Plotted starter for @somekndofpeople (Hal)
It’s cold tonight, so cold Frankie’s breath is steaming the air as he keeps watch. Cops don’t come round this part of town much anymore, but regardless, it’s better to keep an eye out whilst his associates are working. Leon is doing the heavy work, loading three corpses into the back of their van whilst Luca sprays the kerb clean, washing blood and brain matter into the gutter before stooping to pick up little shards of skull, sharp as tiny cat’s teeth.
As always, Silvio is merely standing around; as the self-proclaimed ‘brains of the operation’, he’s too old to get his hands dirty these days. In truth, he’s normally sat behind a desk but tonight it seems he’s been asked to attend personally, likely due to the high-profile nature of the bullet riddled bodies Leon is currently stowing. As the number one covert clean-up crew in the city, it’s up to Silvio to ensure things always run smoothly.
“Hey Frankie.”
“Frank…Frankly, Frankity, Franko…Frankie Baby…” It’s always the same whenever someone unexpectedly calls his name; it prompts the same linguistic acrobatics, but Frankie figures Silvio’s used to it; he’s known about Frankie’s Tourette’s since he hired him, in fact it was probably why he hired him; a man like Frankie doesn’t have a lot of legitimate job prospects in a city as cold and cruel as this and Silvio probably figures his lack of alternative options is enough to keep him loyal at least. The expression on Silvio’s face is one of puzzlement as Frankie approaches, he’s staring down at a body that just doesn’t look like it belongs with the others, it only has one bullet hole for a start. The man, whoever he is, seems a little younger than the others too, not so weather worn and beat up looking.
“The stiffs Leon is shiftin’, they’re Remo’s men, right?”
“That’s right…stiftin shift-riftin…R-R-Remo’s men.”
“So who’s this shmuck?” Gesturing towards the corpse at his feet with his cigarette, Silvio narrows his eyes as if trying desperately to recall the man’s face. Crouching down, Frankie searches the cadaver’s pockets, finding nothing that can help identify the man. The material of his jacket is soft and still holds some residual warmth, compelling Frankie to run his fingers over it, as if stroking a dog, an action that is met with a hard roll of Silvio’s eyes.
Standing up, Frankie folds a piece of gum, once, twice, three times before slipping it into his mouth to concentrate on the rhythm of his chewing and calm his tics, that tonight have been made worse by the bracing cold. A quick jerk of his shoulder and finally he’s able to concentrate; to focus on the state of the bodies when they arrived, recalling the way their blood was sprayed over the side walk and the size and shape of the tire tracks burned into the tarmac, signalling someone made a very hasty getaway.
“Bystander.” He finally concludes with a slow shake of his head. What a damn shame, guy likely found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing more, nothing less. It’s a pity, he’s got a real nice face, kind looking one, though, of course, that could simply be the illusion of his death mask. Still, not all men look peaceful when they die; indeed, the bodies Leon just loaded into his truck had twisted, anguished looking expressions on their mugs, but not this man; this peaceful man that looks like he could simply wake up at any moment - this man Frankie’s now deemed was likely a sweetheart in life, as if his clueless judgement might somehow buy the guy a ticket into heaven.
“Dispose of him with the others.” Silvio orders in a raised voice, so that Leon can hear it, before the old Italian turns his back to leave his boys to their busy work, seemingly satisfied that the unidentified stranger is no one of any great importance.
“Gently…hold him gently…gentle Baby.” Frankie blurts as Leon shoves his hands under the man’s armpits to drag him to the truck, prompting the man who is twice his size to shake his head in disapproval. “He’s fuckin’ dead Frankie, I ain’t gotta be fuckin’ gentle.”
“Dead fucking...gentle fuck!” Frankie shouts with dismay in response, clearly becoming agitated, before glancing at Leon apologetically, he’s not good tonight, not good because he hardly slept last night, or the night before and its beginning to show.
“Fine Frankie, Jesus, okay…I’ll be gentle.” Leon responds, in a clear attempt to calm him; he doesn’t understand the request at all but he’s seen what happens when Frankie gets riled up and can’t control his volume - the last thing they want to do at a time like this is draw attention to themselves.
When they finally arrive at the warehouse, each of the cadavers are loaded onto wooden pallets and lined up in front of an industrial incinerator. It’s Frankie’s job to handle the cremation, while Luca and Leon take the truck and head to Remo Romano’s club to collect payment. This city is rife with bloody gang wars and old family feuds; the kind that keep the cleaners busy and well paid.
One by one, each of the gangsters, in turn, are reduced to ash, fed to the great machine Frankie has taken to calling ‘Sal’, as if Sal is some living, breathing entity that needs the bodies of dead men to survive.
It is now that Frankie finds himself face to face with his sweetheart stranger; in truth, he looks like he is merely sleeping and there is a distinct part of Frankie that wants to reach out and touch him, his nose maybe or to smooth the hair of his eyebrow back into place, but he refrains, knowing it’s likely a weird impulse and instead gives the man’s jacket another soft stroke. Opening the incinerator, Frankie cranks up the heat and steadily wheels the pallet over towards Sal’s fiery mouth.