The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto Read Online Free PDF Page B

the laundry. Above it, he saw faded blue shutters, latched shut. The bell button was covered with a long piece of masking tape, so the three of them had no choice but to walk up the steps. It was a hot day, and Baffa, still in his church suit, was dripping sweat when they reached the landing. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, then knocked. Nothing. He knocked again. Nothing.
    Baffa shrugged at Frankie, who stepped up and banged with his small fists, two at a time, as if playing a conga drum.
    “ Sí? . . . Qué pasa? . . . What is it?” came a voice. It was gravelly and loose, as if still waking up.
    “Señor, I would like to speak to you about teaching.”
    “Teaching what?”
    “Guitar?”
    “Go away.”
    “It is important.”
    “Go away.”
    “I will pay you.”
    “Teaching who?”
    “My child.”
    “Girl or boy?”
    “Boy.”
    “Girls are better students.”
    “He is a boy.”
    “How old?”
    Baffa paused, remembering the music school.
    “Seven.”
    Frankie looked up.
    “Small for his age.”
    “No boys.”
    “He is very talented.”
    “No boys.”
    “He is very talented.”
    “So am I.”
    “I would pay you.”
    “Of course you would pay me.”
    “So you’ll teach him?”
    “No.”
    “Señor—”
    “Go away.”
    Baffa turned to Frankie. “Sing something,” he whispered.
    Frankie shook his head.
    “ Sing something,” Baffa repeated.
    Now, most children will not sing when asked. At the early ages, talents yield to fear. (Sometimes at the later ages, too.) But this moment, I knew, was too important in the overall map of Frankie’s life. So I gave the child another nudge.
    “ Da-da-dah, duh . . . ,” he began, slowly.
    Baffa raised his eyes. He had never heard this tune.
    “ Da-da-dah, duhh . . . ,” the boy continued.
    It was a simple melody, childish but haunting. It went high and came down on the major notes, like something you might hear played on a xylophone. “ Duh, duh, duh, da-da-da, deh duh, dah, dahhhh . . .”
    Frankie stopped.
    “ Qué canción es esa? ” Baffa asked.
    Suddenly the door opened. A tall man with dark sunglasses, thick stubble, unkempt dark hair, and a sleeveless undershirt with a large coffee stain over the belly was gripping the doorframe like a guard.
    “It is called ‘Lágrima,’ ” he said. “By Francisco Tárrega.”
    He lowered his chin in the direction of the boy.
    “He does not sound seven.”

 
    Darlene Love
Singer, solo artist, member of the Blossoms, the Crystals; inductee, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
    YOU SEE THIS PICTURE? THAT’S ME AND FRANKIE AT THE HOLLYWOOD BOWL . I kept it all these years. Silly, isn’t it? But when you’re that age and love hits you, you want to keep every little thing, every ticket stub, every flower petal, every kewpie doll you win at the arcade, whatever makes you think of it, you know?
    I was just eighteen, still in high school, and completely new to the music business. I was singing with some girls from my church choir and we’d won a contest to back up Nat King Cole during his Hollywood Bowl performance. It was our first time singing in a place like that, and even the drive up through those fine neighborhoods was an eye-opener. We didn’t know people could live in houses that big!
    Backstage, while we were waiting, that’s where I met Frankie. The girls and I were laughing, we were so nervous, we’d shush each other and then we’d laugh and shush again. And suddenly, from the next dressing room over, I heard a man laughing and shushing, too—imitating us, you know? And that made us laugh harder. His voice sounded young but deep, and even laughing, it was sexy. I yelled, “Who’s there?” And he yelled, “Frankie,” and we giggled and my girlfriend said, “Frankie who?” And the door opened, right on cue, and he stepped in and said, “Presto.”
    And I lost my breath.
    I had never seen a boy like that. None of us had. Not in our neighborhood. Those dark eyebrows, those baby