Chapter Sixteen
Frank pulled a stumbling Frankie down the hallway and back into the party. Frankie’s unstrapped, bloodstained bulletproof vest slapped his bare chest and back as Frank shoved his son in front of him toward the piano. Associates had sobered up quickly after witnessing the hit on the number two man, and they milled around talking and speculating on what would happen next. The dead hit man lay sprawled on his back where he had originally fallen. No one went near the body and instead walked around it, giving it a wide berth and looking away with shaking heads.
Frank held onto Frankie’s arm with a vise grip and raised the fingers of his other hand to his mouth to make a piercing whistle that stopped everyone from talking. Frankie felt woozy and sick to his stomach, but Frank’s iron hand kept him from sliding to the floor. He blinked his eyes rapidly as his vision repeatedly lost focus. The pallor of his skin and his mouth slightly hanging open gave Frankie a dumb look, like he’d recently lost about 50 IQ points.
Frank’s voice boomed throughout the party. "Glad to have your attention," he stated loudly. "Bring our friend up to the piano," he instructed with a finger pointed at the dead man. Two associates lifted the body from the floor and dragged it next to Frank. Frank pulled the dead man up by his blond hair, snapping the head back sharply to display the bloody mess for all to see.
"This is the price of betrayal," he said with a sneer. "Look closely at our friend’s face. I don’t think he’s having much fun, is he? He’s dirt." Frank kicked the dead man’s body, and it went flying to the floor with a soggy thud. Frank raised himself to his full height and smiled evilly. "The Smith organization continues – as strongly as ever. My son and number two man is certainly alive and well." Frank whispered to Frankie from the side of his mouth, "Wave your hand and perk up, dammit!" Frankie gave the gathered crowd a lopsided grin and raised his left hand with a thumbs up gesture. "Doin’ great! Everything’s good," he exclaimed as loudly and convincingly as he could. "Keep partying!" Frankie ordered sternly. A cheer arose from the crowd at Frankie’s last words, and father and son headed for the exit door.
Once into the hall, Frankie moaned and began sinking to the floor, but Frank yanked him up sharply. "Don’t you pass out on me now, you little shit," he hissed. "I have a few things that you need to hear first." Frank marched Frankie back into the room and slammed the door shut. He pushed Frankie to the floor and dared Johnny to move as Johnny instinctively stepped forward to help his boss. Frank glowered at his son. "Some number two man you are," he yelled. "You can’t even remember to stay near your bodyguard. You will NOT destroy my plans, or I’ll kill you myself!" Frank pointed a finger at Johnny. "You’re fired!" he growled. "That hit man never should have had the chance to fire a single shot, let alone four bullets." Frank looked Johnny up and down. "You appear strong. Report to the head gardener tomorrow and start your new career in grounds maintenance. Remove your things tonight from the suite and transfer downstairs to the servants quarters."
Frankie started to protest. "But, Frank, no, he’s my man, I hired him…" Frank walked over and pulled Frankie up from the floor. "Shut up!" he screamed in his face as he shook him fiercely. Frankie bobbed in his hands like a broken toy. Johnny’s face was a steel mask, but underneath he seethed at Frank’s treatment of his injured son. "You’ve proven yourself incompetent at selecting personnel. Can’t you do anything right? Why did I ever think that you’d make a suitable son?" Frankie visibly cringed under his father’s hot words, feeling their sting as profoundly as the bullets that had earlier assaulted him. "Why didn’t you call the on-staff doc when you were injured the other day?" He smacked Frankie on the side of his head. "You’re nothing but property - property of the Smith organization. I expect that property to be maintained." Frankie’s eyes pooled with tears, and he looked down at the floor, trying feebly to distance himself from his father’s hurtful words. Finally, he only heard the fuzzy sounds of a raised voiced far off, as he no longer registered the meaning and implications in his mind anymore.
~*~*~*~
3:20AM
Frankie opened the door to his suite, entered and slammed it shut. He carried his bloody shirt, jacket and vest on one arm and walked very stiffly into the living room. Everything about him felt out of sorts. He didn’t exactly feel the thirty stitches in his side because the mob doc had given him morphine and a local anesthetic. He didn’t feel anything in his mind or heart because he’d already numbed them earlier out of self-defense. He hadn’t heard half of what Frank had said. Frankie threw his soiled garments onto the couch and opened his refrigerator, pulling out a beer and downing most of the can in one gulp. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand and grimaced. He ached all over with a stabbing, antsy feeling, and he glanced around the room, wondering what he should do next. With a heavy sigh, he headed toward the bedroom, but stopped in his tracks.
"Whoa," he said. "Who’s dis in my bed?"
Michelle turned over on her stomach and let a sheet that covered her obviously naked body fall to the side.
"Hi Frankie," she murmured seductively, rubbing the bed with her fingertips and smiling. "I’m here to make you feel better. Why don’t you hop into bed and find out?"
Frankie frowned and asked, "How did you get in here?"
Michelle laughed and sat up with the sheet discreetly covering her bosom. "Frank sent me. He told me to keep you company tonight. I’m supposed to watch over you."
Frankie glared at the hooker and shouted, "GET OUT!" as he gestured wildly with his right arm. Frankie rapidly lost the emotional numbness that he’d been feeling and quickly became enraged. "Get the hell outta here!" he gritted through his bared teeth as he reached for her arm and dragged her protesting from his bed. Michelle tried to smile and wrapped her naked body around Frankie. "Ah, come on, honey," she whispered. "You don’t have to do anything. Let me take care of you." When her hand started moving down his body, Frankie grabbed her wrist so tightly that she cried out in alarm.
"I don’t WANT this!" he hissed angrily as he pushed her away. "Get your clothes on and leave," he ordered. Frankie turned his back to the hooker and crossed his arms. A confused look flickered over Michelle’s face, and she reached for her clothes on a nearby chair, hurriedly pulling them on and sighing. "Maybe you’ll feel better tomorrow," she said softly as she walked to the door.
"NO, NO, and NO!" screamed Frankie as he slammed the door behind her. He stood in place, huffing and puffing with a red, angry face and clenching fists. "I don’t want dat," he whispered to himself. Gradually, his face relaxed and began falling, taking on a very sad, weary aspect. He walked to the bathroom, opened a drawer and removed three pain pills from a prescription bottle. He swallowed them dry and then sought out another beer to chase them down. A few minutes later, he seated himself on the edge of the bed and sat on his shaking hands. After several minutes, he turned out the light, rolled over on his non-stitched side, still in his tux pants, and curled into a ball. Frankie lay there for about thirty minutes, not thinking or feeling anything. He thought that maybe he should cry or something, but rejected that notion as being a waste of energy.
~*~*~*~
Sly smiled as he walked along the nearly deserted beach. Nikolas and Alexis were still back at the mansion talking to childhood friends, and Uncle Luke was setting up a fishing camp further down the beach. Sly decided to take a walk on his own for a few minutes and explore the beach. His bare toes dug into the soft, pliant sand, and he relished the feel of the grains squishing between his toes as he walked. When a wave sneaked up on him and took him by surprise with its cool water slashing the calves of his legs, he jumped back and giggled. Sly was wearing shorts and a teeshirt, but his uncle had grabbed him before he ventured outside and slathered him up and down with a liberal dose of sunscreen. "You have the classic fair skin of the Spencer/Eckert clan," he’d explained tongue-in-cheek. "Can’t have you burning up those good looks." Uncle Luke seemed to be a perfect mixture of father and mother with a small dose of Mr. Rogers thrown in for good measure. Sly didn’t mind. He liked it that his uncle looked out for him. It made him feel safe and secure, a feeling that had eluded him for almost a whole year after his dad and aunt and uncle had been murdered. Sly remembered a night over a year ago when he had opened his heart to Luke.
*** It was about 11PM, and Luke was seated on the couch watching the evening news, starting to doze off. Sly walked up behind him and said asked softly, "Uncle Luke?" Luke rubbed his eye and yawned, turning towards his nephew’s voice. "Sly," he said. "You went to bed an hour ago. Is something wrong?" Luke looked closely at his nephew, noting the sad expression on his face and his slumped shoulders. "Come here and sit down," Luke instructed as he swept the newspapers into a pile and placed them on the floor. He then muted the television with the remote. Sly sat down beside his uncle and pulled his legs up on the couch, wrapping his arms around them.
"What’s up, partner?" Luke inquired. "I’d like to help if I can."
Sly shrugged. "I can’t sleep," he said flatly. "I keep thinking about things."
"What sort of things?" probed Luke.
Sly sighed and stared straight ahead. "About my dad," he explained. "We had a fight before he died, and I never saw him again – even at the funeral. The casket was closed. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real, like he never died and maybe he’s away on business. He used to take long trips sometimes." Sly tapped his forehead with a finger. "Up here, in my head, I know that he’s dead, he’s never coming back, but down here…" Sly held his hand over his heart. "It doesn’t seem right. How can he be dead? And is he still mad at me?" Sly took in a deep breath and held it, willing himself not to cry in front of his uncle.
"Death is hard for anyone to accept," replied Luke. "We want the people that we love to be with us forever, and we don’t dare think about our own deaths either. It’s too scary – the great unknown. That’s why it seems unreal to us, why it doesn’t feel right. And, it’s hard if you don’t actually see a body of someone who has died. Seeing a body makes it more real. But sometimes it’s better if you don’t see – that way you’re not continually reminded of how they died. And, instead, you remember them when they were alive and happy. Does that make any sense?"
Sly nodded. "Yeah," he said reluctantly. "But how do I accept that my dad is gone? Why do I keep thinking about him all the time? It makes me sad."
"Come here," said Luke gently as he held out a hand to his nephew. Sly slid over on the couch until he was touching Luke’s leg. Luke wrapped an arm around Sly’s shoulders and continued talking. "There’s a process to handling death," he explained. "Death is so important that it takes us awhile to recover from it. It doesn’t happen overnight. What you’re thinking and feeling are the most natural things in the world. It’s hard work, overcoming death, you know?" Luke squeezed Sly’s shoulder, and uncle and nephew looked at each other for a few seconds. "I’m glad that you’re talking to me about it. The more you open up and let yourself feel, the sooner you’ll start to move past it and feel better. Does that make sense?"
"I guess so," admitted Sly. Sly lost his battle to maintain his emotions and began crying. "I don’t understand why he was murdered," he sobbed. "He wasn’t sick – he didn’t have to die. Why would someone want to do that?" Luke hugged Sly closer and set his face as he contemplated Frank Smith. "Sly, some people in the world don’t know or care about right and wrong. They’re sick, they’re messed up. If they want something, they take it. And if someone gets in their way, they harm them. There aren’t too many people like that, but just a few can cause a lot of harm and pain. Frank Smith, the man that murdered your father and relatives is evil, twisted. Your dad didn’t cooperate, and so he died. It’s wrong. But sometimes it happens." Luke rubbed Sly’s arm. "You have me," he stated. "I’ll protect you from Frank Smith." Luke wrapped his other arm around Sly and held him tighter. "Nothing’s going to happen to you," he said softly.
Sly sat with his uncle for about fifteen minutes before he felt ready to go back to bed. Luke tucked him in and stayed with him until he saw that his nephew was falling asleep. Luke watched Sly’s regular breathing and was reminded of watching over his infant son thirteen years ago. Luke reflected on the advice that he’d given his nephew and shook his head. It was good advice – too bad he hadn’t taken it himself. Luke kept that long-ago hurt secreted in his heart, never opening up to anyone fully about his pain and anguish over the loss of his infant son, even at the price of his marriage. Lucky meant the world to him and somehow retaining that pain was like keeping a piece of his son alive. ***
Sly picked up a piece of driftwood in his hands, rolling it over and inspecting it. He threw the driftwood back into the ocean and watched it splash into the depths of aqua blue water. He continued walking toward his uncle and the fishing outpost. He had a feeling that Uncle Luke was going to spend most of the day fishing, and that’s where he wanted to be, too.
~*~*~*~
Frank wasn’t surprised when Frankie didn’t appear for breakfast. The festivities had ended at about 3AM, and Frankie had headed up to his suite then. But, it was lunchtime now, and Frank grew angry that Frankie continued to sulk in his rooms. Frank flung his cloth napkin to the table and scraped his chair harshly backwards. Frank didn’t bother with the elevator, but took the stairs two at a time with his long legs. Frank strolled down the hallway and entered the code on the keypad beside Frankie’s door.
Frank entered the living room, and his eyes took in the crumpled, bloodied clothing littering the couch. He walked over to Frankie’s bedroom and stopped abruptly. Frankie was still in bed, seemingly asleep in his tux pants with no shirt on. He was curled up in a fetal position, and Frank thought that he looked all of ten years old. Frank walked over to the bed and winced when he saw the angry, puffy, red appearance of Frankie’s recently stitched up wound. A thought ran through Frank’s mind, and he placed two fingers on Frankie’s neck to check for a pulse. Satisfied that his son was alive, Frank pulled up a chair and watched Frankie sleep. Frank leaned forward in his chair with his hands clasped together and resting on his lap. He carefully reviewed Frankie’s appearance – long eyelashes falling on his fair cheeks, full lips slightly parted with his heavy breathing. Frankie suddenly rolled over, and his face twisted with pain as his injured side met the sheets. Frank looked for a moment at the massive bruising where he’d kicked his son. He shook his head and pensively stroked his chin. I didn’t mean to hurt the kid that bad. He just had such a mouth on him, like…Luke Spencer. But, Frankie’s my son. I molded him, shaped him into the person he is today. He’s mine. Why do I keep hitting him and yelling at him? These days it’s like I have no control over my temper when it comes to my son. We used to have some fun times, Frankie and me. But, he’s growing up, wanting to be his own man. I need to accept that and cut him some slack, but I don’t know how to do that.
Frank rose from the chair and leaned over Frankie, stroking his hair lightly and pulling it away from his face. He gently shook his son’s shoulders. "Frankie," he said quietly. "Wake up, son." Frankie frowned at the feel of the hand on his shoulder, and his eyes widened when he opened them to the sight of his father standing over him. He made a small, surprised noise and tried to pull back and away from Frank’s touch.
Frank looked at his watch. "It’s one in the afternoon," he observed. " I came up to your rooms to see if you were still alive. Looks like you are. How do you feel?"
Frankie rubbed his hooded, bloodshot eyes and glanced up at his father. "Like I got run over by a truck," he quipped. "Ohhh," he moaned as his hand shot to his stitched side. "This isn’t good," he noticed. "It feels like somebody tried to skin me with a dull knife. Dang."
Frank smiled. "How about if I send some pizza up here, and you take it easy. Watch some movies or something? No work today."
Frankie nodded cautiously, watching his father closely to make sure he didn’t misread him and do something wrong or get hit.
Frank moved toward the living room and turned around. "You need a doc to come see you?" he asked lightly. Frankie shook his head no. "Okay then, "stated Frank. He stood there for a few seconds longer and then spoke again. "I’m glad you weren’t killed last night," he said generously before heading for the door. Frankie looked after his father with an unreadable expression on his face.
~*~*~*~
"I’ve got something!" shouted Sly excitedly. His green eyes lit up as he looked toward his uncle. Luke set his pole down and placed his hands over Sly’s. "Okay, remember how I showed you. Pull up slightly and reel in slowly, not too quick." Sly started reeling in his line and pulled slightly. "It’s not fighting back," he said. Luke walked down to the water and laughed. "You have yourself one nice, big green bottle," he explained as he pointed toward the water. Sly’s face fell, and he set aside his pole to join his uncle. Sly picked up the bottle and turned it around, looking at it. All of a sudden, he yelped and jumped back several feet. "Uncle Luke," he said in a hushed voice. "Something’s inside the bottle. It’s moving. Look." Luke picked up the bottle and turned it over, shaking it lightly to dislodge whatever was inside. A four-inch long tentacle emerged, waving in the wind. "Whoa!" shouted Luke as he held the bottle away from him. "Lookey here, Sylvester. You caught a baby octopus." Sly bent in closer to stare at the tentacle. "Ew," he said. "That’s so weird. What should we do with him?" "Well, there’s not much calamari to be had with this little critter," explained Luke. "I say you should throw the bottle back into the ocean and let our little friend spend his time in peace."
Sly carried the bottle at arm’s length and marched knee-deep into the foamy ocean waves. He drew his arm back and let the bottle sail. He stood for a moment, watching the waves submerge the bottle and carry it to parts unknown. Sly walked back to Luke and smiled. "First catch of the day," complimented Luke as he patted his nephew on the back. Sly looked to his right and waved his hand. "Nikolas is joining us," he said. "How’s the fishing?" asked Nikolas as he sat down in the sand, joining Sly and Luke. "Sylvester caught the first fish of the day – a baby octopus," stated Luke proudly. "I threw him back into the ocean," replied Sly. "He wasn’t very big, so no calamari." Nikolas laughed hard. "Oh, I don’t even like calamari – octopus tentacles, ugh." Luke shook his head. "I thought you Mediterranean types lived for calamari." Nikolas shrugged. "People have different tastes I guess. I prefer hamburgers."
Nikolas grinned broadly and changed the subject. "I have some news," he teased. "I spoke to my father a few minutes ago. I now have a new baby sister, Lesley Alexandra Cassadine. She has a ton of black hair, too – just like me."
"Aw, that’s cool, Nikolas," stated Sly. "Congratulations."
Luke nodded. "That’s real nice, son," he said, leaning over to shake Nikolas’ hand. A wave of sadness passed through him briefly, as he thought of Laura with another infant in a different time and place. "Are you here for your fishing lesson, Nikolas?" Luke inquired with a mischievous look in his eyes. "Come sit down. I’ll let you use my new fishing pole. She’s a real beauty. Sly’s an expert now, so I’ll concentrate on helping you for awhile." Sly glanced at Nikolas out of the sides of his eyes and made a pointing hand motion at Nikolas to tease him. Nikolas rolled his eyes and settled in for his fishing lesson.
~*~*~*~
Someone knocked, and Frankie walked slowly to the door, pausing to look at his visitor through the peephole. He opened the door and wordlessly motioned with his thumb to the inside of his suite. Frankie craned his neck out into the hallway and looked left and right to make sure that no one saw his visitor.
"Hey Johnny," he said sadly. "Whatcha doin’ here?"
Johnny regarded Frankie while he stood there with his hands on his hips. "I wanted to make sure you’re okay. I came by to see if I could do anything for you."
"You don’t work for me no more, Johnny," said Frankie.
"Yeah, well, I still feel responsible," replied Johnny. "I’m sorry I didn’t take down that shooter in time to prevent this."
Frankie shrugged and sat down on his couch. "I was the idiot who didn’t stay close. It’s not your fault. I just wish…you know… that Frank...that he didn’t fire you. I still want you to work for me."
Johnny sighed. "Maybe Frank will cool down and reconsider."
"He was here earlier," Frankie mentioned. "He wanted to make sure I wasn’t dead or nothin.’"
"And how are you doing?" asked Johnny. "Those were some serious hits you had last night – vest or not."
"I don’t know," sighed Frankie. "My side hurts real bad – I got thirty stitches last night."
"You still have the blood in the urine from the bad kidney?" questioned Johnny.
Frankie nodded. "Yeah." A bemused expression crossed his face, and he laughed. "What are you? Some doctor wannabe?"
Johnny leaned back into the couch and crossed his leg. "Actually, yes, I guess. I was studying to be a paramedic when I got busted and sent to prison. Now humor me. Are you running a fever?"
"I think so," said Frankie. He didn’t flinch or move away when Johnny felt his forehead. "You’re hot," agreed Johnny. "Let me see your stitches." Frankie flung up his sweatshirt and leaned to the side. Johnny whistled. "That’s a long wound," he said. "It’s inflamed, but that’s probably because it’s healing. It seems okay." He touched Frankie’s kidney, and the kid hissed and jumped. "Ow. Gimme some warning next time."
"You’re supposed to be resting and drinking lots of water, but you’re not, are you?" Johnny mentioned as he looked around a room that was littered with beer cans.
Frankie pulled his sweatshirt back down and opened up the laptop beside him. "I gotta work," he said tensely. Frankie typed rapidly, accessing the emails in his inbox. "I’m tracking Jason Morgan right now. We’re gonna nail him. Corinthos won’t know what hit him after his number two man is gone." Frankie paused when his words registered in his brain. And that’s what someone else thinks about Frank and me, he thought, realizing for the first time how precarious his life had really become.