Free The Temptations of St. Frank by Anthony Bruno Page B

raspy. The pointy toes of his leather shoes peeked over the edge of the board. “We’re not paying for it. No way.”
    Paying for what? Frank thought. As far as Frank knew, John Trombetta never paid for anything. People paid
him
. Frank’s father mowed his lawn, put down fertilizer, took care of his flower beds, trimmed his hedges, the whole deal, and he never dared to ask Mr. Trombetta for money. He always waited for Mr. Trombetta to think of it, and Trombetta didn’t think of it all that often. Frank’s father was like that with a lot of his customers, particularly the really rich ones. He never billed them. It seemed like every other night his parents fought about the screwy way his father ran his business.
    â€œLike I said,” the mayor said, “you could always go in on it together. Not half and half necessarily, but you know, figure out the percentages the way it’s laid out.”
    â€œForget about it,” Trombetta said.
    â€œI don’t know all the details,” the monsignor said in his slow, low, I-know-everything tone, “but it’s my understanding that the diocese’s involvement is minimal as compared to yours.”
    â€œForget about it,” Trombetta said. “It’s not even worth talking about.”
    Frank looked up at the soles of their shoes. What’s not worth talking about?
    â€œI don’t want to sound like a broken record here,” the mayor said, “but the feds are making noise about this. If
something
doesn’t get done, they will definitely get involved. And if that happens, there’s only so much I can do.”
    â€œHow come?” Trombetta snapped.
    â€œNow don’t get hot, John,” the mayor said. “Please.”
    â€œDon’t tell me not to get hot.”
    â€œState and local—I can take care of it, no problem. But the federal agencies are something else. I only have so much sway.”
    â€œSo use what you got.”
    â€œIt’s not that easy, John. Nixon. They’re all Republicans now. Not our kind of people, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œFuck that!” Trombetta said. An awkward pause. “Sorry, Monsignor,” he said, but he didn’t sound sorry.
    Frank expected Monsignor Fitzgerald to tell Trombetta to go to Confession and cleanse his soul of his foul-mouthed sin, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything.
    Frank heard the crack of a bat, and the fans in the bleachers erupted, cheering so loudly he couldn’t hear the unholy trinity. He looked up and saw that they were on their feet. Somebody must have hit a homer, somebody on St. A’s. Monsignor Fitzgerald wouldn’t stand up if the other guys got a homer. Frank peered through the slats, but he could only see pants and shoes. He didn’t give a shit about the game, he just wanted the noise to die down so that he could hear what they were saying about Tricky Dick. He wanted to know why they were talking about the president.
    The under-the-bleachers kids crowded around Frank and peered through the boards to see what all the cheering was about. He didn’t like having them so close because he didn’t want anyone to notice that he was eavesdropping. Especially bigmouth Vitale.
    Frank looked around to see where Vitale was, afraid that the unholy trinity would clam up if they knew there were people right under them. But then he saw her—Yolanda. His stomach clenched, and his mouth went dry. She was standing six feet away from him, trying to look through the bleachers.
    Jesus! he thought. There she is, and she’s standing all by herself, standing on her toes and craning her neck to see what was going on with the game. He stared at her, studying her part by part—the legs, the navy blue knee socks, the short pleated skirt, the thighs, the hips, the bare skin of her upper arms, the high cheekbones in profile, the long brown hair. He liked her more than ever, but he was nervous