Franky Bianchi of Naperville

The Oxfords I stole from a store clerk’s window make contact with the inky puddles that litter these cold, foreboding streets. The sloshing sound disturbs only the rats hiding within the gutters, never the ones living above. I went to Iraq not to serve my country but to kill. I came back with eight fingers, two eyes, one broken heart. Chicago isn’t the same. No more smiles and good pizza, just theft and the only food my bank account can muster: ramen. But it doesn’t matter how much it costs, I get it for free.

My .22 does the talking.

I’m a coach surfer, degenerate gambler, a sly thief. You think I’d want to go to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah? I’d rather be anywhere else.

“Please dress accordingly,” Lucia said.

Lucia Bianchi is my sister. She’s only good at two things: telling me what to do and cooking lasagna. We grew up together in the suburbs. A great spot for committing a crime and always getting away with it. A couple years back I stole my neighbor’s watch right off his wrist. That old man was too scared to say anything about it. It’s funny how feelings change. Lucia, mom, and I had dinner with him just a few nights before.

Pity.

“I’ll dress however I want, Lucia. Bring me a gift alright. What’s the kid’s name?”

“You forgot your nephew’s name?”

“I’m surprised the loser went out on a limb to invite me.”

“If anyone’s the loser it’s you, Franky.”

“Shut your trap and I’ll see you when I see you.”

I kept my pace. Twenty more blocks and I’d be at the reception. Ghosts watched from behind failed businesses and the stench of feces and rotten cheese pushed me eastward.

Angelo Barbara stopped me on the way. He emerged from his deli, butcher knife in one hand, bloody rag in the other.

“Where you goin’ Franky?”

“Bar Mitzvah thing for my nephew. Just going cause I know there’ll be a gift table.”

“C’mon Franky. Not your nephew.”

“Someone’s got to eat around here,” I said, flicking the lighter I nabbed from a fighter in the desert. Angelo passed me a Lucky Strike. No need to say thank you. I saved his life. That’s a different story.

“You need some company?”

“Not this time. Tell Ramon he shorted me from yesterday. I’ll pay him a visit when everything blows over.”

"Franky," Angelo started, carefully watching his words, "how'd you do it?"

He gripped the butcher knife. I was unpredictable.

"Do what Angelo? We're burning moonlight out here."

"You sliced old man Pasquale right in city center at three in the afternoon. You got away."

"I always get away. You think he was the first?" I laughed, reflecting on the time when I took my gardening scissors and shanked his fat gizzard. All his blood got on my nice shirt my Uncle got me when he robbed a Ralph Lauren out of boredom back in '07. Those were the days.

"I just don't know how you do it. This fucking DNA technology shit is unbeatable. Wished it was around when O.J. did his own thing, you know."

"You wan't the secret?" I whispered as I approached Angelo.

"Not tonight, Franky! Leave me it out of it." Angelo knew his demise even before I casually grabbed the knife from his hand and chopped his skull in two.

"I'm the detective! I'll always have my way," I laughed hysterically. It was too bad. I liked Angelo. But death is always sweeter when it involves your friends.

I proceeded with my hunched strut. I passed the recruitment office where I enlisted some fifteen years ago. It’s hard to count on eight fingers. Killing wasn’t a priority then. School was. My mind got twisted when dad fell on our stoop with a fresh bullet in his head and the needle became my only friend.

“Where are you?” I asked Lucia.

“At the front.”

“That’s where I am,” I said.

“What do you see?”

“A sorry-looking bellboy that’s looking at me funny.”

“Oh, I see you.”

Lucia approached me. Her hair was dyed the color of ash and her high-heeled shoes were painted in a crimson color that shared a similar complexion to the devil.

“You look shabby,” she said.

“And you look too done-up.”

We parted ways when we got inside. I was looking for the hors d’oeuvres and the gifts. Then all of a sudden, my nephew comes running up to me out of nowhere. Almost touched my gun tucked in my waistband.

“Uncle Franky!” the kid said.

“Hey, kiddo. I’m gonna get some food. Thanks for the invite. I’ll see you around.” I really had no skills in conversing with younger people. I’m used to getting to the point and laying down the law.

There were some beautiful women there. Diamond studded and clothed from head to toe in ivory-colored silk. I spared them of my nefarious nature but I got a few looks.

Who knew a killer could still look handsome?

“Sir, you can’t smoke in here,” a waiter said.

“So you make the rules around here hotshot?” I snarled.

I took a smoke break outside and loaded a few rounds into my .22. The gift table was as large as Angelo’s stomach. I couldn’t resist.

Lucia saw what I was up to.

“Franky, are you crazy?”

“Sure am,” I said.

“What are you doing!”

She studied me as I puffed my cigarette with great attention while simultaneously loading my pistol.

“There’s no rivals out there Franky. Put that thing away!”

I was at my tipping point in life. I had done all the things the opposite way. I returned from war as a villain. I worked at a department store only to steal from the register. I went to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah to seize the gifts. There was no turning back. The corruption of Chicago seeped into me like a mosquito sucking out a victim’s blood. I liked the wickedness. Broken street lights, my eight fingers, and anything that had to do with demise and downfall. I was the epitome of it all. Franky Bianchi of Naperville. Could you ever imagine!

I pushed Lucia out of the way and cocked my pistol. I approached the waiter who told me to smoke outside and put a bullet in his skinny thigh. There were screams. I usually prefer the quiet shrieks, but these didn’t bother me.

Everyone ran right past me except for a few brave souls who tackled me to the ground. They kept punching me in the head until my grip on my .22 went limp. I was laughing the entire time. I was sad I didn’t get any gifts, but there was always next time.

Then all of a sudden I remembered I kept a knife in my sock. I pulled it out and stabbed a fella, just like I learned to do in Iraq. Right in the heart where it hurts. That’s when the brave souls turned to cowards. They all fled. I grabbed a slice of birthday cake, air-kissed my nephew goodbye, and tucked a few presents under my good arm.

The night was still young.