Back to the Blues

I am happy to report that Serendipity Blues has finally gone over 16,000 words. I would like it to go faster, of course -- but at least it has picked up the word count again now that I can see some of the upcoming scenes more clearly.

I thought I would drop a rather long snippet in here today since I've been lax on posting anything lately. This is back to Serendipity Blues, and back to Frankie again. Frankie Cosenza wasn't supposed to be a full time character in this book, but the more I slipped into the story, the more I realized a great deal depended on him and how he dealt with the problems.

I admit that I am having trouble with the character of his daughter, though she's starting to flesh out a bit, too. And she's about to do something that's going to set a lot of trouble in motion. But first this two part scene in which Frankie finally pieces together one important fact.


"Los Angeles," Tito said. "We have a confirm from our FBI man."

Frankie Cosenza stubbed out a cigarette in an ash tray already overflowing with butts and glared back at the man. "That's the best you can do?"

Tito gave a little shrug, and didn't shrink from Frankie's glare. "We have people on it."

"LA is a big fucking city. All kinds of shit happens there. They got damned Earthquakes!"

"Don't look for more trouble than we have," Tito said, his calm voice and carefully enunciated words hinting at the Ivy League education he gave up to be Frankie's right hand man. It had been the Old Man's choice, and some time's Frankie still chaffed at it, especially on days like this.

"What are you doing to get her back?" Frankie demanded.

"What we can. I alerted the west coast people, and they're pressuring the connections they have out there. But we have something else to handle right now. RJ is demanding to meet with you, tonight."

"That friggin' little creep don't demand nothin' from me!"

This time Tito did lift his hands in gesture of calm and peace. "He's spoken to the Old Man, who doesn't want RJ upset right now, and have him do something stupid."

"Oh, I can make sure he's never upset again."

"Frank."

"Yeah, right. Arrange the damn meeting. Not too far away."

Tito nodded and left the room to do the work, obviously not trusting Frankie to keep his temper while the made the phone call. And that left Frankie alone with his thoughts, which were not particularly good company right now. He couldn't decide who should be on the top of his list of whom he hated the most right now -- Leslie, the FBI or even RJ with his perpetual demands, as though the little son-of-bitch had any real power outside of what the Family thought he could handle. It looked as though he couldn't handle any of it well, despite what the Old Man thought.

Tito came back a few minutes later and gave Frankie the address to a little place just four miles away. One of his favorites, in fact, and under other circumstances, he would have been happy to go there and give RJ trouble. But tonight he stopped at the door to his office and looked back at the phone.

"I want someone sitting by the phone twenty-four hours a day," he said. "If Carmina gets a chance, she'll call home."

He went to the damned bar, Dirk and Thomas tagging along and taking a table across from the booth, watching both doors. He'd arrived after midnight, and the place was still packed. Dirk gave a little signal and pointed out someone at a side table -- one of the Varisco boys having a few drinks all by himself.

Shit. He didn't need an audience tonight. Frankie composed his face, gave the waitress a vacuous smile and ordered a whiskey. RJ was late, of course. Frankie drank half the whiskey -- and on an empty stomach -- before the little weasel came bustling in with three bullies at his back. RJ swaggered, a hat pulled down over his head, collar turned up on his jacket -- in August, for the love of God. The man drew more attention trying to hide his identity than if he'd just walked in stark naked. Frankie gritted his teeth and forced a smile. Why not? The man was a joke.

"Draft beer. Something good," RJ said to the waitress and waved her away with a smug little feathering of his fingers that said she was not important enough for him to mind his manners.

Frankie saw the way the Varisco boy -- Tony, wasn't it? One of the cousins? -- looked at them and smirked. Frankie downed the last of his whiskey and thought about ordering another one, but decided against it. He didn't want to stay here that long.

"You're late," Frankie said. He kept his voice even and quiet.

"I had business," RJ said. "It's not easy, the unions and all --"

Frankie waved that away much the way RJ had waved away the waitress. The man's face reddened. "What is it you had to see me about?"

"What are you doing about your girl and the FBI?"

"What the fuck does it matter to you?"

RJ looked startled, and then flushed. He started to sputter something and stopped again. "You have to be joking. Your girl is in the hands of the FBI. What do you think she's telling them about me."

The paranoid stupid little bastard really thought Carmina would cause him trouble. Frankie Cosenza came close to reaching across the table and slapping him silly. Or maybe just nodding to Dirk and Thomas, and letting the two of them do something more permanent. Instead he waited while the woman delivered the beer and left again, using that moment to compose his own thoughts and get the grin back on his face. That seemed to surprise RJ, and he didn't do well when he didn't know how to react. Frankie was just in the mood to play on that weakness.

"Oh hell, RJ -- you should know better than to worry about something like that!" He laughed. The Varisco looked his way and then back at his plate. "Mina is my daughter -- that means she knows what not to talk about to anyone."

"Yeah, but the FBI -- I heard she already spent one day in the DC office giving them names and things," he said, his voice lowering, his eyes narrowed.

"Someone's pulling your tail, boy," he said, and felt real laughter bubble up. Someone did know how to rile RJ, and if it had involved anything but his daughter, Frankie might even have gone along with it. He didn't like the choice the Old Man had made for this position, and he suspected the Old Man had finally slipped a notch or two -- but now was not the time to start making choices of his own and have to follow through on them.

"You don't take this serious enough," RJ said. He sipped his beer, frowning. "I want to know what you're going to do about the girl to make sure she don't say nothing."

And that sounded far too serious. The smile left Frankie's face and RJ unconsciously backed up in his seat.

"The girl is my daughter. My child. You remember that, RJ. You remember that she's grown up as a Cosenza, and she knows what that means. You worry about your work. That's all you need to concern yourself with. You screw that up, then we'll talk again. You'd be wise not to mention my daughter again."

"She seen us --"

She's seen me with a lot of people. Many of them far more important than you, you stupid little prick. So stop playing at the dramatics and just do your job."

"What about your wife?"

"My wife is a bitch who thought this was going to throw a monkey wrench into my life. All it has done is given me a new reason to cut back her allowance. She's not important enough to worry over, and she doesn't know shit about anything, as the FBI already found out. She's not going to be trouble... Unless, of course, you're working with her to make trouble."

"No!" He looked startled by the accusation, and then paled. For a moment he drank beer like water, coughed, and then shook his head again. "No. I wouldn't do that."

"Good. Don't guzzle your beer. You want another one?"

"No. No thanks."

RJ didn't spend much more time at the table. He made a hasty goodbye, gathered his three goons, and hurried back out of the bar. All in all, it had been a pretty useless little display, and it had not improved Frankie's mood, even watching RJ slipping out of the bar like a cur kicked out of the pack.

"You ready to go, boss?" Dirk asked as he slipped from the other table. "Or would you like me to go back to the kitchen and see if they can whip you up some dinner? Saw some prime rib go through that looked good."

He almost said no, anxious to get back -- but Tony Varisco was watching him still. It wouldn't hurt to put on the show for him and the people he would report back to. And Frankie realized he hadn't eaten since he left Mexico, except for a few snacks through the day.

"Yeah, good idea, Dirk. The prime rib sounds good."

Dirk nodded and slipped away toward the kitchen, where he would watch over the food as it was prepared. The staff was used to it. The waitress came back, obviously as glad to see the prick gone as he was. Good. It wasn't like Tito didn't know where to find him, anyway.

What was he going to do about his daughter? He couldn't let this go on indefinitely, but he wasn't going to push, either. He wouldn't endanger Carmina, not the way his wife and the FBI already had. So he would bide his time, get a clue where they had taken her, and move carefully. Carmina wouldn't cause him trouble, but others... others could still use Carmina against him, and he knew it, even if he hadn't admitted it aloud. He knew she was his weak spot.

But she as safe in LA right now, and he began to think that might not be so bad, because he needed to do some things that he'd rather she weren't around to see. He couldn't let this incident pass without some retribution, and though he couldn't strike at Leslie -- far too obvious -- he knew that she had to have help.

By the time the food arrived, he'd made a mental list of several things that needed answering: how did Leslie know about the guards, who got the little prick RJ riled up, and why was Tony Varisco here, tonight?

Somebody was making a move on him.

And the bastards were using his daughter as a pawn. Someone was going to pay for that mistake.