Thursday, November 18, 2010

The Job

14 years ago today, my little brother Raymond (or Ray-Ray) was born. He has a small obsession with Mafia-related media, particularly The Godfather. So, for his birthday, I decided to write this story for him. Happy 14th birthday Ray-Ray.

Franky pulled the gun out of its hiding place behind the brooms and mops in the closet and slammed the door shut. This is the last one, he thought. The last job. He clicked the latch and removed the empty drum from the Tommy gun. Carefully and slowly, he put loaded the bullets. I won't even need to use these. It's an easy job. Just have to drop it off.

He quietly walked up the narrow stairs of his cramped Chicago apartment and tip-toed into his bedroom, where his wife lay sleeping in bed. Turning, he gently opened the closet and removed a black suit and a matching tie. As he dressed himself, he recalled how people always thought that they wore suits to create the illusion of status. That was not it at all, though. They were professionals, simple as that. Like any other occupation, they always took pride in their work, so they dressed to reflect that.

Say what you will about us, about the things we do, Franky thought, tightening his tie, But we have always been honorable in every job we do.

He walked silently back downstairs and picked up the machine gun from the table where he'd left it. Sighing, he strolled to the door, picked his fedora off of the hook by the door, and placed it heavily upon his head, casting shadows over his eyes. After this, we can leave. No more fear, no more guilt, no more.

Outside, in the pouring rain, a jet black car idled next to the sidewalk, its headlights illuminating the water, making the rain look like falling drops of gold. Franky opened the door and sat down in the back seat. There were two other men in the car, the driver, and another man in the seat next to Franky.

"It is wonderful to see you Franky," said the man next to him as the car lurched forward. He spoke with an oozing amalgam of Italian and New York accents. "How are you this delightful evening? I trust your family is well?"

"Yes, very much. Thank you," Franky mumbled.

"You seem nervous Franky! Don't be. This is a simple job." The man bent down and pulled a briefcase from under the seat and set it in between them. "All I need you to do is take this payment to don Falone. We will drive you right up to his mansion, you shall go inside and deliver it, and we'll be outside waiting for you after he receives his gift. Simple enough, yes?"

Franky nodded his head uneasily.

"Good, good," chuckled the man, as he patted Franky on the back. "I know I can always count on you."
The car plodded along in silence, though the pitter-pattering of the raindrops was deafening enough. Finally, the car slowed to a gentle stop.

"We're here," said the driver.

Franky pushed his fedora farther down over his eyes, grabbed the briefcase, and opened the door.

"We'll be waiting right here, Franky," said the man.

Franky went out into the rain and slammed the door shut. He walked up the steps into the house, where an armed bodyguard showed him the way up the spiral staircase to the office of the don. Franky entered and was greeted with a cold silent glare from the gangster. Franky approached him and set the briefcase on the table, not saying a word. The don grinned greedily and unlatched the case.

With a flick of his wrists he flung it open. There was a click from within the briefcase, followed by mechanical whirring. The bomb inside the briefcase went off, and Franky and the don both died instantly.

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