Don Winslow - The winter of Frankie Machine

Its a lot of work being me.

Is what Frank Machianno thinks when the alarm goes off at 3:45 in the morning. He rolls right out of the rack and feels the cold wooden floor on his feet.

Hes right.

Itis a lot of work being him.

Frank pads across the wooden floor, which he personally sanded and varnished, and gets into the shower. It only takes him a minute to shower, which is one reason that he keeps his silver hair cut short.

So it doesnt take long to wash it is what he tells Donna when she complains about it.

It takes him thirty seconds to dry off; then he wraps the towel around his waist-of which theres a little more these days than hed like-shaves, and brushes his teeth. His route to the kitchen takes him through his living room, where he picks up a remote, hits a button, and speakers start to blastLa Boheme. One of the nice things about living alone-maybe the only good thing about living alone, Frank thinks-is that you can play opera at 4:00 a.m. and not bother anyone. And the house is solid, with thick walls like they used to build in the old days, so Franks early morning arias dont disturb the neighbors, either.

Frank has a pair of season tickets to the San Diego Opera, and Donna is kind enough to pretend that she really enjoys going with him. She even pretended not to notice when he cried at the end ofLa Boheme when Mimi died.

Now, as he walks into the kitchen, he sings along with Victoria de los Angeles:

ma quando vien lo sgelo, il primo sole e mio il primo bacio dellaprile e mio! il primo sole e mio!

Frank loves his kitchen.

He laid the classic black-and-white floor tile himself and put in the counters and cabinets with the help of a carpenter buddy. He found the old butcher block in an antique store in Little Italy. It was in tough shape when he bought it-dried out and starting to crack-and it took him months of rubbing oil to get it back into prime condition. But he loves it for its flaws, its old chips and scars-badges of honor, he calls them, from years and years of faithful service.

See, peopleused this thing, he told Donna when she asked why he didnt just buy a new one, which he could easily afford. You get close, you can even smell where they used to chop the garlic.

Italian men and their mothers, Donna said.

My mother was a good cook, Frank replied, but it was my old man who couldreally cook. He taught me.

And taught him good, Donna thought at the time. Whatever else you want to think about Frank Machianno-such as he can be a genuine pain in the ass-the man can cook. The man also knows how to treat a woman. And maybe the two attributes arent unrelated. Actually, it was Frank who introduced this idea to her.

Making love is like making a good sauce, he said to her one night in bed during the afterglow.

Frank, quit while youre ahead, she told him.

He didnt. You have to take your time, usejust the right amount of the right spices, savor each one, thenslowly turn the heat up until it bubbles.

The unique charm of Frank Machianno, she thought, lying there next to him, is that he just compared your body to aBolognese and you dont kick his ass out of bed. Maybe its that he really does care so much. She has sat in the car while hes driven back and forth across town, going to five different stores for five different ingredients for a single dish. (Thesalsiccie isbetter at Cristafaros, Donna.) He brings the same attention to detail into the bedroom, and the man can make, shall we say, the sauce bubble.

This morning, like every morning, he takes raw Kona coffee beans from a vacuum-sealed jar and spoons them into the little roaster he bought from one of those chefs catalogs hes always getting in the mail.

Donna gives him endless crap about the coffee bean thing.

Get an automatic maker with one of those timers, she said. Then it would be ready when you get out of the shower. You could even sleep a few minutes later.

But it wouldnt be as good.

Its a lot of work being you, Donna said.

What can I say? Frank thought. Itis.

Youve heard of the phrase quality of life? he asked her.

I have, Donna said. Usually referring to the terminally ill, whether they pull the plug or not.

This is a quality-of-life issue, Frank replied.

And it is, he thinks this morning as he enjoys the smell of the roasting coffee beans and puts the water on to boil. Quality of life is about thelittle things-doing them well, doing themright. He takes a small pan from the rack that hangs over the butcher block and puts it on the stovetop. He lays a thin slice of butter in it, and when the butter just starts to bubble, he breaks an egg in the pan, and while its frying, he slices an onion bagel in half. Then he carefully slips the egg out with a plastic spatula (onlyplastic-metal would scratch the nonstick surface, which is something Donna cant seem to remember, which is why shes not allowed to cook in Frankscucina), lays it on one of the slices, puts the other over it, and wraps the egg sandwich in a linen napkin to keep it warm.

Donna, of course, gives him grief about the daily egg.

Its anegg, he tells her, not a hand grenade.

Youre sixty-two years old, Frank, she tells him. You have to watch your cholesterol.

No, they found that wasnt true about the eggs, he says. They got a bum rap.

His daughter, Jill, harasses him about it, too. She just graduated premed at UCSD, so of course she knows everything. He tells her otherwise. Yourepre med, he says. When youremed, then you can give me agita about the eggs.

America, Frank thinks-were the only country in the world afraid of our food.

By the time the lethal egg sandwich is ready, the coffee beans are roasted. He pours them into the grinder for exactly ten seconds, then pours the ground coffee into the French-press maker, pours the boiling water in, and lets it sit for the suggested four minutes.

The minutes arent wasted.

Frank uses them to get dressed.

How a civilized human being can get dressed in four minutes is beyond me, Donna has observed.

Its easy, Frank thinks, especially when you lay your clothes out the night before, and youre going to a bait shop. So this morning, he puts on a clean pair of underwear, thick wool socks, a flannel shirt, an old pair of jeans, then sits on the bed and puts on his work boots.

When he goes back into the kitchen, the coffee is ready. He pours it into a metal go cup and takes his first sip.

Frank loves that first taste of coffee. Especially when its freshly roasted, freshly ground, and freshly made.

Quality of life.

Little things, he thinks, matter.

He puts the lid on the go cup and sets it on the counter as he takes his old hooded sweatshirt from the hook on the wall and puts it on, jams a black wool beanie on his head, and takes his car keys and wallet from their assigned place.

Then he takes yesterdaysUnion-Tribune, from which hes saved the crossword puzzle. He does it late in the morning, when the bait business is slow.

He picks the coffee back up, grabs the egg sandwich, flicks off the stereo, and hes ready to go.

Its winter in San Diego and cold outside.

Okay, relatively cold.

Its not Wisconsin or North Dakota-its not the painful kind of cold where your engine wont turn over and your face feels like its going to crack and fall off, but anyplace in the Northern Hemisphere is at least chilly at 4:10 a.m. in January. Especially, Frank thinks as he gets into his Toyota pickup truck, when youre on the wrong side of sixty and it takes a little while for your blood to warm up in the morning.

But Frank loves the early hours. Theyre his favorite time of the day.

This is his quiet time, the only part of his busy day thats actually tranquil, and he loves to watch the sun come up over the hills east of the city and see the sky over the ocean turn pink as the water changes from black to gray.