It’s as if his soul is itching with how badly he wants to be out in the world and getting pictures already.
A part of Frankie would hate to expose Joaquin Rosa as a fraud since he sees so much of himself in him. They’re both Hispanic men who were born in the same municipality in Puerto Rico, their time in Salinas overlapping for one year. It’s a shame they didn’t meet back then, as Frankie is sure they could’ve been lifelong friends. Maybe even the best men at each other’s weddings, and someone to whom Frankie could confess that he wished Gloria cared as much about her appearance the way Naya does. And in another striking coincidence, both Frankie and Joaquin are fathers to nine-year-old sons. The friendship between these men could be one that is passed on to generations, like his eyes that are as brown as the milky coffee energizing him. Don’t even get Frankie started on some of the nonsense he’s seen that little boy Alano wearing; he’s trying not to judge Joaquin’s parenting, but that’s been difficult in the past whenever he’s had a couple beers. Frankie will continue to make sure that Paz grows up to be a man.
What truly separates the men, in Frankie’s eyes, is success. He’s a touch older, a difference hardly even worth noting, and yet his ego is still bruised that he’s nowhere near Joaquin’s level. They both provide for their families, as any Puerto Rican man should, but the Rosas have three penthouses across the country, whereas the Darios live in a shitty two-bedroom in Manhattan and have to deal with all their tenants’ issues.
He’s tired of just making ends meet—he’s ready for great fortunes to start rolling in.
That begins with Death-Cast.
And with Rolando picking up the fucking phone.
So help him if he’s not dead.
Valentino
3:17 a.m.
Five hours ago, I stood outside my new home for the first time, thinking I had my whole life ahead of me. Now I’m sporting a bloody cut from my near-death experience. The next time might not be near.
“This is it,” I say as I reach for my keys.
“Right next to a pizza spot,” Orion says, pointing at the closed pizzeria before shoving his hand back in his skinny jeans pocket. “Did you get a slice?”
“No. I was rushing to get to Times Square.”
I don’t have to say anything else. We know how that turned out. Would I have received the End Day call had I stayed in tonight? If I could time-travel, that’s what I would have done differently. I would have hung out at home and unpacked and slept before my photo shoot in the morning. Then I would live long enough to see the fruits of my labor and my dreams come true.
“I should’ve stayed home,” I say.
Orion nods. “With a whole pizza pie.”
I check all my pockets again, and my keys aren’t in any of them. “This can’t be happening.”
“What’s up?”
“I think I lost my keys.”
“You think?”
“I absolutely lost my keys.”
“And your phone. I got to say, man, your pants are cute, but your pockets suck.”
This is certainly not going to be the worst part of my day, but this doesn’t feel good. I’m exhausted, and I just want to go lie down for a little bit. “Should we go back to the hospital?”
“No, just call your landlord—oh.” Orion looks at the intercom. “Do you know his apartment? Just buzz him.”
“He told me to only bother him during business hours. I don’t want to upset him.”
“He’s not going to be your problem for much longer. Act like you’re moving out. You got nothing to lose.”