Free Hot Pink by Adam Levin Page B

said. I didn’t know why anyone was in what hospital, or when. I wanted to ask, but I never asked. I don’t know why I apologized, either, but I felt like I should apologize. Franco didn’t seem to notice, anyway.
    Looking at him, I got the feeling that the ghost of Mr. Domenico was sad, but he wouldn’t let anyone know because it would make him feel like a jerk if we knew how sad he was because then we’d get sad and it would be his fault. I thought maybe it had something to do with the hospital, that maybe he died in the hospital, from cancer or something, and felt guilty about it. I had no idea, though. That butane spins you out.
    â€œI love you, Dad. Do you love me, Dad?” Franco said.
    Mr. Domenico didn’t say anything. He started to fade, and then he disappeared. Franco was shivering.
    â€œHelio,” Franco said, “that was my dad, yo. Franco I. Did you see him? How big he was? I told you how big he was, right? But I bet you didn’t believe it. But now you do.”
    â€œI didn’t see,” Helio said.
    â€œHe was right there,” I said.
    â€œBullshit, fat stuff.”
    Franco said, “Hey. Helio. Go away. Don’t come here no more.”
    Helio sat there for a second, and then Franco III barked and then Helio left. Franco raised up the butane can like how I saw this king in a movie raise a gold cup of wine, and he said, “More for us, Clifford. More for us.” Then he rubbed his eyes. It felt good that he called me my name and then called us “us,” and by that time we were friends for sure.
    My dad didn’t like it that I spent time with Franco, but I got good grades so he didn’t say I couldn’t. I heard him tell my ma that if he told me I couldn’t hang out with that delinquent wop son of a wife-beating degenerate gambler wop, then I’d never learn that that’s what he was. A delinquent wop. When my dad says some guy’s a wop it means that the guy is such a bad guy that he makes all Italians look bad, including us. Like for instance even Finch, the famous hitman, who’s half-Irish—my dad calls Finch a wop. It’s funny because he likes to tell Finch stories. Everyone around here likes to tell Finch stories. Finch is this hitman who lives somewhere close, though no one knows where, but if it’s not in the neighborhood then it’s somewhere else in Chicago. Everyone says Finch killed everyone who was ever famous and killed, but that he never got caught for any of it, which is why they call him Finch. I don’t get it, but that’s what they say. A lot of kids think Finch is as fake as Santa Claus. I don’t think so, though, and neither does Franco. Franco told me once that he sometimes wished his dad was Finch and I said so did I. I think everyone wished that sometimes. Even though everyone likes to hear stories about hitmen, though, my dad pretended that he didn’t like to hear them because he didn’t want to set a bad example for me. When he told me the Finch stories—like the one about how Finch killed that Nixon and made it look natural because Nixon was dying and Nixon knew that Finch killed that Hoffa, and Finch knew Nixon was gonna rat him out from his deathbed (Nixon’s) right before Nixon died if Finch didn’t get Nixon first—my dad didn’t say, “I’ve got a Finch story to tell you, have you heard this one?” He said, “I got a dumb wop story to tell you. This story is about that hitman Finch who’s just another dumb wop. Ready?” My dad explained to me about dumb wops at the very beginning of the summer, on the evening of the seventeenth day in a row me and Franco hung out, when I saw him after I’d been at the garage all day and I accidentally said to him, “Hey, w’su’, nigga.” He didn’t cuff me or anything because he’s not like that, but he yelled at me about how that wasn’t a good word