In Loving Memory, Frank Warren

Chapter 30: Pressure

When Frank stepped out of the stairwell at home a figure waited at their door. Curious, he waited for Dean to exit the stairs while he peered at the visitor. The man wore a conservative gray suit. He stood with his back to the elevator and head bent down, studying the screen of a smart phone in his hand. His hair was shiny and slicked back against his skull so Frank could not tell if it was brown or black. The hall lights reflected off the hair gel in hazy luminescent circles.

"Tell me he's not your cousin Jim," Dean breathed next to his ear, his words tickling against Frank's skin.

"It's not Jim, but he seems familiar." With the way his memory had been working lately Frank was unsure if he could trust a familiar feeling.

When they were within a few steps of their door the man had yet to notice them. Frank cleared his throat as he reached for the keys in his pocket. The man's head jerked up and he whipped around. Face to face he looked tantalizingly familiar though Frank could not quite grasp a name.

"Waiting long?" Frank asked, clutching his key in hand. The solid metal with its sharp ridges felt secure against his palm.

"Frankie!" the man gushed as a broad smile flashed. The grin kept growing until his cheeks stretched unnaturally wide and the ends met his ears. It bordered on eerie.

Frankie. Frankie either meant family or a childhood friend. Doubtful this guy was family, unless it was a relative of Jim's and not of his.

He snapped the fingers of his left hand a couple of times while staring, trying to place the face. "Okay, I give. I know you from someplace but..."

"Little League," the man replied with his painful smile. "I've put on a some weight since then. Barry. Barry Golden."

Asking John about all the slippery little details was tiresome. Besides, some of them were easier now. Frank chose instead to focus on the faltering grin in front of him and tried to imagine it inside a batter's helmet.

"You don't remember me?" Barry sounded stricken. If he played wounded better he would lose blood.

"Don't rush him." Dean sounded snippy. Great. They were watching sports tonight. Frank hoped they could find a game more interesting than the women's roller derby championships.

Thinking of John seemed to do the trick. Once he pictured John in a Little League uniform the faces of the rest of their team became visible to his mind's eye. Barry Golden. Lousy fielder. Great batter. Smile too big for his face. Too bad he never grew into his smile.

"Barry, the worst left fielder alive." Frank stuck out his hand as the too wide grin spread. His hand was shaken vigorously. "When did you start working for Jim?"

"Jim?" Startled, Barry glanced down as if checking he was not wearing a name tag. He dropped Frank's hand. "What makes you think I work for someone named Jim?"

"James Greene, then," Frank amended. "How long?"

"How could you possibly know?" Barry slid the smart phone which had dominated his attention before their arrival into his pocket.

"Because he's pulled every ploy he could think of to force me into coming over for dinner." Frank turned away to unlock his door. Barry was harmless enough. "Come on in. You can have a glass of juice before we kick you out."

"Why don't you go to dinner, then?" Barry's voice echoed from behind Frank into the kitchen. Barry had a real loud mouth on him. Not as in he spread a lot of rumors, as in he never needed a bullhorn. Frank might not have enough patience left in him to wait for Dean to throw the guy out.