Spoonbenders

“Mitzi in the office?” Frankie asked. He scooped up the box from the bar and headed for the back of the room.

“Knock first,” Barney called.

Knock first. Jesus. How many years had he been coming here? Frankie rattled the knob of the office door. “Knock knock,” Frankie said.

There was no answer, so he opened the door. Mitzi sat behind her desk, on the phone. She shook her head at him, but didn’t object when he sat down. He started unpacking the box.

“You know the deal,” Mitzi said into the phone. “Friday, no ifs ands or buts.” She frowned at the growing number of white plastic bottles lining the front of her desk. Mitzi was older than Barney, but where the bartender seemed to ooze excess flesh from his forehead down, Mitzi was shrinking every year, drying out and hardening like beef jerky.

Then to the phone: “Don’t disappoint me, Jimmy.” She hung up. “What’s all this?”

Frankie smiled. “Last week you mentioned you had an upset stomach. This is the UltraLife Digestive Health Program. This one—” He picked up the tallest bottle. “This is aloe concentrate, original goji berry flavor, plus other natural additives. You just mix it with water, or Pepsi, whatever, it soothes your stomach. This is Ultra Philofiber, a mix of fiber and acidophilus, perfect for diarrhea or constipation.”

“Both?” Mitzi said.

“It works on the bacteria in your gut, so it straightens you both ways. And this—”

“I’m not buying, Frankie.”

“I’m not selling. This is a gift.”

“Oh, Frankie, I don’t need gifts—I just need what you owe. Where you been? You said you’d be by at lunch.”

“Sorry about that. My boss is an S.O.B.”

“Are you going to make good on what you owed me Friday?”

It was highly unusual to allow a client to get an extra weekend. Letting Frankie come in on Monday was a favor, and he knew it. He set the cash on the desk. “I gotta tell you up front—it’s light.”

Mitzi didn’t change expression. She picked up the money, dropped it into a desk drawer, and closed it. Behind her, on the floor, sat a black safe the size of a mini-fridge. After he was gone, she’d move the deposits there. She’d never opened it in his presence, but he spent a lot of time thinking about that safe.

“You’re kinda falling behind here, Frankie.”

“I know, I know.”

“I don’t think you do. Counting today’s payment—which is how much?”

“Two thousand nine hundred,” he said.

“Puts you at thirty-eight thousand, five hundred seventy-five.” No hesitation, the number right there in her head. Every visit she gave him the new total, every week he fell a little further behind.

“It’s about to turn around,” he said. “My UltraLife distributorship is bringing in a lot of income.”

“Distributorship,” Mitzi said evenly. She shook her head. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Frankie.”

“I’m not. I won’t.”

But of course he already was. He was in debt to the Outfit. Mitzi’s brother ran the northwest suburbs. There really wasn’t much worse it could get.

“It would kill your dad,” she said. “How is he?”

He forced a smile. “Not dead yet. Though he’s dressed for the funeral.”

She laughed, a sound like wind through dry leaves. “God he had style. Nothing like the Cro-Magnons I grew up with. You give him my regards.”

Frankie stood up. He felt shaky, like he’d been clocked in the head. Maybe that’s what relief felt like. He should have been happy. Another payment down, another week to turn this ship around.

“Oh, Frank?”

The back of his neck went cold. He turned.

“Which one do I take first?”

“What? Oh.” He gestured at the big bottle. “Take the aloe every day, just squirt it into your water. The Philofiber and the Morning Formula you take every morning. Then there’s the Evening Formula, which you take, uh…”

“Every night?”

“You got it. Straighten you out in no time.”

Matty was sipping from a narrow glass, watching the silent TV that hung in the corner. Frankie had planned on sitting with the kid and downing an Old Style or two, but now he wasn’t in the mood.

“Let’s go, Matty. Gotta get you home.”

“Oh, okay.” Disappointed. He put down the glass and wiped at his mouth. Barney gave Frankie a hard look. Next time he should bring in something for the man. Maybe a tin of the replenishing face cream. Maybe a bucket of the replenishing face cream.

They were only a couple of miles from home—Teddy and Buddy’s home, and now Irene and Matty’s. At least Frankie had his own house. Paid his own bills. Kept the ball in play. Were there setbacks? Of course. Ninety percent of small businesses go under. Banks turn their backs on you. The table fucking turns. Game over. But what do you do? You find another fucking quarter, or borrow one, or steal one, and live to play another day.

“Uncle Frankie?”

They were almost home. He’d been driving on autopilot. He made the turn into the neighborhood, and Matty said, “I want to tell you something. It’s important.”

Frankie eased up to the stop sign and, since no one was at the intersection, put the van in park. “You don’t have to thank me. You did a good job today. Consider yourself hired for the summer.”