Chapter Six
"Aunt Bobbie! Frankie and his uncle are here for dinner. You said they could come tonight or tomorrow night." Sly looked slightly uncomfortable at not giving his aunt more notice, and he wasn’t sure if his afternoon of hooky somehow showed on his face or in his eyes. He shifted his feet and looked down at his hands.
Bobbie looked puzzled. "Where are your guests, Sly?"
Sly shrugged and looked guilty. "I left them in the car so I could tell you first," he admitted.
"Sly!" Bobbie looked dismayed and then laughed. "That’s not polite. Bring them in. We have tuna casserole tonight, and I have a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream in the refrigerator. I hope that’ll do."
Sly grinned widely, ran out the door and breathlessly returned 30 seconds later. Johnny entered the door after Sly.
"Good evening, Ms. Spencer," he said graciously as he took her hand. "Thanks so much for inviting us to dinner." Bobbie’s wide brown eyes met Johnny’s gorgeous green ones, and she blushed and stuttered. "Oh! Uh, um…please, come in! We’re happy to have you."
Bobbie turned her head to see behind Johnny. "And you must be Frankie," she said brightly. "Sly’s told me so much about you."
Frankie’s face tightened "Yeah, dat’s me," he sniffed. "I hope he hasn’t blabbed about all my secrets." Bobbie’s eyebrows raised at the sound of Frankie’s voice and his demeanor. He sounds kind of tough, she thought to herself. I wonder how Sly became friends with him? Bobbie studied Frankie’s face and stopped at his blue eyes. Gosh, if his hair weren’t almost black, I’d say he’s a dead ringer for Luke at age fifteen. That’s weird.
Lucas ran into the living room and grabbed Frankie by the leg as he stared up at his teenaged guest with near adoration. Frankie tittered uneasily as he looked down at the four-year-old boy. "And who’s dis?" he asked with amusement. "He’s attached to my leg."
"Lucas, step away from Frankie and give him some air," instructed Bobbie seriously. She turned to Frankie and flashed him an apologetic smile. "Lucas loves to be around older boys," she explained. Frankie looked back at Bobbie and raised one eyebrow as he gave her a small, twitchy smile. Gotta tell Johnny later. I think he could get lucky with this hot redhead.
"Sly, set the table for five," instructed Bobbie. "We’re having tuna casserole, folks," she announced. Frankie’s eyelids fluttered with confusion as he looked to Johnny for help. "What’s a casserole?" he asked tensely out of the side of his mouth.
~*~*~*~
"Frankie, can I offer you some more casserole?" asked Bobbie with a big spoon
of the mess held up in the air.
"Aw, thank you, no," replied Frankie with a bloated look on his face and a hand over his stomach.
"Don’t you like my casserole?" asked Bobbie with a slightly hurt tone of voice. Johnny threw Frankie a warning look, which Frankie received. He smiled apologetically. "No, uh, it’s good, I never had none of that before. Frank only eats steak and pork chops," he explained. Johnny glared at Frankie who looked like a small rodent caught with a piece of cheese in its mouth as the wire of the mousetrap fiercely descended.
Bobbie frowned. "Who’s Frank?"
Frankie’s eyes widened. "Oh. Uh, that’s my father. I call him Frank sometimes. He likes it." Frankie studied the unused spoon by his plate and rubbed it with his finger.
"Doesn’t your mother mind if you call him that?" asked Bobbie.
Frankie didn’t look up, but colored and fought back his tears. "Don’t have no mother," he mumbled. Bobbie looked over in alarm at Johnny whose face was tight as he shook his head slightly.
"Who wants some ice cream?" Bobbie asked brightly to change the subject. "Me!" shouted two teenaged boys and one four year old.
~*~*~*~
"Dinner was lovely, Ms. Spencer," said Johnny with a smile. He politely creased his napkin to the side of his plate, rose from the table and collected his and Frankie’s plates. "Let me help you with the dishes," he offered.
Bobbie laughed nervously. She was so charmed by his polite manner and big dimples. "Oh, that’s not necessary," she said, waving a hand in dismissal. "I can take care of them."
"We can do them together," stated Johnny as he met her eyes.
Bobbie smiled. "Okay. Together then. Sly, you and Frankie go play a game with Lucas while we take care of the dishes."
Frankie looked at Sly and then down to the floor at Lucas, who was playing with toy soldiers and creating a racket with his kabooms, whooshes and screams of wounded soldiers. "Maybe we should lock him in the closet and go do something else," Frankie suggested, only half joking.
Sly looked startled. "Nah," he laughed. "Lucas is cool, aren’t you buddy?"
Lucas looked up at his cousin. "Yeah!" he shouted, baring his four-year-old biceps. "I’m King Cool!"
Frankie laughed. "He knows who he is and don’t take no crap. I like that." Frankie sat down on the floor and looked Lucas in the eye. "Want me to show you how to strat-e-gize? Then no one will ever take your fort ever again. They’ll be lying on the floor, all dead."
Lucas’ eyes lit up. "Show me, show me!" he exclaimed excitedly.
As Sly watched the two play for awhile, his mind drifted back to Frankie’s scars. It wasn’t something that he could keep to himself. He wondered if someone had hurt Frankie on purpose. "Hey, Frankie," he said casually. "How did you get all those scars on your back and chest? I noticed them in gym today." Sly waited anxiously. He was curious and worried at the same time, but he didn’t want Frankie to hate him for being so forward.
Frankie was sprawled on his stomach, moving soldiers around, but he eased back up into a sitting position. His eyes went from happy to cold and dark in a split second. Sly held his breath. "My father is a successful entrepreneur," he said slowly. "He has enemies. They kidnapped me when I was ten. The rescue went wrong, and they shot me. Cut me up, too, as a present to my father." He shrugged. "It’s no matter. It’s taken care of."
Sly’s eyes bugged out. "Who…who would want to do something like that? It’s so extreme, like the Mafia or something."
Frankie’s head jerked abruptly in Sly’s direction. "And what do you know about the Mafia?" he asked coldly. His jaw set firmly, and his voice was dangerous. "You don’t have no associations, do you? What’s your last name again?"
"Um…E…eckert," stuttered Sly.
Frankie nodded with approval. "That’s no Sicilian name," he chuckled.
"Well, my mom was Italian," offered Sly.
"Hahaha," laughed Frankie. "Sicilian don’t equal Italian," he explained. "La Cosa Nostra, they’re the pigs of the universe. How do you think I got these scars? Cowards. Wimps. I hate ‘em!" he growled vehemently.
Sly swallowed several times, but his throat was still dry. "You…you know the Mafia?" he asked in a small voice.
Frankie snickered and shrugged his shoulders. "You could say dat," he said. Frankie looked at Sly with dead eyes. "But I highly advise that you keep your mouth shut about dat little tidbit." He sighed and blinked his eyes. "For your own health."
~*~*~*~
"So how long have you had Frankie?" asked Bobbie curiously as she washed a pan, rinsed it and handed it off to Johnny to dry.
"I’ve been with him for several years," Johnny explained. "His father travels frequently for business. I look after him during those times."
"So is there a Mrs. Johnny?" asked Bobbie curiously with raised eyebrows and twinkling eyes.
Johnny laughed, his white teeth bared into a grin. "Used to be," he commented. "I’m divorced, two kids, a boy and a girl. They live with their mother."
"Oh," replied Bobbie casually. She smiled as she picked up another pan. Wonder how long he’s in town? This guy’s a cutie AND he does dishes. "Well, sorry to hear that," she said sympathetically. "I’m a single mom myself. It’s not always easy, but Lucas and I manage. Sly is a real help. He’s my handyman, and a real sweetie."
"Sly seems like a fine young man," commented Johnny. "It was nice of him to invite us over to dinner. And, he’s befriended Frankie. That’s good."
Bobbie’s brow creased. "Yeah, Frankie is a little character, isn’t he? I swear he seems like he’s fifteen going on forty."
Johnny laughed knowingly. "You could say that," he agreed. "Question is, do you know when he’s being fifteen…or forty."
~*~*~*~
"Hey, bo….I mean, Frankie. We should go. Your father is calling tonight, remember?" Johnny gave Frankie a warning look and tapped on his watch.
Frankie rose from the floor and dusted off his pants. "Yeah, um…Uncle Johnny. Thanks for the reminder." Frankie held out his hand to Bobbie. "Thank you for the lovely dinner. I appreciate it." He shook her hand. "And thanks for inviting us, Sly."
"Don’t mention it," said Sly.
"We live above a diner. The food’s good, but homemade is a nice change," said Johnny.
Bobbie looked surprised. "You live above Kelly’s?" she asked.
"Dat’s da place!" Frankie exclaimed, his finger held up in the air. "Dat Ruby is great. Frankie shook his head, smiling broadly. "I like her. And her chili is as good as she says."
Bobbie laughed. "It’s such a small world. Ruby is my aunt and Sly’s great-aunt," she explained.
"Wow," said Sly. "I didn’t know you lived at Kelly’s. Maybe I could stop by sometime and see you."
"Sure thing," said Frankie as they exited out the door.
~*~*~*~
Nik bit into a big hamburger and smiled broadly at his aunt as he reached for a napkin. "This is so good, thank you for taking me to this place, Alexis. I’m really enjoying it."
Alexis smiled at Nikolas. "I like spending time with you, nephew of mine. You get more pleasure out of the simple things than almost anyone I know. The ability to be humble is a very good quality to have in life."
Nikolas shrugged and blushed.
"Are you looking forward to the arrival of your baby sister?" asked Alexis seriously.
Nikolas’ face seemed sad. "No, Alexis," he admitted. When Alexis looked surprised, he added, "I’m sure I’ll love her. I mean, she’ll be my sister. It’s just that…I don’t know. I’m seventeen years old – thinking about college and careers and leaving home."
"And a baby complicates things, pulls you back into the nest you’re trying to fly from?" inserted Alexis with an amused look on her face.
"Maybe," admitted Nikolas as he stabbed a French fry into his ketchup. "I don’t feel very welcome at Wyndemere," he explained. "My mother has created a museum, and my father’s never there. We never talk as a family or do things together. And when my mother and father are in the same room, it’s like I don’t exist. I want my own life now. So I can decide what makes me happy – and what doesn’t. I want to move back to the island – permanently."
"That’s a bold statement," said Alexis with surprise. "Why the island?"
Nikolas shrugged. "It’s simple, there’s lots of family around, the sun’s warm. And, Athena’s there."
"Oh," said Alexis as she looked down at her plate. Good thing they’re second cousins, she thought.
Nikolas could hold it in no longer and finally blurted out, "Alexis, will you take me to the island over spring break next week? Mother says I can go with you."
"And what about Stefan?" asked Alexis. "What does he say?"
"That’s the part I need your help with," replied Nikolas.
"How to butter up the old man." added Alexis with a twinkle in her eye.
"Something like that," said Nikolas as he laughed and ran a hand over his forehead. "You’re the master, you know. I mean, at…"
"Getting what I want," filled in Alexis, nodding. "Why do you think I became an attorney?"
~*~*~*~
Nikolas stood in the doorway to Stefan’s study for several minutes without speaking. He looked around the room. No square footage at Wyndemere had escaped Laura’s decorating and antiquing hobby, and this room was no exception. Parts of the walls were covered with rich, deep tan, studded leather and English fox hunting paintings as well as tasteful landscapes hung discreetly from burnished wires strung from the molding that rimmed the room. Heavy maroon velvet drapes forbid the sun to enter this dark, mysterious study. An antique globe hugged one corner, and a massive walnut desk that dated to the time of Napoleon dominated the room. The floor was carpeted with a rich, navy blue and white star pattern that coincidentally was laid in a presidential parlor in the White House. Nikolas made a choking noise as he tried to stifle his laughter upon noticing his mother’s latest acquisition. Directly across from him was a huge close-up portrait of a horse, its huge eyes staring dumbly at the viewer as if daring him or her to refute its presence in a painting.
Stefan looked up from his desk and paperwork. He removed his reading glasses and smiled broadly. "Nikolas," he said warmly as he rounded the desk and walked toward his son. Stefan pulled Nikolas into a big hug and stroked his hair. "Come on in and talk to me for awhile," he instructed. "I’ve missed you. You seem to be at the stables night and day. How is Sheba?"
Nikolas sat down on a brown leather loveseat and smiled broadly. "Sheba’s wonderful. I’ve been riding her every day, and she’s soaking up the attention. She’s a great horse." Stefan looked closely at Nikolas and nodded. "She comes from a champion lineage," he acknowledged, "but your love and care are what make her a true thoroughbred."
Stefan continued. "Son, I apologize for missing the bulk of your soccer games this season. My travel schedule has been brutal this year."
"That’s okay," shrugged Nikolas. "I was out for half the games because of that knee injury, remember?"
Stefan’s brow creased. "Would you like to accompany me on my next trip abroad? I’ll be in Saudi Arabia for two weeks in June."
Nikolas looked surprised. "Yes," he said enthusiastically. "That sounds great. Yes, I’d like to go with you."
Stefan leaned back on the sofa and regarded Nikolas with interest. "It’s time that I started teaching you the particulars of the family business. There’s no better way to learn than hands on experience. We can begin your training in negotiations and allow you handle them under my tutelage."
"Thank you, father," said Nikolas brightly. "I won’t let you down."
Stefan’s face softened, and he smiled. "I know you won’t, son. You never have. You’re my son. I’m proud of you, and I love you. I don’t say that enough, do I?"
Nikolas looked down at his hands, which were playing with the studs in the overstuffed sofa. "Father, I asked Alexis to take me to the island next week while I’m on break. Mother gave me her permission to go with Alexis – as long as you agree."
Stefan raised one eyebrow. "I thought you’d want to be near the family when your mother gives birth," he said slowly. "What has changed?"
"No one needs me to be here during that time. I can see my new sister when I return. I won’t be in your way – you won’t have to worry about me."
"You’re never in my way, Nikolas. I don’t want you to ever feel that way," replied Stefan carefully. He reached out and cupped Nikolas chin to look him in the eyes.
"What is bothering you, son? You can be honest with me."
Nikolas moved away from his father and said, "Nothing is wrong. I want to be able to go places on my own. I’d like to visit the island, that’s all."
Stefan crossed his leg and placed a hand on Nikolas arm. "Your mother – I’m surprised she agreed to let you go."
"She didn’t want me to go, but she agreed," replied Nikolas matter-of-factly. "I explained my reasoning to her."
"Very well, then," stated Stefan. "You may go."
~*~*~*~
9:00AM
Luke jangled his keys in his hand as he walked back to his business with a smile on his face and a light step. His head was down, and he wasn’t paying much attention as he walked up to the door. Time to get back to business, he thought. The two days that he’d spent with Alexis had worked wonders on his soul as well as his other parts. He was ready to get on with life now.
Luke’s mouth hung open in shock. There was a great, gaping hole in the glass of the door to Luke’s Club. He unlocked the door with his keys and glanced sharply at the drops of red blood that were scattered over the jagged, broken glass surface. What is going on here? he asked himself. When he stepped into the club and surveyed the premises, he shouted, "What the hell?" Everywhere was a path of wanton, purposeful destruction. Tables were overturned, chairs broken, wooden floors were sticky and stained from brown pools of spilled liquor. As Luke walked across the floor, his boots loudly crunched against the broken glass of countless smashed bottles. Someone had maliciously destroyed his club and his source of income. Who could do such a thing?
Luke winced as he viewed the rough indentation in the smooth curve of his custom bar. His fingers worked over the cracked wood, and his face saddened. This was an antique bar, one of a kind, never to be replaced. He wondered wearily if it could be repaired and thanked the gods that he’d remembered to pay his insurance bill this month. Luke was trying to recall if he’d heard of any area vandalism when he walked around the bar and saw the small piece of paper attached to the cash register with a bottle of beer. His fingers picked up the piece of paper, and fear, anger and loathing entered his heart as he read the words: Frank says hi. He looked around the club in disbelief. After all these years and the murder of his son, the man still wanted revenge? His eyes filled with tears. Frank had his club trashed on the anniversary of Lucky’s death. Luke shook his head and raised his fist to his mouth. Lucky was his only son. Frank was no man - he was Satan himself.
~*~*~*~
"How’s da weather in Chicago?" Frankie asked pleasantly as he shook the tall, gaunt man’s hand and shifted his eyes to Johnny, ensuring that his backup man had his hand ready on his loaded pistol.
Gregory nodded tersely. "No snow. No delays in getting here. But, your timeframe, it’s short and aggressive, no?" Gregory sniffed and ran a hand over his longish black hair. His small black eyes intently watched every move that Frankie and Johnny made.
Frankie drew himself up to his full height and looked straight at Gregory with a cold, hard expression freezing his bright, blue eyes. "That’s why we’re payin’ you double. We expect service at that price. The hit must go exactly as planned or no payoff. You take a risk dealin’ with Frank Smith’s organization, but the rewards are excellent. Are you in?"
Gregory shifted his feet and looked down at the floor. It was clear that he was dealing with a little hard @ss, and that no more money could be squeezed out of this one. What a little prick he was – a real chip off the old block. Frank must be proud. "Yes, I’m in," he said flatly. "Gimme the specifics."
Frankie led Gregory over to his laptop computer, which was perched on a table. He pressed the "enter" key, and a photo of Joseph Sorel dominated the screen. "Here’s your mark," Frankie explained. "Joseph Sorel, a local small time mob boss, not amateur but close to it. He is to be removed in a dramatic manner –as a warning to anyone that may have a thought to cross us as we move into the territory. Think St. Valentine’s Day Massacre – an Uzi in public at the Port Charles Grill. Make it a dinner to remember and avoid killing any pedestrians. Can you handle that?"
Gregory nodded and stroked his chin as he contemplated the dirty deed. "What about masking my identity – since it’s so public?"
Frankie laughed harshly. "This I like. Wear your best black gangster suit and wrap a black bandana around the lower half of your face. It’ll scare the shit outta them. Just like Hollywood and The Untouchables!" Frankie laughed again. "Let La Cosa Nostra fry for this one. They’ll be pointing fingers at them immediately."
"When’s the hit?" asked Gregory.
"Tomorrow evening at 7:30PM," answered Frankie with a twinkle in his eye. "Sorel’s an idiot. He makes reservations."
~*~*~*~
7:59PM
"Frank? It’s Frankie checkin’ in."
"So you’ve minimized your distractions. I see you’ve learned a lesson?" asked Frank coldly.
"Yeah, I’m on time," stated Frankie quickly. "I know it’s important for you to observe the schedule."
"Now that we’re clear on that, how did the meeting with Gregory proceed?" questioned Frank.
"He’s on board," stated Frankie proudly. "The hit’s on for tomorrow night at the Port Charles Grill. Very bloody, very public. La Cosa Nostra will be written all over it."
"The Sicilians will be displeased," observed Frank with controlled glee.
"Dat’s da angle," replied Frankie, relieved that his father was pleased.
"That’s my Frankie," said Frank with a hint of malice coating his voice. "Number two man, still sounds like a little hood."
Frankie paused, as the hurt feelings welled up inside his chest.
"Tomorrow evening at 8:00 then," stated Frank.
"Yeah," said Frankie quietly as he slowly hung up the phone.
~*~*~*~
Frankie lay back in bed, drinking the remainder of his beer and reviewing his plans for the next two days in order to ensure that no screw-ups were possible. His mind kept drifting to the past, though, and he lost his train of thought.
*** "Get the kid! Frank’s double-crossing us!" shouted the Mafia hit man. "There’s men coming around the back. Looks like Frank’s bringing in his own SWAT team."
Frankie’s ten-year-old eyes grew wide as the enraged man stepped closer to him and drew out a large, switchblade knife. Frankie was sitting on a hard chair, had been for two days, and his hands were tied tightly behind his back, wrists bloody and chafing. A soiled rag was stuffed in his mouth, and his face was littered with one and two-day-old bruises, the results of ill tempers and boredom relieved by flying fists. The hit man lunged at him, running the knife sharply over his chest, and Frankie looked down with tears in his eyes as the long, jagged cut rapidly illuminated itself with bright, red blood. He moaned through his gag and tried hard to blink back his tears. "A souvenir," sneered the man. "From La Cosa Nostra to Frank Smith."
The sounds of splintering wood from a bashed in back door greeted the two men’s ears, and they ran for the front door to make their escape. As soon as they ran, Frankie tried to stand up with the chair still strapped to him by his tied, encircling arms. One man raised his pistol as Frankie turned his back to them, firing point blank five separate times. Frankie’s small body jerked fiercely with the impact of the bullets, and he flew flat on his face, gasping for air as his blood quickly saturated the carpet fibers all around his body. His gag filled with blood, and he began choking and screaming futilely with horrendous pain filling him with its fire. ***
Frankie jerked on the bed and drained the rest of his beer before reaching for another. He downed the beer in several long, breathless gulps, pausing only to burp to make room for more. He crushed the can in his bare hand and threw it at the door, watching it bounce off the wooden surface with a metallic ‘plink’ sound. He rose from his bed and staggered to the door, opening it harshly and slamming it shut.
~*~*~*~
Frankie opened up the large, commercial refrigerator door and started rummaging for cold cuts. He found some bread and piled it high with ham, bologna and cheese slices. He squirted a generous amount of mustard on top of the whole mess and stood at the counter, licking his fingers.
"Hold it right there!" Ruby appeared in the kitchen with her shotgun and green robe tied tightly around her middle, looking every bit like a grandmotherly Annie Oakley.
Frankie turned to Ruby and dropped the sandwich on the floor as his fingers opened up by reflex. His mouth hung open as he frantically reached around his waistband for the gun that he’d left in his room upstairs. He staggered to the right and said, "Hiya, Rube. Howsit goin’? Dat’s a big gun."
Ruby frowned as she lowered her shotgun and observed Frankie’s drunken raid on the kitchen’s cold cuts. She walked up to him and grabbed him firmly by the chin. "Ow," protested Frankie with a frown. "Easy dere, Ruby."
"You’re drunk on beer," stated Ruby decisively. "And you’re stealing my cold cuts." This is like déjà vu. I remember Luke raiding my fridge with his teenage appetite after drinking too much beer.
"Not stealing, borrowing," explained Frankie with wide eyes and a manipulative, plaintive tone of voice.
Ruby studied Frankie’s face more closely, memorizing his cheekbones, chin and nose, and she stopped when she met his blue eyes. A weird feeling passed over her
."Luke Spencer, meet your match," Ruby mumbled to herself, shaking her head. "Take that sandwich upstairs and get to bed," she ordered, pointing her finger in the direction of the stairs. "And don’t make me have to buy a lock for this appliance!"