Franky's Boys

I’m at the club sitting in the corner booth. I am naked. Lights pulsate. Music throbs. The woman of the mystic triangle hovers beside me. She undulates. She tempts me. I need to get out of here. I grab my clothes. Slide past her. Walk quickly out the door, stop, and stand naked on the sidewalk.

The sky is dark. The rain has stopped. The air is warm and moist. Warped reflections of storefronts and neon signs flash across wet asphalt. A car drives past.

I look down the street. Two men stand at the corner. One tall. One short. Suits. Pinstripes. Shirts pressed. Shoes polished. Eyes dark and hollow. They look like Franky’s boys.

They turn and look in my direction. They speak to each other, and then walk toward me, slowly.

They’re Franky’s boys all right. I finger the trigger of my S & W.

They stop and stand in front of me. The short one stoops down, and then straightens up. He holds a dark, dull object in his hand. He coldly looks me in the eye and speaks.

“Hey buddy, you dropped your sock.”