That Mary Mulvaney, he thinks. Well, there'll come a day, Miss Mulvaney!

This is only FRANKIE'S FRANKIE, Link One. Soon as this one gets going good there'll be Link Two. Then Link Three. Then Four and Five. FRANKIE'S FRANKIEs—linking the country from border to border and coast to coast. Harvey did it. Johnson did it. Stanalovski can do it.

And Stanalovski won't be living in no two-by-four hole in the behind of Link One, either. I'll build a house—say seven, eight, maybe couple dozen rooms—plenty space for flowers and kids to grow good. And I'll have buggies fancier than any Jake Winer ever seen. Airplanes and yachts too. And will I go fancy-panting? Hollywood. South America—that Brazil place. France. All them places. Hobnobbing with all the other Big Shots and Fancy Janes.

Ain't this America? Where a guy can start from the bottom and hit the top?

So what? So Mary Mulvaney can't see nothing but some curly-head pop peddler with a dinky fringe under his beak.

"Know just how you feel, Frankie." Some old guy's voice—coming out the radio? "I mean you, Frankie Stanalovski."

Frankie blinks.

The old guy's voice has a kind of smile to it. "Don't think this is on the square, eh?"

"Okay, wise guy—what's the gag?"

"No gag."

"Oh, no? Then who're you and where you at?"

"Name doesn't really matter. But I can tell you where I am."

"Okay, where?"

"On the moon."

"Now listen here, bud. Can't nobody live on no moon. I read all about it in a Sunday paper once. Ain't no air up there. Besides, the sun bangs down fit to fry a horse to a cinder."

"Climate doesn't bother me."

"Aw, we're both nuts."

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