The Restoration Project

2.10 - Father Frankie

The worst thing about his sickness was that everything tasted the same. It wasn't because he lost his sense of taste—that only contributed to part it—but because Frankie couldn't tolerate exotic flavours. He could no longer stomach anything that was too spicy, too sweet, too sour, too tasty. It was a shame, considering his town had the best food along the East Coast, lack of competition aside.

Frankie sat in a private room at the back of a large restaurant. At one point high rollers and mega-millionaires would occupy the space. Now it was his. His wheelchair rested at the head of an over-sized table that took up half the room. A plate of food sat in front of him; a slice of well-done beef—a travesty he couldn't stomach medium-rare anymore—snow peas, and a couple roast potatoes. He would have sprinkled some salt on top but knew, even from the time of before, that sodium was the secret killer.

"Dinner looks good, boss," Pierre said. He sat to Frankie's left, diligently waiting to touch his food until Frankie gave the OK. Unfortunately, aside from Sanchez guarding the door, Pierre was the only other person in the room. There were plenty of people he would rather dine with, but most of them were either dead or Searchers. At least Pierre could talk.

"It does," Frankie replied, clasping his hands together in a silent prayer. When he finished he unclasped them and nodded to Pierre. Time to eat.

"Crazy what you and Harry are workin' on," Pierre said as he shoveled potatoes into his gaping mouth. "But why didn't you tell me your plans earlier? I coulda helped."

"Because they didn't concern you."

"Oh. Right, guess not. But in the future, know I'll do whatever you need me to do," Pierre said, as if he had any say in the matter.

Frankie purposefully ignored the statement. What he needed Pierre to do was shut up about Harry. He should have kept Pierre outside of the hospital this morning—he normally did—but it had slipped his mind. Too much had slipped his mind lately.

"I'll check up on him tomorrow, make sure he's followin' your orders," Pierre added, failing to hide a cocky smile.

"He'll be fine," Frankie replied as he cut off a small chunk of steak and popped it in his mouth. "You go there and you might as well go out on a run."

Pierre's smile faltered. Point taken.

"Oh!" Pierre said, perking up again. "Olaf came by again during your afternoon siesta. He still wants to talk to you."

Frankie stopped chewing. Olaf. A man who only wanted to see Frankie when he needed a favour. Or to meddle in business he had no business meddling in. "And what did you tell him?"

"That you were a busy man, of course. Couldn't be troubled to talk to him today." That was good, at least Pierre knew better than to tell Olaf he was napping.

"Was he mad?" Frankie asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nope, just smiled and said he'll be back in a couple days," Pierre replied.

Frankie nodded and got back to picking away at his plate, although his appetite had left him. A knock at the door interrupted them before Pierre could open his mouth again. Sanchez stared at Frankie after hearing it, looking for further direction. Frankie set his fork on his plate and waved for Sanchez to open the door.

Behind the door was another one of Frankie's henchmen, his name was Darryl, or something. He was holding the arm of a rather obese man with a mouth devoid of any teeth. The toothless man wore a shirt splattered with food stains, blood stains, and an assortment of other substances. Most of the blood came from his beaten face; he had a black eye, his nose was crusted in dried blood, and his lips looked like nothing more than a red smear. His one good eye stared hungrily at the plates in front of Frankie and Pierre.