{"product_id":"the-winter-of-frankie-machine-isbn-9780307277664","title":"The Winter of Frankie Machine","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eFROM THE BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eTHE CARTEL.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFrankie Machianno, a hard-working entrepreneur, passionate lover, part-time surf bum, and full-time dad, is a pillar of his waterfront community—and a retired hit man. Once better known as Frankie Machine, he was a brutally efficient killer. Now someone from his past wants him dead, and after a botched attempt on his life, Frankie sets out to find his potential killers. However, the list of suspects is longer than the California coastline. With the mob on his heels and the cops on his tail, Frankie hatches a plan to protect his family, save his life, and escape the mob forever. Then things get really complicated.\u003c\/p\u003e“Smoothly oiled, superbly assembled. . . . A traditional mob tale on steroids.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A gripping thriller. . . . Like his book's central figure, Mr. Winslow is good at what he does.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Graceful . . . . Wonderfully imagined. . . . Winslow’s story explodes with . . . gritty realism.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePittsburgh Tribune-Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Smart, staccato. . . . A reading experience of sustained intensity, with appealingly sleazy characters and an Elmore Leonard-like snap in the dialogue.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Plain Dealer \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cp\u003eBestselling author Don Winslow has written nineteen books and numerous   short stories, as well as writing for television and film. He has  received the Raymond Chandler Award, the \u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e Book  Prize, and the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award.  A former  private  investigator and trial consultant, Winslow lives in Southern   California.\u003c\/p\u003e1It's 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.He's right.It \u003ci\u003eis\u003c\/i\u003e 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 doesn't 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 there's a little more these days than he'd   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 blast \"\u003ci\u003eChe gelida manina\u003c\/i\u003e.\" 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 Frank's early morning arias don't 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 of \u003ci\u003eLa Boh\u003c\/i\u003eè\u003ci\u003eme\u003c\/i\u003e   when Mimi died.Now, as he walks into the kitchen, he sings along with Victoria de los Angeles:    \u003ci\u003e\". . . ma quando vien lo sgelo,    \"il primo sole e mio    \"il primo bacio dell'aprile e mio!    \"il primo sole e mio! . . .\"\u003c\/i\u003eFrank 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, people \u003ci\u003eused\u003c\/i\u003e this thing,\" he told Donna when she asked why he   didn't 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 could \u003ci\u003ereally\u003c\/i\u003e 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 aren't 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 you're ahead,\" she told him.He didn't. \"You have to take your time, use\u003ci\u003e just\u003c\/i\u003e the right amount of   the right spices, savor each one, then \u003ci\u003eslowly\u003c\/i\u003e 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 a \u003ci\u003ebolognese\u003c\/i\u003e and you don't   kick his ass out of bed. Maybe it's that he really does care so much.   She has sat in the car while he's driven back and forth across town,   going to five different stores for five different ingredients for a   single dish. (\"The \u003ci\u003esausiche\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003ci\u003ebetter\u003c\/i\u003e at Cristafaro's, 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 chef's catalogs he's 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 wouldn't be as good.\"\"It's a lot of work being you,\" Donna said.What can I say? Frank thought. It is.\"You've 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 the\u003ci\u003e little \u003c\/i\u003ethings—doing them well, doing them \u003ci\u003eright\u003c\/i\u003e. 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 it's frying, he slices an onion bagel in half. Then he   carefully slips the egg out with a plastic spatula (\u003ci\u003eonly\u003c\/i\u003e   plastic—metal would scratch the nonstick surface, which is something   Donna can't seem to remember, which is why she's not allowed to cook   in Frank's \u003ci\u003ecucina\u003c\/i\u003e), 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.\"It's an \u003ci\u003eegg\u003c\/i\u003e,\" he tells her, \"not a hand grenade.\"\"You're sixty-two years old, Frank,\" she tells him. \"You have to   watch your cholesterol.\"\"No, they found that wasn't 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. \"You're \u003ci\u003epre\u003c\/i\u003emed,\" he says. \"When you're \u003ci\u003emed\u003c\/i\u003e, then you can   give me \u003ci\u003eagita\u003c\/i\u003e about the eggs.\"America, Frank thinks—we're 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 aren't wasted.Frank uses them to get dressed.\"How a civilized human being can get dressed in four minutes is   beyond me,\" Donna has observed.It's easy, Frank thinks, especially when you lay your clothes out the   night before, and you're 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 it's 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 toque on his head, and takes his car keys and   wallet from their assigned place.Then he takes yesterday's \u003ci\u003eUnion-Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e, from which he's 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 he's ready to go.It's winter in San Diego and cold outside.Okay, relatively cold.It's not Wisconsin or North Dakota—it's not the painful kind of cold   where your engine won't turn over and your face feels like it's 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 you're 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. They're his favorite time of the day.This is his quiet time, the only part of his busy day that's 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.But that won't be for a little while.It's still black out now.He turns to a local AM station to get the weather report.Rain and more rain.A big front moving in from the North Pacific.He pays half attention as the announcer gives the local news. It's   the usual—four more houses in Oceanside have slid down a slope in   the mud, the city auditors can't decide if the city is on the verge   of bankruptcy or not, and housing prices have risen again.Then there's the city council scandal—the FBI's Operation G-Sting   has resulted in the indictment of four councilmen for taking bribes   from strip-club owners to repeal the city ordinance prohibiting   \"touching\" in the clubs. A couple of vice cops have been paid off for   looking the other way.Yeah, it's news and it's not news, Frank thinks. Because San Diego is   a port town for the navy, the sex trade has always been a big part of   the economy. Bribing a councilman so that a sailor can get a lap   dance is practically a civic duty.But if the FBI wants to waste its time on strippers, it's nothing to Frank.He hasn't been in a strip club in—what, twenty years?Frank switches back to the classical station, opens the linen napkin   on his lap, and eats his egg sandwich while he drives down to Ocean   Beach. He likes that little bite of the onion in the bagel against   the taste of the egg and the bitterness of the coffee.It was Herbie Goldstein, may he rest, who had turned him on to the   onion bagel, back in the days when Vegas was still Vegas and not   Disney World with crap tables. And back when Herbie, all 375 pounds   of him, was an unlikely player and unlikelier ladies' man. They'd   been up all night, hitting the shows and clubs with a couple of   gorgeous girls, when Herbie had somehow pulled into his orbit. They   decided to go out to breakfast, where Herbie talked a reluctant Frank   into trying an onion bagel.\"Come on, you guinea,\" Herbie had said, \"stretch your horizons.\"That was a good thing Herbie had done for him, because Frank enjoys   his onion bagels, but only when he can buy them fresh-made at that   little kosher deli up in Hillcrest. Anyway, the onion bagel-egg   sandwich is a highlight of his morning routine.\"Normal people sit \u003ci\u003edown\u003c\/i\u003e to eat breakfast,\" Donna told him.\"I \u003ci\u003eam\u003c\/i\u003e sitting down,\" Frank replied. \"Sitting down driving.\"What is it Jill calls it? The kids these days think they invented   doing more than one thing at a time (they should have tried raising   kids in the old days, before the disposable diapers, the   washer-dryers, and the microwaves), so they came up with a fancy name   for it. Yeah, \"multitasking.\" I'm like the young people, Frank   thinks. I'm multitasking.    2Ocean Beach Pier is the biggest pier in California.A big capital \u003ci\u003eT\u003c\/i\u003e of concrete and steel jutting out into the Pacific   Ocean, its central stem running for over sixteen hundred feet before   its crosspiece branches out to the north and south an almost equal   distance. If you decide to walk the entire pier, you're looking at a   jaunt of about a mile and a half.Frank's bait shop, O.B. Bait and Tackle, sits about two-thirds of the   way up the stem on the north side, just far enough from the Ocean   Beach Pier Café so that the smell from the bait shop doesn't bother   the diners and the dining tourists don't bother Frank's regular   fishermen.Actually, a lot of his customers also hit the OBP Cafe on a regular   basis for its eggs \u003ci\u003emachaca\u003c\/i\u003e and lobster omelette. So does Frank, for   that matter, a good lobster omelette (okay, \u003ci\u003eany\u003c\/i\u003e lobster omelette)   being a difficult thing to come by. So if there's one right next   door, you tend to take advantage of it.But not at 4:15 in the morning, even though the OBP Cafe is open   24\/7. Frank just polishes off his sandwich, parks his van, and walks   out to his shop. He could drive out there—he has a pass—but unless   he has some equipment or something to bring in, he likes to walk. The   ocean at this time of the day is spectacular, especially in winter.   The water is a cold slate gray, heavy this morning with the ominous   swell of an approaching storm. It's like a pregnant woman this time   of year, Frank thinks—full, temperamental, impatient. The waves are   already slapping against the concrete support pillars, making little   explosions of white water burst into the air below the pier.Frank likes to think about the long journey that the waves make,   starting near Japan and then rolling all the way across thousands of   miles of the North Pacific just to break against the pier.The surfers will be out in force. Not the spongers, the wannabes, or   the kooks—they will and should stay onshore and watch. But the real   guys, the gunners, will be out for these swells. Big waves,   thunder-crushers, that will crash all along the old spots and breaks,   which read like a litany in a surfers' church service: Boil,   Rockslide, Lescums, Out Ta Sites, Bird Shit, Osprey, Pesky's. Both   sides of the OB Pier—south side, north side—then up along the   coast—Gage, Avalanche, and Stubs.Frank gets a kick just reciting the names in his head.He knows them all—they're sacred places in his life. And those are   just the breaks around OB—go farther up the San Diego coast and the   litany continues, from north to south: Big Rock, Windansea, Rockpile,   Hospital Point, Boomer Beach, Black's Beach, Seaside Reef, Suckouts,   Swami's, D Street, Tamarack, and Carlsbad.These names have magic for a local surfer. They're more than just   names—each place holds memories. Frank grew up at these spots, back   in the golden sixties, when the San Diego coast was paradise,   uncrowded, undeveloped, when there weren't a lot of surfers and you   knew practically every guy who went out.Those \u003ci\u003ewere\u003c\/i\u003e the endless summers.","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302141776101,"sku":"NP9780307277664","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307277664.jpg?v=1767742234","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-winter-of-frankie-machine-isbn-9780307277664","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}