Ghost Story
By Tom Larsen
Angelo’s may not be the best pizza in town, but at a buck a slice, it keeps the locals connected. I’m on my way in when I see Joey G. coming out. I try to dodge him but forget about it.
“Hey, Rile, how you doing?”
“Good, Joey, I’m doing good.”
“Christ, I haven’t seen you since they sent up Hobbsy.”
“Three years now. His mom just passed.”
Marshall Hobbs, my former partner, is presently serving zip six at Graterford. For some stupid reason, I think of Marshall when I shave every morning, always along the jawline, a flicker in my brain. I don’t know what it means except those are good years going down the drain and somebody should feel bad about it.
“Me and Franny got a place on Fifth,” Joey tells me. “Nice place, two bedroom. We’ve been getting our shit together.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say what you say. Never mind Joey looks like hell, and he and Fran have been getting their shit together for thirty years.
“Listen, Riley,” he pulls me from the doorway. “I hate to ask you, man, but could you spot me a few bucks until my check comes?”
“Come on, Joey. I can’t give you money to cop.”
“It ain’t like that. Franny’s been sick. I can get it back to you in a couple of days.”
I look him up and down. “Have you seen yourself lately? Your nose is running and your pupils are like manhole covers. What are you on, Joey, everything?”
“Just this once, Riley, help me out.”
“What about Fran? Is she as strung out as you?”
Joey’s face goes hard. “Forget it, OK? Sorry I asked. Don’t worry about me and Franny. We’ll get along.” He pushes past me.
“Joey, hey!” I follow him outside. “Don’t take it that way. It’s just hard seeing you like this, man.”
He pulls up, snot nosed and glassy eyed. “Franny’s finished, Riley. Full blown, you wouldn’t even recognize her.”
“. . . I didn’t know.”
His eyes go dead. “Me and Fran? We don’t belong in this world no more.”
“Where is Franny? Is she in the hospital?”
“She’s at home. They were gonna stick her in hospice, but she wanted to die in her own bed.”
Joey’s crying now and people give us lots of room.
“Look, I’m sorry, Joey. I would never have said what I said if I knew about Fran. You know that, right?”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Riley. I couldn’t take it.”
“Can I see her? Would that be OK?”
“It’s hard, man. I do the best I can,” he chokes back a sob. “Remember, Riley, how she filled out that high school uniform? Christ, I see it like it was yesterday.”
I take his arm, just a stick through the thermal jacket. Their place isn’t far and I brace myself. Ten hard years since I last laid eyes on it. The house I know, the only one with a shotgun blast above the window, thank you DEA. I can smell Franny’s sickness at the front door. The house is dark and quiet as a tomb.
“I better check first. Make sure she’s up to it.”
Joey ducks down the hall, and I settle on the stairs. The walls going up are covered in photographs, black and whites from Franny’s Daily News days. She was a dynamo back then, cruising crime scenes, one of the gang. I check the close-up of Frank Rizzo kissing a baby, the kid’s mouth caught in a circle of dread. The kind of shot Franny was famous for, prize winner from the word go. Then Joey came along and the rest is misery.
“It’s OK, she just woke up so she’s a little groggy,” he leans in to whisper. “Make a fuss, could you, Rile? And don’t let her see you wince.”
He nods at the bedroom door but stays outside when I go in. Oh man, it's awful. Franny’s barely a bump in the blankets; the rest is skull and yellow eyeballs. Not just thin but shrunken, tiny. She looks at me and wheezes a laugh.
“Riley Prentiss, as I live and barely breathe.”
“I would have come sooner, Fran. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t look at me, Riley. Just talk. You were always such a talker.”
“I think I went off a little on Joey. Do me a favor and tell him I’m sorry.”
“Joey loves me, Riley. I know it’s hard to remember, but we were good together once.”
“You stuck it out. That counts for something.”
“Talk to me, Riley.”
What can I tell her? How well everyone’s doing? After burning her bridges at the Daily News, Franny severed all ties, shacking up with Joey in a West Philly flop. Every now and then, someone would see her downtown, but she’d slink off or pretend not to know you.
“I still have my Bowie tickets. Remember, Fran? He canceled and we got drunk in the Spectrum parking lot.”
Her laugh rattles in her chest. “I puked into Joey’s hands. Like he was gonna catch it all and take it away.”
“I was glad they didn’t show. I hated those things.”
“I remember you’d say . . . Want to get rid of all the assholes? Nuke a Rolling Stones concert.”
Fran’s breath is ragged, and I can see the bones of her knuckles through her skin. I grab a chair and drag it over.
“How did so much time go by, Fran?”
“Joey says you’re still with Kathleen. That’s good to hear.”
“You kidding? She’ll never lose me now.”
“I wish I’d been older . . . Who knows? . . . I might have gotten you.”
Don’t want to think about that. Back when I was easy to get and up to the eyes in my own cloud of chemicals. And Joey was right about that uniform. If Kathleen hadn’t snatched me up, there’s no telling where I’d be.
“I’m scared, Riley.”
“Hey,” I level a look. “The Franny I knew wasn’t scared of anything.”
“What comes next?” She takes my hand. “What if all the crap they fed us is true? Hey, Riley, I see pearly gates and I’m fucked.”
“Come on, Fran. You know what comes next.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me.”
“It’s simple,” I stroke her fingers. “You wake up in a mansion and you’re twenty-five years old. You have a big magic box and a smaller magic box. The big box is for the things you want that are big, the smaller one for things you want that are smaller. You use them a lot at first, but eventually you have everything you’ll ever need.”
“ . . . I like it. Oh Riley, let it be true.”
“That’s just the half of it. Everything is paid for. You can eat and drink as much as you want or not at all, as you prefer. You’re never tired but you can sleep for weeks. Men adore you but you’re fiercely independent. You speak perfect French.”
“Make it Italian.”
“Like a native, and the best part? Your time is all your own. You can write your memoirs and learn to play the drums. Or you can lie around in your pajamas watching TV all day.”
“Will you come see me? . . . You know, after you . . .”
“First thing, Franny. We’ll compare notes and see how far off I was.”
“I’d like that. You were the one who was always nice . . . nice guy . . .” She starts to fade.
I try to see the old Fran in her face, but there’s no bringing it back. I watch until she’s breathing easy then kiss her cheek and whisper goodbye. The TV’s on downstairs, but Joey’s nowhere to be found. I slip two twenties under the sugar bowl and let myself out.
Tom Larsen
3/10/22
Tom Larsen has been a fiction writer for twenty years, and his work has appeared in Newsday, Best American Mystery Stories, Puerto del Sol, and the LA Review. His novels, Flawed and Into The Fire, are available through Amazon. His latest novel, Going South, was released in September by Dark Edge Press.
