
Sly gulped. "I think I might know him," he confessed. "He’s got real blue eyes?"
Nikolas’ face colored. "Yeah! That’s him alright. What’s his deal?"
"His name is Frankie," explained Sly. "I guess you could say he’s sort of my friend?" Sly glanced at Nikolas with an uncomfortable look. "He’s…um…a bit different? I think he has some sort of underworld ties maybe. He’s a bit rough around the edges. But he’s not bad, really. He saved my butt in gym one time when a bunch of guys wanted to beat me up. "
Nikolas’ face shifted, and he stroked his chin. "Oh yeah, I remember. He ran up to you after he kicked my car. He acted real friendly around you and then he smirked at me. What do you think that’s about?"
Sly hit his forehead with his palm. "I know," he said incredulously. "I
think I know what’s going on."
Nikolas crossed his arms and looked bemused. "Care to enlighten me?"
"He’s jealous. I mean, he hasn’t been at our school very long, and I’m his only friend…I think. he acted all mad and funny when I mentioned that I was going on spring break with you and your aunt. I think he felt left out?"
"Um, I’m not used to pulling guns on people when I feel jealous or upset," Nikolas pointed out logically. "That’s not normal."
"Maybe it is to him," Sly said. "I’m not defending what he did, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the most normal thing in the world to him."
"What did you do to him anyway?" Sly interjected. "You said you roughed him up?"
Nikolas nodded with satisfaction. "Yes. I dragged his sorry butt out to the field behind the school and rubbed his face in the grass until he looked like the Grinch."
Sly laughed automatically, but stopped after he realized the implications. "And that’s when he pulled the gun?"
Nikolas nodded. "A real big gun. All I saw was a heck of a lot of silver flashing at me – and the psycho laughing."
"I think he’s used to having to protect himself," said Sly. "He’s from Philadelphia. Some places are a lot scarier than Port Charles, you know?"
"I still would have kicked his butt if he didn’t have the gun," replied Nikolas with a gleam in his eye and a harsh cracking of his knuckles.
~*~*~*~
Sly lay stretched out across two seats in the plane, his head nestled in a flat airplane pillow, and a light blanket covered his back and legs. Sly yawned deeply and wondered at how much junk food he and Nikolas had demolished. There was something about flying on a plane that had made him simply ravenous. Now, he felt very full and very sleepy. But, his mind wouldn’t let him settle down for a nap just yet. Sly curled his right hand and inserted it under his pillow to provide some comfortable support for his head and neck. He stared straight ahead at the seats in front of him, seemingly mesmerized by the ugly polyester-based blue, green and yellow abstract, nubby upholstery that covered the seat. What was Frankie doing with a gun? Had he carried it when Sly hung out with him? Surely Frankie wouldn’t have hurt Nikolas, would he? Was there something wrong with him? Why would he get so jealous over something like Sly spending a few hours with Nikolas on vacation? The questions swirled around Sly’s mind, leaving him uneasy, as there were no real answers. Sly remembered other details like Frankie’s scars, his extreme attitude with the unruly gym kids, Frankie’s odd relationship with his uncle, his deep accent, and his ability to effortlessly bypass any rules that didn’t make sense to him. Why did Frankie seem to be ignorant of the most common teenaged activities or even dating? Frankie seemed to be rich with his expensive clothes, perpetually full wallet, and BMW. But why then did he and his uncle live over Kelly’s Diner? Why weren’t they renting a nice house or living in a fancy hotel? Why did it seem like everything about school was new to Frankie, as if he’d never attended one before. Yet, he made straight A’s without studying at all. Finally, Sly wore himself out with the perpetual questions that seeped into his mind, and he sighed as he fell into a deep sleep.
~*~*~*~
Ruby stretched out on Bobbie’s couch and smiled as she accepted a cup of gourmet coffee from her niece. "Thank you," she said happily. "My, what a long day I’ve had. I needed a break. Thanks for making time to visit with your old aunt."
Bobbie tittered as she sat down beside Ruby. "Always a pleasure," she said. "We don’t spend enough time together, just the two of us. This is nice."
"Yes, it is," agreed Ruby. "But there is one serious topic that I wanted to discuss with you while Luke and Sly are out of town."
"This should be interesting," Bobbie chuckled. "Come, on. Get it out of your system."
Ruby lay down her cup of coffee on the table in front of her and looked Bobbie straight in the eyes. "I think Lucky is alive, Luke and Laura’s Lucky."
Bobbie’s mouth hung open in shock. "What?" she asked with disbelief. "What in the world are you talking about? Lucky has been dead for fourteen years! I only saw him once as a small infant. Heck, I only have one tiny photograph of him."
Ruby nodded. "I know this comes as a surprise. It took me awhile to figure it out myself. And then more time after that to accept it."
"Well, who is this kid, Ruby? Where did you meet him and how did you come to believe he was Lucky. I’m confused."
"Barbara Jean. Hold onto your socks," Ruby warned. Her face turned deadly serious. "I believe that my tenant, Frankie DeMarco, is really Luke Spencer, Junior."
Bobbie blinked once, twice, three times. "What?" she asked in a very soft voice. "Frankie? How can that be?"
"Barbara, other than the hair color, he’s the spitting image of Luke at age fifteen. Here, I’ve brought a picture to show you for comparison." Ruby fished her photo album out of the carry bag that she’d brought with her. She turned several pages, and then pointed at the photo of Luke on the porch at age fifteen. "Look closely," she instructed. "Don’t you see that attitude and many of the features in Frankie? And the features that don’t match Luke’s DO match Laura’s. Look at their wedding photo. She’s only a teenager there. Don’t you see her lips and the shape of her eyes on Frankie’s face?"
Bobbie accepted the photo album from her aunt and shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. "I thought there was something familiar about him," she admitted as her eyes met her aunt’s. "How is this even possible? I mean, it’s so far-fetched."
"I have a theory," announced Ruby with determination. "I believe that Lucky never died in that tragic fire fourteen years ago. Frank Smith set that fire and let those two parents grieve over the supposed death of their son. He kidnapped Lucky and raised him as his own. Frankie, by the way, says that he is named after his father. And, he wears a very flashy gold signet ring with the initials FS. F for Frank, S for Smith."
"But what about his uncle, Johnny?" Bobbie asked breathlessly. "I’ve gotten, um, kind of close to him. He’s a great guy."
Ruby shook her head. "He’s not the boy’s uncle, that’s for sure. They look different, act different, and sound different. I think he’s the kid’s bodyguard. Seriously. He’s always scoping out the people nearby and acting twitchy if someone approaches the kid. And, isn’t it odd that he seems to take orders from a fifteen year old?"
Bobbie nodded. "I did notice that their relationship was a bit unusual. Frankie did seem to be in charge somewhat. I marked that up to the fact that Frankie has a strong personality." All of a sudden, Bobbie began laughing merrily. "I think I have proof that Johnny isn’t Frankie’s uncle," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. Ruby looked confused, and Bobbie patted her hand. "My loooong romantic history is filled with mobster types. Right? Of course I’d gravitate to another one." Bobbie shook her head. "Oh, boy, what have I gotten myself into this time?" Her eyes widened. "And what if Frankie IS Luke’s son. Oh my God."
Ruby nodded her head. "Yes. We need a plan – and quick like."