The Winter of Frankie Machine Read online

  But you could do that in those days—get a couple hours of sleep, work all day, surf all afternoon, play all night and shake it off. Can’t do that anymore—now you put in a short night and you ache the next morning.

  But those were the golden days, Frank thinks, and suddenly he feels sad. Nostalgia, isn’t that what they call it? he thinks as he shakes himself from his reverie and walks toward the bait shack, remembering summer on a cold, wet winter day.

  We thought those summers would never end.

  Never thought we’d ever feel the cold in our bones.

  Two minutes after he opens, the fishermen start coming in.

  Frank knows most of them—they’re his OBP regulars—especially on a weekday, when the weekend fishermen have to go to work. So on a Tuesday morning, he gets his retired guys, the sixty-five-and-ups, who have nothing better to do with their time than to stand on the dock in the cold and wet and try to catch a fish. Then, more and more over the years, you have your Asians—mostly Vietnamese, along with some Chinese and Malaysians—middle-aged guys for whom this is work. This is how they put food on the table, and they always still seem amazed that they can do this pretty much for free, buy a fishing license and some bait and throw a line into the ocean and feed their families from the bounty of the sea.

  But hell, Frank thinks, isn’t this what immigrants have always done here? He’s read articles about how the Chinese had a fleet of fishing junks down here way back in the 1850s, until the immigration laws shut them down. And then my own grandfather and the rest of the Italian immigrants started the tuna fleet, and dived for abalone. And now the Asians are doing it again, feeding their families from the sea.

  So you got the retirees, and the Asians, and then you got the young blue-collar white guys, mostly utility workers coming off night shifts, who consider the pier their ancestral turf and resent the Asian “newcomers” for taking “their spots.” About half these guys don’t fish with poles at all, but with crossbows.

  They’re not fishermen, Frank thinks; they’re hunters, waiting until they see a flash in the water and shooting one of their bolts, which are attached to long cords so they can pull the fish up. And every once in a while they shoot a little too close to a surfer coming in by the pier, and there have been a few fights over this, so there’s some tension between the surfers and the crossbow guys.

  Frank doesn’t like tension on his pier.

  Fishing and surfing and the water should be about fun, not tension. It’s a big ocean, boys, and there’s plenty for everybody.

  That’s Frank’s philosophy, and he shares it freely.

  Everyone loves Frank the Bait Guy.

  The regulars love him because he always knows what fish are running and what they’re hitting on, and he’ll never sell you bait that he knows won’t work. The casual fishermen love him for the same reason, and because, if you bring your kid on a Saturday, you know that Frank is going to hook him up right, and find him a spot where he’s most likely to catch something, even if he has to nudge a regular aside for a little while to get it done. The tourists love Frank because he always has a smile, and a funny saying, and a compliment for the women that’s a little flirtatious but never a come-on.

  That’s Frank the Bait Guy, who decorates his shack every Christmas like it’s Rockefeller Center, who dresses up at Halloween and gives out candy to anyone who comes by, who holds an annual Children’s Fishing Contest and gives prizes to every kid who enters.

  The locals love him because he sponsors a Little League team, pays for uniforms for a local kids’ soccer team, even though he hates soccer and never attends a game, buys an ad in the program for every high school drama production, and paid for the basketball hoops at the local park.

  This morning, he gets the bait for his early customers, and then there’s the usual lull, so he can relax and watch the surfers who are already out on the Dawn Patrol. These are the young, hard chargers, getting in a session before they have to go to work. A few years ago, that would have been me, he thinks with a slight pang of jealousy. Then he laughs at himself. A few years? Get real. These kids with their short-boards and their cutback maneuvers. Christ, even if you could do one of those, you’d probably just throw your back out and be in bed for a week. You’re twenty years out from being able to compete with those kids—you’d just get in their way, and you know it.

  So he sits and does his crossword puzzle, another gift from Herbie, who had turned him on to the puzzles. Herbie Goldstein has been on his mind a lot these days, particularly this morning.

  Maybe it’s the storm, he thinks. Storms bring up memories like they drop driftwood on the beach. Things you think are lost forever, and then, suddenly, there they are—faded, worn, but back again.

  So he sits and works the puzzles, thinks about Herbie, and waits for the Gentlemen’s Hour.

  The Gentlemen’s Hour is an institution on every California surf spot. It starts around 8:30 or 9:00, when the young guns have hustled off to their day jobs, leaving the water to guys with more flexible schedules. So the lineup consists of your doctors, your lawyers, your real estate investors, your federal worker early buyouts, some retired schoolteachers—in short, gentlemen.

  It’s an older crowd, obviously, mostly with longboards and straight-ahead riding styles, more leisurely, less competitive, a lot more polite. No one’s in a particular hurry, no one drops in on anybody else’s wave, and no one worries if he doesn’t get a ride. Everyone knows that the waves will be there tomorrow and the next day and the next. Truth be known, a lot of the session consists of sitting out on the lineup, or even standing on the beach, swapping lies about gigantic waves and ferocious wipeouts, and talking stories about the good old days, which get better with each passing rendition.

  Let the kids call it “the Geriatric Hour”—what do they know?

  Life’s like a fat orange, Frank thinks. When you’re young, you squeeze it hard and fast, trying to get all the juice in a hurry. When you’re older, you squeeze it slowly, savoring every drop. Because, one, you don’t know how many drops you have left, and, two, the last drops are the sweetest.

  He’s thinking this when a fracas breaks out across the pier.

  Oh, this is going to make a good story for the Gentlemen’s Hour, Frank thinks when he gets over there and sees what’s what. This is rich—Crossbow Guy and Vietnamese Guy have caught the same fish and are about to come to blows over who caught it first, whether Crossbow Guy shot it while it was on Vietnamese Guy’s hook, or Vietnamese Guy hooked it when it was on Crossbow Guy’s arrow.

  The poor fish is hanging in the air at the apex of this unlikely triangle, while each guy plays tug-of-war with their lines, and one look at it tells Frank that Vietnamese Guy is in the right because his hook is in the fish’s mouth. Frank somehow doubts that the fish got shot clean through the body with an arrow and then decided it was hungry for a nice minnow.

  But Crossbow Guy gives a hard yank and pulls the fish in.

  Vietnamese Guy starts yelling at him, and a crowd gathers, and Crossbow Guy looks like he’s going to pound Vietnamese Guy into the pier, which he could easily do because he’s big, bigger even than Frank.

  Frank steps through the crowd and stands between the two arguing men.

  “It’s his fish,” Frank says to Crossbow Guy.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  It’s an amazingly ignorant question. He’s Frank the Bait Guy, and anyone who frequents OBP knows it. Any regular would also know that Frank the Bait Guy is one of the pier’s sheriffs.

  See, every water spot—beach, pier, or wave—has a few “sheriffs,” guys who, by virtue of seniority and respect, keep order and settle disputes. On the beach, it’s usually a lifeguard—a senior guy who’s a lifesaving legend. Out on the lineup, it’s one or two guys who’ve been riding that break forever.

  On Ocean Beach Pier, it’s Frank.

  You don’t argue with a sheriff. You can present your case, you can express your grievance, but you don’t
argue with his ruling. And you sure as hell don’t ask who he is, because you should know. Not knowing who the sheriff is automatically labels you as an outsider, whose ignorance probably put you in the wrong in the first place.

  And Crossbow Guy has East County written all over him, from the down vest, to the KEEP ON TRUCKIN’ ball cap, to the mullet underneath it. Frank’s guessing he’s from El Cajon, and it always amuses him how guys who live forty miles from the ocean can get territorial about it.

  So Frank doesn’t even bother to answer the question.

  “It’s obvious he hooked it first and you shot it while he was reeling it in,” Frank says.

  Which is what Vietnamese Guy is saying fast, loudly, continuously, and in Vietnamese, so Frank turns to him and asks him to chill out. He has to respect the guy for not backing down even though he’s giving away a foot of height and a bill and a half in weight. Of course he won’t back down, Frank thinks; he’s trying to feed his family.

  Then Frank turns back to Crossbow Guy. “Just give him his fish. There’s a lot more in the ocean.”

  Crossbow Guy isn’t having it. He glares down at Frank, and one look at his eyes tells Frank that the guy is a tweeker. Great, Frank thinks, a head full of crystal meth will make him a lot easier to deal with.

  “These fucking gooks are taking all the fish,” Crossbow Guy says, reloading the crossbow.

  Now Vietnamese Guy may not speak a lot of English, but from the look in his eye, he knows the word gook. Probably heard it a lot, Frank thinks, embarrassed.

  “Hey, East County,” Frank says. “We don’t talk that way here.”

  Crossbow Guy starts to argue and then he stops.

  Just stops.

  He might be a moron, but he isn’t blind, and he sees something in Frank’s eyes that just makes him shut his mouth.

  Frank looks square into Crossbow Guy’s methed-up eyes and says, “I don’t want to see you on my pier again. Find a different place to fish.”

  Crossbow Guy’s in no mood to argue anymore. He takes his fish and starts the long walk back down the pier.

  Frank goes back to the bait shack to change into his wet suit.

  3

  “Hey, if it isn’t the dispenser of justice!”

  Dave Hansen grins at Frank from his board out in the lineup. Frank paddles up and pulls alongside. “You heard about that already?”

  “Small town, Ocean Beach,” Dave says. He stares pointedly at Frank’s longboard, an old nine-foot-three-inch Baltierra. “Is that a surfboard or an ocean liner? You got stewards on that thing? I’d like to sign up for the second sitting, please.”

  “Big waves, big board,” Frank says.

  “They’ll be even bigger tomorrow when we talk about them,” Dave says.

  “Waves are like bellies,” Frank says. “They grow with time.”

  Except Dave’s hasn’t. He and Dave have been buddies for maybe twenty years, and the tall cop’s belly is still washboard flat. When Dave isn’t surfing, he’s running, and, except for a cinnamon roll after the Gentlemen’s Hour, he doesn’t eat anything with white sugar in it.

  “Cold enough for you?” Dave asks.

  “Oh yeah.”

  Yes, it is, even though Frank’s wearing an O’Neill winter suit with a hood and booties. It is damn cold water, and to tell the truth, Frank had considered giving the Gentlemen’s Hour a pass this morning for that reason. Except that would be the beginning of the end, he thinks, an admission of aging. Getting out there every morning is what keeps you young. So as soon as the kid Abe got in, Frank forced himself to climb into his wet suit, hood, and booties before he could chicken out.

  But it is cold.

  When he was paddling out and had to duck under a wave, it was like sticking his face into a barrel of ice.

  “I’m surprised you’re out here this morning,” Frank says.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Operation G-Sting,” Frank says. “Funny name, Dave.”

  “And people say we have no sense of humor.”

  Except G-Sting is no joke, Dave Hansen thinks. It’s about the last vestiges of organized crime in San Diego bribing cops, councilmen—there might even be a congressman in the mix. G-Sting isn’t about strippers; it’s about corruption, and corruption is cancer. It starts small, with lap dances, but then it grows. Then it’s construction bids, real estate deals, even defense contracts.

  Once a politician is on the hook, he’s hooked for good.

  The mob guys know it. They know that you bribe a politician only once. After that, you blackmail him.

  “Outside!” Frank yells.

  A nice set coming in.

  Dave takes off. He’s a strong guy, with an easy, athletic paddle-in, and Frank watches him catch the wave and get up, then drop down, ride the right-hand break all the way in, then hop off into the ankle-deep water.

  Frank goes for the next one.

  He lies flat on his board and paddles hard, feels the wave pick him up, then goes into a squat. He straightens up just as the wave drops, points the front of his board straight toward the shore. It’s classic, old-school straight-ahead longboard style, but for the thousands of times Frank has done it, it’s still the best kick there is.

  No offense to Donna, or Patty, or any of the women he’s made love to in his life, but there’s nothing like this. Never has been, never will be. How does the old song go? “Catch a wave and you’re sitting on top of the world.” That’s it, sitting—well, standing—on top of the world. And the world is going about a thousand miles an hour, cold and crisp and beautiful.

  He rides the wave and hops off.

  He and Dave paddle back out together.

  “We’re looking pretty good for old men,” Frank says.

  “We are,” Dave says. When they get back out to the shoulder, he says, “Hey, did I tell you I’ve decided to pull the pin?”

  Frank’s not sure he heard him right. Dave Hansen retiring? He’s my age, for God’s sake. No he isn’t—he’s a couple of years younger.

  “The Bureau’s offering early retirement,” Dave says. Kind of gently, because he sees the look on Frank’s face. “All these young kids coming up. All the terrorism crap. I talked it over with Barbara and we decided to take it.”

  “Jesus, Dave. What are you going to do?”

  “This,” Dave says, waving his hand toward the water. “And travel. Spend more time with the grandkids.”

  Grandkids. Frank’s forgotten that Dave’s daughter, Melissa, had a baby a couple of years ago and is expecting another one. Where does she live? Seattle? Portland? Some rainy place.

  “Wow.”

  “Hey, I’ll still be here for the Gentlemen’s Hour,” Dave says. “Most of the time. And I won’t have to leave so early.”

  “No, listen, congratulations,” Frank says. “Cent’anni. Every happiness. Uh, when…”

  “Nine months,” Dave says. “September.”

  September, Frank thinks. The best month on the beach. The weather is beautiful and the tourists have gone home.

  Another set comes in.

  They both ride it in and then call it a session. Two solid waves on a day like this are enough. And a cup of hot coffee and a cinnamon roll are sounding pretty good right about now. So they go up and clean up at the outdoor shower on the back of the bait shack, get dressed, then grab a table at the OBP Café.

  They sit there, drink coffee, consume fat and sugar, and watch the winter storm now brewing on the edge of the sea.

  Dark gray sky, thickening clouds, a wind building from the west.

  It’s going to be a ripper.

  4

  After the Gentlemen’s Hour, Frank starts on his busy day.

  All Frank’s days are busy, what with four businesses, an ex-wife, and a girlfriend to manage. The key to pulling it off is to stick to a routine, or at least try to.

  He has tried—without conspicuous success—to explain this simple management technique to the kid Abe. “If you have a routine,�
�� he has lectured, “you can always deviate from it if something comes up. But if you don’t have a routine, then everything is stuff that comes up. Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  But he doesn’t get it, Frank knows, because he doesn’t do it. Frank does it, religiously. Actually, more than religiously, as Patty reminded him the last time he was at the house, to fix a drip under the kitchen sink. “You never go to church,” she told him.

  “Why should I go to church,” Frank asked, “and listen to some priest who schtupps little boys lecture me on morality?”

  He got that word from Herbie Goldstein and prefers it to the alternative words. Frank doesn’t approve of profanity, and somehow saying it in Yiddish is less vulgar.

  “You’re terrible,” Patty said.

  Yeah, I’m terrible, Frank thinks, but from the last few times he’s balanced her checkbook, he’s noticed she doesn’t give as much to the church as she used to. The priests should know what Italian husbands have always known: Italian wives will always find a way to punish you, and it’s usually in the wallet. You piss her off, she’ll still do the job in the bedroom, but then she goes out and buys a new dinette set. And never says a thing about it, and if you got any brains at all, you won’t, either.

  And if the priests have any brains at all, they aren’t going to get in that pulpit and bitch about the shrinking receipts in the collection plate, because they’ll start seeing nickels and dimes in there.

  Anyway, church isn’t part of Frank’s routine.

  His linen-supply business is.

  The first two hours of his post–bait shop day are spent driving around to the various restaurants he serves, making what he calls “happy calls”—that is, talking to the owners and managers and making sure they’re happy with the service, that their orders have come in right, that the tablecloths, napkins, aprons, and kitchen cloths are spotless. If the restaurant is also a fish customer, he goes into the kitchen to say hello to the chef and make sure he’s happy with the quality he’s getting. They usually go into the walk-in refrigerator, where Frank inspects the product personally, and if the chef has any complaints, Frank writes it down in his little notebook and takes care of it right away.