MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 26

Marriage Lasts Forever

Brooklyn—Current Day

Frankie “Bugs” Donovan stared at the blank walls of his apartment, cracking his knuckles while a cigarette dangled from the left side of his mouth. He kept his eye closed so the smoke curling around it didn’t sting. 

Marriage lasts forever. That’s what his mother always told him. And he figured she should know, having put up with his father all of those years. When he was little, he used to ask why she stayed, but the only thing she said was “marriage lasts forever.” He could still hear the way her voice trembled, as if  “forever” was penance for her sins. 

Penance, my ass. No priest would have been so lenient. Even Mary Magdalene was a repentant sinner. Bugs slugged the last of his wine. If he could muster the energy, he intended to pour himself more. 

The refrigerator hummed a steady beat from the kitchen, and the fan in the living room dragged a breeze he was grateful for, even if it did carry the stink of the city streets. He looked around at what his wife had left him: a picture of Humphrey Bogart from a Casablanca poster; his wine rack and a few bottles of Chianti; the fridge—thank God for small favors—and the chair he sat in. 

Frickin’ whore.

Even as he said it, he knew he was wrong. She was no more to blame than he was. She was pregnant at nineteen, and he asked her to marry him, promising to take care of her and what would be his offspring—another new Donovan. Not that the world needed any more Donovans, but...duty was duty. They got married, but in the eighth month, misfortune took the baby, leaving them together, alone. Some kids made it marrying young, but usually they were kept together by the babies. When that was taken away there wasn’t much left. Not at nineteen. After all, what did an Irish/Italian kid from the streets have in common with an upper-crust girl whose family could trace their English roots back a few centuries? Nothing. Less than nothing. Might have been different if she had been Irish, Polish—hell, even Jewish. Kids of immigrants understood each other. The old, established ones didn’t. Even worse, their families didn’t. 

This line of thinking provided enough energy to get his lazy ass up and into the kitchen, where he poured more wine. As he came back into the room, he lifted the glass to Ingrid Bergman, staring at Bogie with those sorrowful eyes. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” And once more he slugged it down. He didn’t like his job right now; in fact, sometimes he hated his job. Bunch of idiots in suits trying to act like God. He didn’t mind putting away the bad guys, but they could stuff that pretentious bullshit up their asses. Half of the cops he worked with acted like they were in the manger with Joseph and Mary. Sister Mary Thomas would have beaten their asses for implied blasphemy.

When he succumbed to moods like this, he felt like quitting, screw being a cop with the rules and bullshit. It would be nice to be back on the streets with Tony and Paulie…and Nicky. Damn, they had fun together. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed like he had when Nicky came back. Frankie sucked hard on his cigarette, recalling the excitement—and the danger—of the old days. He hadn’t felt whole since then, and it all worked because of Nicky. He was the glue who held it together. 

Goddamn, I miss him. 

He meandered back to the kitchen—it was easy to meander in an empty apartment—and poured another glass of vino. He laughed. Knowledge was king, and he knew when he started referring to the wine as vino that he’d had too much. He punched the cork in tight, realizing too late that the bottle was empty, then went to recapture his throne.

As he plopped down in the seat, he looked at the plaque on the wall—a forgotten treasure when he took inventory moments ago—and said his name aloud. “Detective First Class, Mario F. Donovan.” 

Frankie was as screwed up as his name, but he’d known that all his life. He’d been screwed since birth. Italian first name with Irish last name. Olive skin with eyes that only sometimes matched. Loved to eat, but couldn’t cook. Worst of all though, on the outside he was a cop, but inside he was still a gangster trying to get out. That’s what bothered him the most. 

It made him wonder about Nicky’s time in prison and what it felt like for him when he got out.