Franky

Franky’s a trooper up at the barracks. Usually you don’t find him at O’Hara’s, but tonight he was there. Usually he doesn’t talk much, but tonight he did.

“They gave me the job because the zone sergeant was away. One of the BCI guys offered to do it, but there’s something about the uniform, you know? Supposed to steady them. I went over right away, figured get it going, get it done. The lieutenant was on his way behind me, and maybe I should have waited, but I’m not good at waiting. I got out of the car and put my hat on, started up the driveway. Halfway to the door I saw a kid’s trike.

"It was too late to turn back.

"She knew as soon as she opened the door. I don’t know how, don’t know why, but she knew. The tears were rolling out of her eyes before I even told her. Before I even said the word, before I said dead . . .”

Somebody came over to the end of the bar and asked for another Scotch and a bag of chips. The bartender flipped the TV over to the Knicks, and started drying glasses.

I bought Franky another beer. After a while, I drove him home.