“I want the shoot to be in front a Catholic church.”
I looked at Frankie, unsure I’d heard him right.
“What can I say, I like their new guy. Ya know, the one who visited New York.”
“Who? Pope Francis?”
“Yeah. That dude. I went back to The Church because of him. He’s the first Pope to openly accept and welcome gays to the Catholic Church. Gotta give props for that.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Look at this face? Does it look like I’m joking?” And once more, Frankie the Tailor was back.
Despite the gleam in his eyes, I couldn’t erase his other persona from my mind—Francesco, Mrs. Burelli’s son and my brother Steve’s old friend.
We worked together for the next hour or so, Frankie proving to be a consummate professional. Following my original rough sketches, he did his own versions, replacing my sticklike models with the work of a truly talented illustrator.
He drew the men’s clothes the way he imagined them. From the groom to the groomsmen to the MC escorts. Frankie even made tentative sketches for the father of the bride and the father of the groom just in case, all the while muttering in Italian under his breath.
When he was finished, he sat back and pushed the sketchpad toward me. “These are just the roughs. Once we get the go from your editor, I’ll work on more detailed designs.”
I nodded. “I’ll take care of the photographer.”
Frankie agreed then shrugged the cuff of his sleeve back to check his watch. “Three freakin’ hours? Madon. I got a client coming in.” He handed me my iPhone as he stood. “You ain’t so bad, Jaworski.”
“Maybe it’s time to call me Allie,” I suggested.
“And lose another Jaworski as a friend? That’s what I called your brother.” He winked.
“Thanks.” I smiled, bumping his much larger fist when he held his up to me.
Then he bowed gallantly, as only a true gentleman would.
The bell over the door rang, and Frankie pivoted around. “Yo, Coletrane. Right on time. Right on time, my man.”
Coletrane?
I’d seen him in the newspaper and on the screen. Here he was in the flesh, and dear Lord. I blinked at the tall, muscular man who swaggered inside, tattoos covering nearly every inch of visible skin.
Frankie ushered me toward the exit with a low whisper. “Close your mouth, Jaworski. Drool ain’t a good look on anyone.”
Before the door closed behind me, I heard him boom to Coletrane, “Took you long enough, ya fuck. Whaddya say we get down to business.”
[See more of Frankie at Carolina Bad Boys (5 Book Series)
Originally published on December 1, 2015
