Page 36 of Baby One Last Time
Frankie showed up at 1:45, stayed inside for a few minutes, then moved to an outside picnic table with a view of a filthy little canal that ran behind the buildings.
“Huh.”
“Huh, good, or huh, he’s setting you up for a long-distance kill shot to the head?” Mai asked.
I glanced at her. “That’s way too specific.”
She shrugged. “Question still stands.”
“I’m not sure.” I drummed my fingers against my lips and narrowed my eyes as I peered into the binoculars.
Frankie pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
“Looks like they make him smoke outside now,” I said.
“So does every place in the country. Why does that make you look so worried?”
I shook my head, trying to put my finger on the cause of my unease. I thought out loud, and disparate ideas began to gel. “The biggest part of Frankie’s success is his charisma.”
“That guy?”
I understood her surprise. Frankie looked like a leftover hair band stage-hand. He wore his dark, curly hair way too long in the back for a man with such a deeply receding hairline, his face didn’t quite add up, and he was skinny as a rail except for his apple-shaped middle stuck on top of spindly legs, like a tinker toy gone awry. His jeans constantly threatened to fall off his narrow hips while his rock-band emblazoned tee shirt barely stretched over his midsection. As we watched him, he reached his arms over his head, the shirt lost the battle, and we got a glimpse of a wide swath of round, pale, and very hairy man-belly.
“Magnetism isn’t just about looks or clothes,” I said. “Some people have a certain energy, a zest for life about them.”
“And Frankie’s one of those people?”
“He used to be. It’s been illegal to smoke in Florida restaurants for nearly two decades, but the owner of this place and at least half a dozen others in the city have always looked the other way when Frankie does it. It appears that’s changed. I don’t like change when it comes to informants.”
“Understandable,” Mai said. “But maybe the dude just wants to sit outside today.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t want to waste energy arguing the point when I needed to shore up my resources to read Frankie. For all his odd charm, or maybe because of it, he was one of those exhausting types I would only read for the job.
“Either way, I’ll have a clear shot from here if anything goes sideways.”
“Thanks.” I checked my watch. “Speaking of which, you should assemble your rifle, because it’s almost go-time.”
Two minutes later, Mai clicked the magazine into place, set up a tripod on the console, and lined up the weapon’s sights through the slightly lowered side window. “Ready.”
“Me too.” I made sure no one was on the sidewalk, then climbed out of the SUV. When I closed the door behind me, it was a big, black box with tinted windows, and the crack at the top of one was too small to reveal my deadly sniper.
I shifted my silver sundress with a matching short-sleeved jacket into place, fluffed my hair, and strode off down the sidewalk, emerging in Frankie’s sightline a minute later. He smiled the second he spotted me, and was on his feet by the time I reached the edge of the parking lot.
“Hey Frankie,” I said, letting him fold me into a bear hug. “How’re you doing?”
“You know, kid. Same as always. Frankie never changes.” He motioned for me to sit, still grinning. “You get prettier every time I see you.”
“Thanks, Frankie.”
I considered returning a compliment, but I was hard-pressed to find one. From a distance, he’d looked much the same, but up-close, he looked worn and tired. A bit of gray scruff clung to his chin and there was a small cut on the left side of his jaw that looked like it had come from shaving. The Frankie I’d gotten to know four years ago, when he’d supplied me with information on the human trafficking ring, visited a barber shop every morning, three-hundred-sixty-five days of the year, for a shave and a steam. He wouldn’t have been caught dead with such piss-poor grooming.
“How are you, Frankie, really?” I pushed genuine concern into my voice because I was legitimately worried. It wasn’t just his appearance that was off. Frankie’s whole vibe was different. Deflated. Sad.
He sank down on the bench across from me and propped his forearms on the table. His cigarette, gripped between two of his fingers and in need of a tap-off, shook. There were three reasons for shaking the way Frankie was: cold, withdrawal, or nerves. Frankie hadn’t been a junkie before, and he didn’t look like he was coming down from a bender now. It was a sweltering ninety degrees outside. That left nervous.
“To be honest, kid,” he took a long pull off his cigarette, exhaling the smoke as he resumed speaking, “I’ve hit a bit of a rough patch.”
Everything I could read in his face and body language screamedtruth.
