It was an odd request.
But then again, how do you say it is a request when the questiixxon is spoken by Carlos Marcello?
Marcello spoke with the tone and inflection of a question. But the words came from a mafia kingpin, so the question was really a statement. Saying no was not an option.
There were few options when your life was connected to corrupt elements of the underworld and the Marcello crime family. Like an anchor hitched to a chain, figuratively of course, but literally if your answer was no.
Pete Franklin’s mind, like his vision, was blurry and unfocused. Staring passively into his third glass of Brandy Milk Punch, Franklin wondered if it had been a good idea to phone Mr. Marcello asking him if there was any work he could perform for the family.
Coincidentally, there was, in fact, “an opportunity” Marcello said to Pete Franklin. This opportunity was the reason for Franklin’s drunken stupor in a dark and dirty tavern in the French Quarter. For over a decade, the bar’s nicotine-stained plaster walls and the scarred cypress-planked floor had witnessed many a somber fellow like Franklin who needed an escape from their problems, from their spouses, creditors, friends and foes.
As afternoon thunderstorms did their best to remove the stench of beer and urine from the Quarter, alcohol was doing little to improve Franklin’s own stormy forecast. It was expected to rain continuously for several days, a stalled cold front was lingering, as if afraid to continue to move southeast—the same direction the sometimes flamboyant and disgraced former Eastern Airlines pilot was being asked to travel.
The request was for Franklin to take another trip to Cuba. This was beyond dangerous, most likely a suicide mission. With Fidel Castro now firmly in control of Cuba, aligned with Communist Russia and their vast array of conventional and nuclear weapons, why was Marcello still toying with the Cuban dictator?
Before a phone call was made to Franklin, a call had been received by Marcello from Santo Trafficante, the Mafia Don from Tampa, Florida. Trafficante wanted revenge and more importantly, he wanted Castro to suffer a slow and painful demise. After all, when the mob loses tens of millions of dollars at the hands of a ruthless dictator, retribution always helps ease the pain of any financial loss. But what could Franklin do about Castro and Cuba? Not much, Franklin concluded and ordered another Punch.
Dripping wet and cold, Thomas Messina shook the remnants of the afternoon rain from his dark brown hair and entered the dive bar where he was told he would find Pete Franklin. Everything in this place was depressing, both the interior and the patrons drinking at the bar and sitting around mismatched tables. Streetwalkers and druggies, transvestites and locals with nothing better to do, found refuge from the weather inside the decadent structure.
As Messina’s eyes adjusted to the darken interior, he took in the patrons, scanning the bar and tables until he connected with the man he was told to find. The typically animated and hyper Franklin appeared to be sleeping, his chin propped on his chest, his eyes closed, a slight drool slipping down from the side of his mouth. Not wanting to startle the man, Messina eased to the side of the table and gently rapped his knuckles on the chipped Formica. Franklin continued sleeping. The only movement was his lungs as they expanded and contracted in a slow rhythm accompanied by a slight whistle from his partially opened lips.
“Mr. Franklin,” Messina casually said as his hand lightly pushed against the drunk man’s arm.
“Wha, wha, what,” a startled Franklin said as he rubbed his eyes and wiped his mouth. Recognition and focus appeared on his face. Realizing who had disturbed his nap, he told Messina to take a seat.
“What’s a clean-cut kid like you doing in a shithole like this?” Franklin asked, although he already knew the answer to his own question.
Messina said nothing but casually took an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table to Franklin. “Is this my Christmas bonus from the tomato company? Let me tell you, nineteen hundred and sixty-two has been a banner year,” the man with painted-on eyebrows said with a sarcastic tone.
Although Messina may have echoed some of the older man’s sentiments, he simply said, “I’m not told what’s in the envelopes I deliver. Honestly, I don’t want to know. Have a good day, sir.”
Messina stood up and quickly headed for the door, not pausing to look back. Once outside, heavy raindrops and a stiff north wind greeted him as he crossed the street and ran to his Impala.
After Messina’s hasty retreat, Franklin stared at the closed door where Marcello’s errand boy had exited. The envelope rested on the table; its contents unrevealed like a magician holding up a prop pretending there was nothing to see but ready to surprise the audience at a moment’s notice. In Franklin’s case, the magician was Marcello and instead of pulling a rabbit out of a hat or some prop, the old man held a saw, and Franklin was in a long coffin about to be cut in half.
Pete picked up the envelope from the table, held it for a moment, then carefully pulled the flap away from the back of the envelope. Inside revealed a crisp, tri-folded piece of stationary. As he separated the paper from the envelope, he looked around the dimly lit bar to see if he was being watched. No one was paying attention to him, everyone else was too self-absorbed in their own misery here to worry about Franklin.
Spreading the typed letter out in front of him, Franklin read through the one paragraph message twice before refolding the letter and placing it back in the envelope. Relieved but still anxious, Pete Franklin wondered how his life, his connection to Marcello, the people he had come to know in New Orleans who operated on both sides of the law, would eventually come together. One thing was certain, Franklin knew too many people, who like himself, knew too much. Too many cooks in the kitchen could spoil a good gumbo.
He pushed that depressing thought aside and tried to focus on what was ahead. Maybe ‘63 would turn out better than ‘62 and his life would start to improve. Knowing he needed to destroy the envelope and letter, Franklin removed the letter and reread it one more time,
“The weather has grounded all flights. The tropics are a mess this time of year anyway. An opportunity for the love of Family and Country has landed in your lap. The good doctor is in and will see you at 12:30 pm, January 7, at 3225 Louisiana Parkway Avenue. Employment courtesy of our favorite alphabets. Don’t play with the monkeys.”
From his shirt pocket, Pete pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shook one free and placed it between his lips. Lying flat on the table was his worn, silver cigarette lighter that had the Eastern Airlines logo stamped on the side. He flicked the lighter open, pulled his thumb over the file wheel and watched as a flame came to life. He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs.
Franklin tore the envelope and letter into small pieces and dropped them into the ashtray that was on the table. He exhaled and using his lighter, created a small fire in the ashtray. A minute later all that remained were glowing ashes. No one in the bar seemed to notice.
Pinball & Preachers 