Write Before Thinking


Day Two/Chapter Two

Quick note. I changed the location of the story to St. Paul, MN. I know it better than I do L.A., and since I know nothing of the 50s, pro wrasslin, law enforcement, or contract killing, I figure it’d be nice to have something I know to write about. Again, this work ain’t edited so…

Chapter Two

The kind of worn, but not beat up Lincoln pulled into the driveway. Inside, Frankie Caboose sat knowing that as soon as he walked in the front door, his world was going to get messy. Sure enough, it did.

Black Frenchy was a woman who expected very little of her man, but the things she did expect she took as serious as a heart attack. Not showing up for Wednesday night dinner one such thing.

Frankie took a breath and walked though the door, yellow roses in one hand, hat in the other. As soon as he saw her face, he knew neither the roses nor his apology would do one bit of good. For a second he wished he would’ve stuck the ether soaked rag down his own throat.

“I got these for you,” he said, handing Black Frenchy the roses. He tried to give her a kiss but she turned away.

“Frankie Carousel, you know what time it is,” she asked.
If she’d of just asked what time it was, he might of thought he stood a chance. But seeing as she called him by his full name, he knew he was screwed.
Frankie shrugged. “I dunno,”
She pointed to the clock. “What’s that say to you?”
Frankie followed her arm to her hand to her long, outstretched finger to the clock.
“I’m late,” he replied as he tried to hand her the roses once again.
“No,” she shot back, “it don’t say you’re late. It says you’re sleeping on the couch!”
He looked at the couch and then at her. Of all nights to be late, it had to be this one, he thought.
“And what the hell are you doing giving me yellow roses? We ain’t friends, we’re lovers.”
“But I thought you liked roses,” he protested.
“Red roses,” she clarified, “are what you give your baby.”
“I didn’t know the was a difference,” he mumbled. “Otherwise I would of got you red ones like you said.” He paused to look her over. “You ain’t got no clothes on.”
She glared at him. “I know,” she replied. “It’s Wednesday.”
“I like Wednesdays,” he replied, smiling. Hoping he could get her to calm down. He moved towards her and wrapped his massive arms around her narrow waist. She tried to protest, but she didn’t try very hard.
“I know you do big boy,” she cooed as she drew her fingers across his back. “Now how about you give me a kiss and tell me how sorry you are.”
Frankie put his hand under her chin and tilter her mouth up towards his. “I’m sorry, doll,” he said as he brought his mouth towards hers.
“You want me to re-heat dinner,” she whispered. “Or would you rather just have dessert?”
With a quick motion he scooped Black Frenchy into his arms and started walking to the bedroom. “Dessert sounds a whole lot tastier.”

Black Frenchy and Frankie Carousel were laying in bed, naked, exhausted, and completely in love. She was curled up beside him, tracing figure eights with her fingers up and down his chest. The full moon light shone through the sheer curtains and basked the room in a cool blue glow. Black Frenchy’s dark skin glistened with sweat.

“Where were you,” she asked.
Frankie opened his eyes and looked at her.
“I know you don’t like me asking,” she continued, “but…” her voice trailed off.
“But what?”
Her fingers stopped moving. “I get worried sometimes.”
Frankie started laughing. “About what,” he replied. He held his arms out. “Look at me, who the hell would be dumb enough to mess with Frankie Caboose?”
“Don’t call yourself that. I hate that name.”
He laughed even harder. “But the Caboose always comes last, babe. I thought you liked that.”
She ignored the comment and instead rolled over to grab a cigarette. She sat up to light it, took a long drag and then put it to Frankie’s lips.
“Do you love me,” she asked.
“What kind a question is that,” he shot back.
“The kind a question I want an answer to.”
“Why you being weird?”
She glared at him and took a drag of the smoke. “You gonna answer the question?”
“Of course I love you. You know that.”
“Do I?”
Frankie didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he knew that his head was starting to hurt. He stood and started to get out of bed. “I need to get some water.”
Black Frenchy grabbed his wrist.
“Do you love me,” she asked once again.
“Yes,” he said. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Now how about you tell me what this is about.”
“Promise me you’d never cheat.”
“What? Why?”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Because you’re French,” he asked. “Or because your tits are too small?”
She tried not to laugh as she covered her anything but small 34Ds.
“Seriously,” she said. “You know why.”
“I don’t care what folks think,” Frankie said. “Their problems are their own. And if they see something wrong me loving a beautiful black dame like you, well then…” He stood up to his full six foot six height and flexed for her. “…I’d like to see them tell it to my face.”
She smiled. “You’d whoop em good woudn’t you?”
“Just like Handsome Jack,” he replied.
Her eyes widened in mock horror. “Not that bad!”
He grinned. “Maybe worse.”

Black Frenchy got up on her knees and scooted to end of the bed with a look that let Frankie know exactly what she wanted to do to him. He slowly walked towards her and as they met she wrapped her arms around his waist.

Raking her nails up and down his back she looked up at him and whispered. “I love you Frankie Carousel.”

“I know you do, babe,” He said, rubbing the top of her head. “I know you do.”


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