September 21, 1974,Twin Oakes, Warwick, RI
Frankie crooned directly to one of the bridesmaids that he thought was absolutely hot and put all of his want and emotion into it. The girl – Louisa? Louise? – nearly fainted as he continued. It was a pretty Italian love song. The group adored Frankie as he went from song to song, enjoying being in his element. Nobody else in this place could do what he did. He took a break, finally, and gave acknowledgements to the band. They all sat out for a few minutes, enjoying the open bar.
People came over thanking him, and so did that pretty bridesmaid – Louisa. She thanked him more than the others, and promised even further thanks later.
Now, as usual, in most Italian weddings, drunk groups of men would start posturing, and eventually get louder. Frankie sometimes was part of that, but since he had a job to do tonight, he excused himself. Instead he saw Marty and Serge, called Lucky, yelling at each other on the dance floor. He put a protective arm around Louisa, who melted against him. She was so warm, and soft, and pink…
“What duh FUCK!” Lucky shoved Marty. Marty shoved back. And the fight began. Frankie actually laughed, seeing two men in suits slugging it out. Louisa laughed too, and twisted her neck to look up at Frankie.
Irish appeared, and he got mistakenly hit in the stomach by Marty. Irish grabbed the man by the scruff of his neck, then turned to Lucky and did the same. His voice carried clear through the room, “Don Ettore does not want fighting in his daughter’s wedding. Take it somewhere and some time else.” Then he set both men on their feet. “Is that clear?”
Lucky, however, was drunk. “Who duh fuck you think you are?”
Irish turned his head slowly. “Night, night, Lucky,” he said, and punched the man solidly in the temple. He went down like he had been hit by a Mack truck, crumpled to the floor. Irish grabbed him and hoisted him over his shoulder. “Let’s go sleep this off, shall we?” He glanced back at Marty, just to make sure he wasn’t going to make any sudden moves. Marty held his hands up. Irish nodded once and walked away.
“Did you see that?” said Louisa, suddenly breathless.
Frankie looked down at Louisa, who had such a look of adoration in her eyes that he almost wanted to twist her neck off. That son of a bitch! Frankie got off the stool, muttering something about the men’s room. He started walking, but went past the men’s room, outside, to his car. He rummaged under the seat and pulled out a .38 snub-nose. He’d just about had enough.
He pocketed the piece and went inside. He saw Irish seated at the bar by himself, nursing a drink. Frankie’s anger surged him forward to walk right up to him. “Hey,” Frankie said. Irish looked up at him languidly – good, he was drunk. “Hey, come outside a minute.”
Irish finished his amber liquid in one swallow, and then followed him. They went out into the parking lot, around the corner to the dumpsters. “What is–”
Frankie whirled around, pointed the gun right at the man’s temple, and without another word, fired. The .38 went clean into his head and through the other side, exploding in bone and brain, and the man crumpled. Frankie emptied the gun into the rest of his body for good measure. Blood was everywhere, luckily not on Frankie. He would have hated to ruin the baby blue tux.
Frankie pulled trash over the body and calmly put the piece back in his pocket. There. Done. He walked back to the party and continued like nothing happened.
Toward the end of the party, a few people heard Don Ettore was looking for Irish. Nobody knew where he went. Frankie smiled to himself and continued singing, intent entirely on bedding Louisa. People started leaving in packs, however, including Don Ettone. He saw a couple of policemen in the doorway, and Don Ettone talked to them while he was belting out “Billy, Don’t Be a Hero”. He took a break eventually and got informed that a huge pool of blood was found in the back near the dumpsters. The cops seemed to think it was human, and they were tearing through the trash bags at this very moment.
Frankie smiled, and started to pack up to leave. Nobody stopped him as he left, kissing women as he went. He got into the car and sat down with a contented sigh. He pulled out of the parking lot and headed north, back to Providence. He put the radio on and was drumming his fingers to the music at a stoplight when he heard something move in the back. He glanced in the rear view mirror and saw blond hair and blue eyes – blue eyes brimming with rage.
Franky felt the man put his hands calmly on the top of the seat, one hand on either side of his shoulders. “I should thank you, Frankie, for giving me a way out.” He said it so calmly, so flatly, that it scared Frankie to the bone.
Frankie felt wetness between his legs. No, no, he didn’t…
“But the way you did it, I don’t particularly approve of.” The man leaned forward. “Light’s green. Drive.”
Frankie punched it, but the man didn’t jerk back as he expected. He screamed into the second lane, heading directly into Warwick proper. “Slow the fuck down, Frankie,” the man said, his hand coming out to cup Frankie’s jaw. “Or I’ll tear your head off right here.”
Frankie did as commanded. “Take a right over here.” Again, he took the right, onto a dirt road, which he knew lead to thick bogs. It was still in sight of the road. Irish wouldn’t kill him here and leave him here, would he?
“Stop the car.”
Frankie slammed on the brakes. The man did pitch forward. Frankie brought his fist up, with the intent to hit him in the nose. The man instead grabbed Frankie again by his jaw and yanked him hard up, pulling his head across the top of the seat and exposing his neck. Frankie tried to hit Irish anyway, and did connect, but it seemed to have done nothing.
“Stop fucking fighting, you god damn wop. You’re gonna make things worse.”
“What’re you gonna do with me?” Frankie said.
“Oh, kill you. But do you wanna go quick or I make you bleed out like you tried to do?”
“You should be dead!”
“Oh, I am to the world. They’ll see that blood’s human, all right. They’ll never find the body, unfortunately.” He released Frankie. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Get out of the car.” Irish threw open the passenger side, and Frankie shifted the car into reverse, then punched it again. Irish didn’t expect this, and tried to shut the door. Frankie yanked the car hard to the right, to try and toss Irish out the door. Part of Frankie was totally surprised that he was able to do this. Then the man grabbed his head and yanked up. Frankie heard and felt a “pop” and suddenly didn’t feel his hands on the steering wheel. He felt nothing. The car spun on its own accord for a minute, and then stopped as his foot fell off the gas.
Irish let the man go, and his head lolled to the side. Frankie was fully aware of what was going on, but he seemed to be unable to do anything about it. Irish got out of the car and then looked at Frankie, who only stared at him, his mouth wide open. “What…are…”
Irish then laughed. “Nothing. Not anymore.” He walked away, leaving Frankie alone in the car, it still running, the headlights shining as a beacon into the bogs.
Music: Marvo Ging – Chemical Brothers.
Comments: Twin Oakes is a real place, which is well known in the RI area as being a site for fancy Italian weddings. I think this came out much better. However Casey still seems to be a cardboard cut out. I’m afraid of making him like The Transporter. I’m trying to think of things other than cute kids and helpless maidens to harden a cold man’s heart.
Words: 1346.