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What he would have liked to have done was maybe catch an airplane and go to Las Vegas and see if he would have any luck gambling. Frankie had never been to Vegas, but he had heard there was a lot of pussy that hung around the tables, and that if they thought you were a high roller, they even sent pussy to your room. That would really be nice, go out there, win a lot of money at the crap tables, and get some pussy thrown in for good measure. But that would not have been professional. What he had to do, for a little while anyway, was play it cool.
The cops might be watching him, and they might wonder how come he could afford to quit fucking Wanamaker’s, not to mention where he got the money to go to Vegas. In a couple of weeks, about the time he would go see Atchison and remind him about the maître d’ job, the cops would lose interest in the Inferno job, and in him. There would be other things for the cops to do.
Neither was he, Frankie decided, going to start to spend the five grand he got right away, get a better car or something, or even some clothes. That would attract attention. When he was working at the Inferno, it would be different. If he turned up with some dough, he could explain it saying he’d won it gambling. Everybody knew that maître d’s were right in the middle of the action.
Having decided all this, Frankie then concluded that there would be no real harm in going by Meagan’s Bar and having a couple of drinks, and maybe letting Tim McCarthy see that he was walking around with a couple, three, hundred-dollar bills snuggled up in his wallet. Not to mention letting Tim see that he was walking around not giving a tiny fuck that detectives were asking questions about him.
And who knows, there just might be some bored wife in there looking for a little action from some real man. Tim, and if not Tim, then ol’ diarrhea mouth himself, Sonny Boyle, were talking about him to people, telling people not to let it get around, but that cops was asking about Frankie Foley. Tim and Sonny would be passing that word around, that was for damn sure, you could bet on it.
Women like dangerous men. Frankie had read that someplace. He thought it was probably true.
Frankie got home from Wanamaker’s warehouse a couple of minutes after six. He grabbed a quick shower, put on the two-tone jacket and a clean sports shirt, told his mother he’d catch supper some other place, he had business to do, and walked into Meagan’s Bar at ten minutes to seven.
He really would have liked to have had a couple of shooters, maybe a jigger glass of Seagram’s-7 dropped into a draft Ortleib’s, but he thought better of it and ordered just the beer.
Not that he was afraid of running off at the mouth or something, but rather that there maybe just might be some bored wife in there looking for a little action—you never could tell, he thought maybe he was on a roll—and if that happened, he didn’t want to be half shitfaced and ruin the opportunity.
He paid for the Ortleib’s with one of the three hundred-dollar bills he’d put in his wallet, told Tim to have a little something with him, and when Tim made him his change, just left it there on the bar, like he didn’t give a shit about it, there was more where that come from.
He was just about finished with the Ortleib’s, and looking for Tim to order another, when somebody yelled at Tim:
“Hey, Tim, we need a couple of drinks down here. And give Frankie another of whatever he’s having.”
At the end of the bar, where it right-angled to the wall by the door, were two guys. Guineas, they looked like, wearing shirts and ties and suits. That was strange, you didn’t see guineas that often in Meagan’s. The guineas had their bars and the Irish had theirs.
But these guys had apparently been in here before. They knew Tim’s name, and Tim called back, “Johnnie Walker, right?” which meant he knew them well enough to remember what they drank.
“Johnnie Black, if you got it,” one of the guineas called back. “And, what the hell, give Frankie one, too.”
What the hell is this all about? Frankie wondered. What the hell, a couple of guineas playing big shot. They’re always doing that kind of shit. Something in their blood, maybe.
Tim served the drinks, first to the guin
eas, and then carried another Ortleib’s and the bottle of Johnnie Walker and a shot glass to where Frankie sat.
“You want a chaser with that, or what?” Tim asked as he filled the shot glass with scotch.
“The beer’s fine,” Frankie said.
He raised the shot glass to his lips and took a sip and looked at the guineas and waved his hand.
One of the guineas came down the bar.
“How are you, Frankie?” he said, putting out his hand. “The scotch all right? I didn’t think to ask did you like scotch.”
“Fine. Thanks. Do I know you?”
“I dunno. Do you? My name is Joey Fatalgio.”
“Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” Frankie said.
They shook hands.
“I know who you are, of course,” Joey Fatalgio said, and winked.
What the fuck is with the wink? This guy don’t look like no fag.
“I come in here every once in a while,” Frankie said.
