Frank remembered the potato salad at the last minute. Well, not exactly the last minute, but in time to get it out onto the table before too many people had served themselves from the buffet. Burgers and dogs, sweet and hot sausage, chicken too, BBQ’d and honey mustard, roasted peppers and onions, corn on the cob cooked on the grill, salad with fresh tomatoes and three kinds of dressing; and the potato salad too. The Coronas were ice cold, Angie was working the rented margarita machine churning out frozen treats infused with Patron and Kenny was serving his secret martinis.
Everyone showed and even though Angie always panicked about how clean the bathrooms were or whether anyone would have a good time, the party was rocking and Vince was playing Motown on the stereo. Frank moved through the crowd with the bowl in hand and felt, for at least this afternoon, like the king of Brooklyn ; well, if not the king then maybe at least the Baron of this one block in Bensonhurst.
“Frankie,” Levi yelled laughing, “where’s the Red Stripe.” Levi liked Jamaican beer, and reggae, and everything else too, from and about “the Islands ” as he liked to say. Frank purposely did NOT buy Red Stripe just to annoy Levi, who annoyed HIM every time Toots and the Maytals blasted again from the speakers in Levi’s garage next door and soon after the pot smoke wafted his way. Memorial Day weekend marked the beginning of summer and the return of the ganja next door. Levi was probably the only pothead in the history of cannabis who only liked to “party” when the weather was hot.
“Frankie, who’s that guy with Ginger?”
“What guy?”
“Right there, see? Talking to Angie now.”
Frank looked. Ginger was talking with his wife and now “the guy” was staring right at him.
“Never seen him before.”
“Dude’s got some strong-ass handshake.”
“Really,” Frank answered flatly. He grabbed a beer from the cooler and shoved it into Levi’s hand.
“Have a Corona
Levi yelled at his back as Frank walked away into the kitchen. “Hey Frankie, you KNOW I don’t drink this shit! Too damn watery, you ask me,” he was talking now more to himself.
Inside, Frank opened the fridge and took out more chicken. He placed the ceramic tray on the counter, pushing soda bottles and empties out of the way. He peeled back the foil; nicely marinated, ready for the grill. He closed the door. The man suddenly standing next to the refrigerator was the guy from outside.
“Jesus,” Frank blurted startled.
“Name’s actually Tony,” the guy deadpanned sticking out his hand.
Frank wiped the BBQ sauce from his fingers with a dishtowel.
“No need to stand on ceremony with me,” the guy said. “I used to cook at Café Versailles. You can probably still smell the vinegar under my nails.”
Frank took his hand. The guy grabbed it hard and squeezed, also hard. Frank felt the blood drain from his fingers. He tried to pull away but the guy wouldn’t let go.
“Now listen to me Frank. This is a nice party and I don’t want to make a scene. But you got a marker out with my boss – you know who I mean, we don’t have to name names – and, well, my boss don’t like to be jerked around. Since you’re only one week late, it’s not a big deal. But you musta dropped a pretty penny for all this beer and food and I’m just a little worried you’re gonna fall behind before long.
The guy squeezed now harder. Frank was now using his other hand to pull away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about crazy motherfucker. Marker?”
“Don’t you bullshit me,” the guy bellowed, “don’t DO that Frankie. We’re having a friendly conversation here and when you bullshit me, well, it ruins it.”
The guy grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter.
“Now I don’t like to get violent. It’s not in my nature. No wait, that’s actually a lie. It IS in my nature, but I struggle with it. I struggle with it every…single…day. And I just really need to make sure you and me are on the same page. We’re on the same page, right Frankie? ‘Cause if we’re not…”
The guy brought the knife down swiftly and sliced through a Pepsi bottle on the counter. The soda bottle burst and rained a splash of liquid all over Frank’s shirt and pants and on the floor just as the guy let go of Frank’s hand, dropped the knife, and walked quickly and arrogantly through the screen door. “You been warned Frankie,” he yelled as he disappeared into the bright sunshine.
Angie came in through the sliding glass door with Keith, the cop.
“You OK Frank?” Keith asked.
“What the fuck happened in here,” Angie yelled seeing the puddle of soda on the floor.
“This fucking asshole grabbed my hand and…stabbed the soda bottle.”
“What?” Angie whined.
“That’s just crazy Tony. He thinks he’s Joe Pesci. Where’d he go,” Keith asked running to the front door. Before he waited for an answer he was out the door yelling for Frank to call the precinct.”
“Some fucking party,” Angie said grabbing a roll of paper towels.
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