“Please take the gun,” Frankie said, “or I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.”
“All right, give me the gun,” Michael said.
“Now you’re talkin’ sense,” Frankie said, and handed him the gun.
“Thank you,” Michael said, and pointed the gun at him. “And now I’m going to bid you a fond …”
“That won’t do no good,” Frankie said. Michael looked at him.
“The gun ain’t loaded,” he said.
“What?”
“The clip’s here in my pocket.”
“What? What?”
“Also, if a person asks you nice to kill somebody for him, why don’t you just do it?”
“Because I …”
“Instead of threatening that person with an empty pistol?”
Michael was thinking first Charlie Wong with his fake gun, and now Frankie Zeppelin with an empty one. He was thinking he had to get out of this city. He was thinking that he had to get out of here before he himself went crazy.
“The person I want you to kill is Isadore Onions,” Frankie said.
“I’m not about to kill Mr. Onions or anyone else,” Michael said wearily.
“There’s a deli on Greenwich Avenue,” Frankie said, “which is where he hangs out all the time. He should be there now, this is still very early in the day for Isadore, even if it’s Christmas. What I’m going to do, I’m going to drive to that deli, it’s called the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli. When we get there, Donny, I’ll give you …”
“Michael,” Michael said.
“Michael, sure,” Frankie said, and rolled his eyes. “What I’ll do when we get there, Michael, I’ll give you the clip to put in the gun, and then I want you to go in and blow him away. Does my calling you Michael make you feel better, Michael?”
“I am not going to kill anyone,” Michael said.
“I admire a man who sticks to his guns,” Frankie said, “but you don’t understand. Isadore Onions needs killing.”
“But not by me,” Michael said.
“Then by who?” Frankie said. “Me? And then I’ll get in trouble with the law, right? When you’re already in trouble with the law. Does that make sense? Try to make sense, willya please?”
“Mr. Zepparino, have you ever …?”
“Isadore Onions is a very fat man with a Hitler moustache,” Frankie said. “He usually dresses very conservative except he wears red socks. If you aim for the moustache you will probably kill him.”
“Probably. But …”
“Just don’t let the socks distract you.”
“Look, Mr. Zepparino …”
“You can call me Frankie. Now that we’re doing business together. Did I mention that there is five bills in this for you? If you do a good job? Five big ones, Donny.”
“Mr. Zepparino, have you ever heard of a Mexican standoff?”
“No. What is a Mexican standoff?”
“A Mexican standoff is where I have the empty gun and you have the clip to put in it, and neither one of us can force the other one to do a goddamn thing. That is a Mexican standoff.”
“Have you ever heard of a Russian hard-on?” Frankie asked. “A Russian hard-on is where you have the empty gun and I have the clip to put in it, but I also have this,” he said, and pulled another gun from inside his coat. “This is a .38 caliber Detective Special, and it is loaded. Which means that you are going to get out of this car outside the Mazeltov All-Nite Deli on Greenwich Avenue, and you are going to go inside and shoot Isadore Onions in the moustache or I will have to shoot you instead and throw you out on the sidewalk. On a very cold night.”
The car was suddenly very still.
“Which they will prolly give me a medal for shooting a cold-blooded murderer,” Frankie said.
“Where’s Greenwich Avenue?” Michael asked.
In Vietnam, one of the first things Sergeant Mendelsohnn told him was, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” This did not mean going home. Or going back. It meant going forward. Advancing. Blowing apart the whole fucking jungle as you moved toward the enemy. Leaves flying, mounds of earth exploding, whole trees coming down as you trashed the countryside, rat-tat-tat, pow, zowie, boom, bang, Rambo for sure, only you didn’t have glistening muscles you bought in a Hollywood gym.
You were a lean, somewhat scruffy-looking eighteen-year-old kid from Boston, and you wore eyeglasses, and you just wished your glasses wouldn’t get shattered in all that noise and confusion while you were bringing down the countryside hoping you’d get some of the bad guys. But you never refused to advance. And you never pulled back unless you were ordered to. This had nothing to do with patriotism. It had to do with the fact that Mendelsohnn or somebody even higher up would shoot you in the back if you either refused to advance or turned tail and ran back to safety when the shit began flying.