Imagine My Surprise! (31)

In which the boys have a scuffle.

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31. Outfit Change

The meeting was set for 10:45 the next morning. Bart showed up first, looking stony-faced and a little pale, the bruise on his cheek smaller but slightly green.

“Good morning,” I greeted neutrally. “How do you feel?”

“Physically fine, but my head don’t know which way is up.”

Leading him into the dining room, I asked, “You’re not carrying or anything are you?”

“Dope? Shit no, man. But I got to unload what I got back to you, get it out of the house.”

“What I meant was are you carrying a gun? I don’t want any at the table.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “What the fuck, Kurt? How many times have I been packing since we’ve worked together? Twice?”

“Hey, this is a potentially explosive situation. Just wanted to make sure.”

“You think I was gonna do Franks right here in your house?”

“People get crazy.”

“Well, that ain’t the kind of crazy I get.” On the dining room table, I had two shots of tequila waiting for us. Otherwise, there were bottles of water and some sodas in the centerpiece.

Eyeing the tequila, he said, “Are we starting early?”

“Well, this is to loosen us up a little. Just us. I don’t want everyone drinking during the meeting.”

He shrugged. “I guess that makes some sort of sense.” We shot the tequila.

He focused on me in an odd way, tilted his head; he was summing me up anew, re-estimating me. It made me feel a little bad, like I’d offended him. There was a knock on the door.

“That’d be Franks. Probably Poins as well. You cool?”

“Just answer the fucking door, Kurt. I’ll be right here.” Bart took a seat at the table.

I steeled myself and answered the door. There was Franks, in his red St. Patrick’s FC jersey and a Giant’s cap, and Poins, in a new black and orange Giants Spring Training hoodie. Poindexter was his usual expressionless self, but Franks was energized like nothing had happened and couldn’t wait to tell us about his vacation.

“Yo, Kurt, my man!”

I was reluctantly dragged toward him for a bro-hug.

“Franks,” I managed. I nodded Poins’ way. “Poins.”

“Kurt,” was all he said.

“Come on in. We are in the dining room. Bart’s already here.”

They stepped inside and I closed the door and said awkwardly, “Oh…are either of you carrying … you know, a gun?”

“What?” Franks asked reflexively. “Um, no man. Why would you even ask that?” But he saw my look and got it. “Oooh. Well, I guess you can’t be too careful. But no, man, I ain’t carrying.”

I turned to Poins, who glanced at Franks. Franks nodded and Poins lifted the bottom of his hoodie to show a small .380 semi-auto in a clip holster jammed inside the front of his baggy jeans. “Yeah, I got my usual.”

“Ah. Well, if you could please give it to me for this meeting, I’ll just put it on the shelf until you leave.”

This was a peculiar side I’d never seen of Poindexter. He had the torn expression of a kid who was told they need to hand over their favorite stuffed animal. He said, “Um, that makes me uncomfortable.”

I got serious, but not angry.

“On this rare occasion I’m going to have to ask for it until the meeting is over, or wait outside in your car. Or go home. I asked the same thing of Bart. And my piece is in the gun safe upstairs.” My gun was in the china cabinet drawer behind the chair in which I’d soon be sitting. I told him, “I won’t get offended if you leave.”

Poindexter looked at Franks who gave him a shrug.

“Alright, holmes. Your house, your rules,” he said magnanimously, handing me the piece. I took it from the holster, ejected the clip and the bullet in the chamber and put the gun on the coat rack shelf next to the door. The clip went into my pocket.

“Good enough. Let’s get down to business. Gentlemen ….” I gestured toward the dining room and followed them in.

Upon entering, Franks greeted Bart much the same way he had me. “Bart, my man — ”

Bart cut him off without a smile. “I’m not in the mood, Franks.”

Franks froze, then dropped his cheer like a mask. “Alright, Bart.” Poins and Bart greeted each other by way of an efficient, wordless nod. I sat at one end of the table, near the kitchen; Bart was to my left, Poins to my right and Franks directly across the far end of the table from me.

Franks eyed the beverages on the table and asked, “Can I grab a beer?”

“Let’s not right now. Maybe after we are done talking.”

“Shit, all this serious stuff is making me nervous, fellas.”

Poindexter popped open a diet cola.

“The fact that you’re nervous, Franks, is actually reassuring. This is serious.”

Franks (clearly) had a speech prepared. He said, “Bart, man. I’m sooo sorry. I’d’ve never asked you to cover for me if I knew Jericho was a snitch — obviously. You ’n’ me are friends, man — mates. I wouldn’t do that to you. And, Kurt,” he continued, working his face into a visage of pure contrition. “Man, I would never do anything purposely to threaten you or the outfit. We have a safe little operation here. I didn’t know my reputation preceded me.” I could tell he knew that last bit sounded almost boastful, so he added, “I know it’s bad to have a … a public reputation at all.”

Bart was still stony-faced. With contained fury.

He said to Franks deliberately, “You didn’t have any feeling about Jericho?”

I detected a timing problem with Franks’ answer, although I couldn’t tell if it was too quick or too slow. “No way! I thought Jericho was cool. He was always solid. A bit of a nerd, if you ask me, college type of hippie, you know. But he’s hit me up a few times.”

Bart looked at Franks in that appraising way he had at me earlier. “Why didn’t you call Kurt back sooner? And don’t tell me your phone ran out of juice.”

Franks looked at me, at Poindexter, back at Bart, and suppressed a smile. “Well, doncha know, PD and I crashed a party at the Hilton with a shit-ton of ballplayers and all these baseball groupie chicks were there and, well, turns out we managed to do a little business with one of the new outfielders and then it was all tits and blow for the rest of the night.”

I asked him, “Did you see that I called — and texted? I mean, you had to’ve.”

Poins studied the label on his soda can intently, now and then glancing up at Bart and I.

“Well, I might’ve heard a buzz and seen a missed call,” Franks explained, “but to tell you the truth, my phone was in my pants and my pants weren’t on for a while.” Franks couldn’t help but smile now, broadly. “There was a jacuzzi involved.”

He and Poins high-fived, but their smiles quickly fell from their faces when they saw that we were not amused.

“So, I’m in lock-up and you’re getting pussy and you think that’s fucking funny?” Bart struggled to control the volume of his voice, which made it come out soft and through his teeth, a little like Clint Eastwood.

I could feel Poindexter grow tense, ready, prepared for Bart to make a move on Franks; I could see it in the way he’d repositioned his legs.

“No, I don’t think it’s funny, Bart. I’m just telling you why I didn’t call Kurt back right away. I was busy. How could I have known there was trouble back here?”

“Goddamn it, Franks,” I interjected, “you should’ve known something was up because I never call you a zillion times in the middle of the night and leave text messages. There’s a time-lapse in your story and a negligence in your behavior that pisses … me … off.”

Franks stood, palms up. “How would’ve calling you back changed anything?” He turned to Bart, “I’m sorry you got busted, man, but it was sort of wrong place, wrong time. It was an accident. I’d take the fall for you if I could.”

“Thing is,” I said, “You still can.”

This shut everybody up, and all eyes turned on me.

“What?” Franks said, unsteady. He sat.

“You can still take a fall. So could I. Bart could seriously cut his jail time, or maybe get out of it altogether, if he just rolled over and gave us up.”

Bart was quick to speak: “I would never fucking do that, and you know it!”

“Exactly.” I stood at my seat. Tension was high. “So let me tell you how things are going to go. No matter what, Franks, you are indirectly responsible for what happened to Bart — ”

“Kurt — ”

“Shut the fuck up, Franks,” I spat. “You are responsible. Now, of course, if Bart hadn’t agreed to help you out, or if, say, he had chosen a different profession altogether, he wouldn’t be in this mess, granted. But Bart is going to do about three years, looks like, to cover our asses. What I’m going to do about it is, I’m going to have a nice little nest egg waiting for him on the other side. Franks, you are going to pay his fine.”

The Irishman had gained his composure a little. “Uh…well, uh…sure. How much is it?”

“About ten grand.”

Poindexter finally made a sound: “Oh, shit.”

“Aw, fuck — I…” But Franks saw the look on my face and did some math in his head. “Fuck, well, I can handle that.” I watched Franks’ expression change as he realized that he was going to get away from this whole debacle for the relatively low cost of about ten grand. “Happy to, Bart. I’m so sorry this happened.” Franks stood and extended his hand. “Will you accept my apology?”

Bart looked at Franks, then Poindexter, then me. He stood slowly and said, “Sure, Franks.” It looked like Bart was going to shake, but instead he shot out his left hand and grabbed Franks right wrist; in one very quick, almost rehearsed-looking move, Bart yanked Franks forward across the table and punched him square in his Irish nose, sitting Franks back in his seat with a howl.

This was not terribly surprising to me. Poins attempted to leap across the table at Bart to defend his master, but I was already standing by. As Poins launched himself at Bart, my hand shot out and grabbed the back of Poins’ Giants hoodie, jerking him back toward me hard, clotheslining him and dragging him sideways. As he fell toward me, off balance, I could tell that he wanted to throw the punch he’d had ready for Bart — throw it at me — but he thought better of it and he landed against me, his face hitting my chest.

“STOP!” Franks shouted.

He held his nose, blood already dripping from his chin. Sprawled in his seat, he had his right hand extended up and out in a sort of hold-on-one-second gesture. His left hand held the bridge of his nose, expertly, because this was not the first time someone had given in to the urge to punch Franklin Franklin O’Donnell in the face.

“Just stop, guys. Sit down, PD, it’s okay.”

Bart stood back at his side of the table, arms ready. But you could tell he had cooled — punching Franks in the nose clearly was cathartic.

Poins awkwardly pushed away from me, eyes manic, shooting hatred at me and Bart. “Motherfuckers,” is all he said as he regained his balance and straightened his hoodie, checking it for damage.

Franks gestured toward Poindexter. “Sit, PD.” To Bart he said, “We’re done, right?”

“Yeah, I’m done.”

My nerves were alive in a beautiful way. I slipped over to the kitchen, got a dish towel and put some ice in it. Crossing carefully past Poins, I handed the towel to Franks. “Here. You handled that pretty well.” I nodded to Bart. “Sit, Please, Bart.”

I resumed my spot at the table. “Okay. That happened. Everybody take a breath.”

“Goddamn it, Bart. Nice jab,” Franks complimented.

And for the first time all day, for the first time since he got busted, Bart broke a smile. “Apology accepted.”

Franks started laughing, then me, then Bart. I smiled, but Poins didn’t seem to think it was funny.

“Kurt, I’m gonna need some paper towels.” The towel was blood-soaked, as was Franks’ Irish soccer jersey.

“Gotcha.”

“Can we drink now?”

“Yeah.”

Bart was back to solemn. “I’m gonna go unless we have anything more to cover.”

I looked at him and could tell the episode had sapped his already strained capacity. There was certainly stuff we could all discuss, but I could understand why Bart would want to go if the drinking was going to start. Over the next twenty days, we’d talk frequently.

“Oh, man. I thought we could make up over some whiskey,” Franks said.

“It’s okay. We’re sort of made up.”

“Shake my hand?”

Bart’s mouth twisted a little but he met Franks’ hand. Franks held on: “Look, Bart. I am really truly fucking sorry. And really thankful that you’re so stand-up, man.”

“I’m sorry, too.” He got his hand back. “For me, I mean. Sucks.” He did not say goodbye to Poindexter. I followed him to the door.

“Well done, Bart.”

“I believe him, mostly,” he said, nodding toward the other room. “He’s just a fucking idiot. No surprise.”

“Yeah. How’s your hand?”

He looked at it, knuckles a little red. “No biggie. Just a little attention-getter.”

“Alright. Drive safe.”

In the kitchen, I turned on some music, a little classic rock, and brought Jameson and glasses to the table. Poins rubbed his neck where the zipper of his hoodie had left a welt from my violent yank.

In apology, I said, “Sorry about that, Poins. I didn’t want it to turn into a brawl. Franks handled it perfectly. Now Bart will feel a little justice has been done. He’ll keep his mouth shut. Less grudge this way.” I poured us shots and lifted my glass. “Slainté.”

We drank.

“So, what are we going to do now, Kurt?” Franks asked. Two narrow paper towel twists were shoved up his nose to stem the flow of blood.

“Well, you, for one, are going dark for a while. You’ll have to stop any face-to-face business for a couple months.”

“Dude! How will I survive? After I pay Bart’s fine — ”

“Your fine.”

“Whatever. I’ll be broke, man.”

“That’s all you got?”

He sighed. “I have a lot of irons in the fire.”

“Of course, you do. I’ll cover you. But, look — I’m taking you out of circulation for a sec.”

“Fuck, man.”

“I want you to hire another guy. Or rather, I’d like it if Poins here hired another guy.”

I suddenly had Poins’ attention.

I asked Poins, “Can you find a guy that you can trust who can talk the talk and doesn’t look like a gang-banger?”

He thought about it for a second. “I know a guy.”

“Good.” I poured another round. “So, Franks: I hereby am promoting you to be my number one, my first lieutenant. You are going to get the keys to the kingdom. If you can keep your shit together.”

Holding his nose with one hand, he nasally proclaimed, “I can keep my shit together!”

“Great. Okay!” I said.

We drank to that.