Maybe it’s just a West Coast thing, he thinks. We never went in for all that heavy “Sicilian” stuff.
Or maybe it’s just too warm out here for all those hats and overcoats.
“Mr. Machine?” Travis is saying.
Frank shoots him a dirty look.
“Mr. Machianno, I meant,” Travis says. “There’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The sit-down is tonight,” Mouse Junior says.
“Tonight?” Frank asks. It’s already after midnight. He has to be up in three hours and forty-five minutes.
“Tonight.”
Frank sighs.
It’s a lot of work being me.
8
Mouse Junior hands him a cell phone.
“It’s on speed dial,” he says, pressing the button for him.
Vena doesn’t answer until the fifth ring.
“Hello?” He sounds like the phone woke him up.
“Vince? Frank Machianno here.”
There’s a long pause, which is what Frank expected. Vince’s mind has to be whirling, he figures, wondering why Frankie Machine is on the phone, how he got this number, and what he wants.
“Frankie! Long time!”
“Too long,” Frank says, not meaning it.
If he never talked to Vince Vena again, he’d be very happy. He knows Vince from the old days, back in the eighties in Vegas, when it was open territory and everybody’s playground. Vince was a fixture at the Stardust, practically furniture. When he wasn’t at the blackjack table, he was out catching the comedians’ shows, and then he’d annoy everyone by constantly reciting their routines. Vince liked to think he did a pretty good Dangerfield, which he didn’t, although, unfortunately, that never stopped him from doing it.